THE LAST NIGHT

von Robert Louis Stevenson

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireplace one evening after dinner when he was surprised by a visit from Poole.

“Goodness, Poole, what brings you here?” he exclaimed, then took a closer look at him. “What’s wrong? Is the doctor sick?”

“Mr. Utterson,” Poole replied, “there’s something not right.”

“Have a seat, and here’s a glass of wine for you,” the lawyer offered. “Now, take your time and tell me what’s going on.”

“You know how the doctor is, sir,” Poole said. “He locks himself away. Well, he’s locked himself in the cabinet again, and I don’t like it—I swear I don’t. Mr. Utterson, I’m scared.”

“Come now, my good man,” the lawyer urged. “Be clear. What are you afraid of?”

“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” Poole said stubbornly, ignoring the question. “I can’t take it anymore.”

His appearance confirmed his words; he looked worse than usual, and aside from the moment he first expressed his fear, he hadn’t met the lawyer’s gaze. Even now, he sat with the untouched glass of wine resting on his knee, his eyes fixed on a corner of the floor. “I can’t take it anymore,” he repeated.

“Alright,” the lawyer said, “I can see you have a good reason, Poole. Something serious is happening. Please, try to tell me what it is.”

“I think there’s been foul play,” Poole said hoarsely.

“Foul play!” the lawyer exclaimed, feeling a mix of fear and irritation. “What foul play? What do you mean?”

“I can’t say, sir,” Poole replied. “But will you come with me and see for yourself?”

Mr. Utterson’s only response was to rise and grab his hat and coat. He noticed with some surprise the relief that washed over the butler’s face, and perhaps with equal surprise that the wine remained untouched as he set it down to follow.

It was a wild, cold night in March, with a pale moon lying on her back as if the wind had tilted her, and wispy clouds drifting across the sky. The wind made it hard to talk and stung their faces. The streets seemed unusually empty, and Mr. Utterson couldn’t remember ever seeing that part of London so deserted. He wished it were different; he had never felt such a strong desire to see and connect with others. Despite his efforts to shake it off, a heavy sense of impending disaster weighed on his mind.

When they reached the square, it was filled with wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden whipped against the railing. Poole, who had kept a few steps ahead the entire way, suddenly stopped in the middle of the pavement. Despite the biting cold, he removed his hat and wiped his brow with a red handkerchief. But it wasn’t sweat from exertion he was wiping away; it was the moisture of some deep-seated anguish. His face was pale, and when he spoke, his voice was harsh and shaky.

“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are. God grant there’s nothing wrong.”

“Amen, Poole,” the lawyer replied.

The servant then knocked cautiously at the door. It opened just a crack, and a voice from inside asked, “Is that you, Poole?”

“It’s all right,” Poole said. “Open the door.”

As they entered the hall, it was brightly lit, the fire crackling high, and all the servants—men and women—stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. When the housemaid saw Mr. Utterson, she broke into hysterical sobs, and the cook exclaimed, “Thank God! It’s Mr. Utterson,” rushing forward as if to embrace him.

“What’s going on? Are you all here?” the lawyer asked irritably. “This is very irregular, very unseemly; your master wouldn’t be pleased.”

“They’re all scared,” Poole said.

A heavy silence followed, with no one protesting. Only the maid raised her voice, weeping loudly.

“Be quiet!” Poole snapped at her, his tone revealing his own frayed nerves. When the girl suddenly cried out, everyone jumped and turned toward the inner door with faces filled with dread. “Now,” the butler continued, addressing the kitchen boy, “get me a candle, and let’s get this sorted out quickly.” He then urged Mr. Utterson to follow him and led the way to the back garden.

“Now, sir,” he said, “please be as quiet as you can. I want you to hear, but I don’t want you to be heard. And if he happens to invite you in, don’t go.”

Mr. Utterson felt a jolt of shock at this unexpected turn of events, nearly losing his footing. But he steadied himself and followed the butler into the laboratory, navigating through the clutter of crates and bottles in the surgical theater until they reached the bottom of the stairs. Poole gestured for him to step aside and listen, then, setting down the candle and summoning his courage, climbed the steps and knocked hesitantly on the red baize door of the cabinet.

“Mr. Utterson is here to see you,” he called out, and as he did, he urgently signaled for the lawyer to pay attention.

A voice responded from within, sounding weary and strained. “Tell him I can’t see anyone.”

“Thank you, sir,” Poole replied, a hint of triumph in his tone. He picked up the candle and led Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the large kitchen, where the fire had died down and beetles scuttled across the floor.

“Sir,” he said, meeting Mr. Utterson’s gaze, “was that my master’s voice?”

“It sounds quite different,” the lawyer replied, his face pale but holding steady.

“Different? Yes, I suppose so,” the butler said. “Have I spent twenty years in this man’s house to be fooled about his voice? No, sir; something has happened to my master. He was taken away eight days ago when we heard him cry out to God. Who is in there now, and why they remain, is a matter that cries out for justice, Mr. Utterson!”

“That’s a very strange story, Poole. It sounds rather wild,” Mr. Utterson said, biting his finger. “If what you suggest is true, if Dr. Jekyll has been—well, murdered, what would motivate the murderer to stay? That doesn’t make sense; it doesn’t add up.”

“Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a tough one to convince, but I’ll try,” Poole replied. “For the past week, whatever is in that cabinet has been calling out day and night for some kind of medicine and can’t seem to get what it wants. Sometimes, the master would write his orders on a piece of paper and toss it down the stairs. That’s all we’ve had this week—nothing but papers, a locked door, and meals left to be sneaked in when no one was watching. Every single day, and sometimes multiple times a day, there have been orders and complaints, and I’ve been sent racing to every wholesale chemist in town. Each time I returned with what was requested, there was another note telling me to take it back because it wasn’t pure, along with a new order for a different supplier. This drug is desperately needed, whatever it’s for.”

“Do you have any of those notes?” Mr. Utterson asked.

Poole rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, which the lawyer leaned closer to the candle to examine. The note read: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his current needs. In the year 18—, Dr. J. purchased a substantial quantity from Messrs. M. He now requests that they search diligently, and if any of the same quality remains, to send it to him immediately. Cost is no object. The importance of this to Dr. J. cannot be overstated.” The note had been composed calmly until a sudden scrawl broke through, revealing the writer’s distress. “For God’s sake,” it concluded, “find me some of the old.”

“This is a peculiar note,” Mr. Utterson remarked, then added sharply, “How did you come to have it open?”

“The man at Maw’s was furious, sir, and he tossed it back to me like it was nothing,” Poole replied.

“This is undoubtedly the doctor’s handwriting, you know?” the lawyer continued.

“I thought it looked like it,” the servant said, somewhat sulkily, then added with a different tone, “But what does it matter whose handwriting it is? I’ve seen him!”

“Seen him?” Mr. Utterson echoed. “What do you mean?”

“That’s just it!” Poole exclaimed. “It happened like this. I came into the theater from the garden unexpectedly. It seems he had slipped out to look for this drug or whatever it is; the cabinet door was open, and there he was at the far end of the room, digging through the crates. He looked up when I entered, let out a kind of cry, and darted upstairs into the cabinet. I only saw him for a moment, but it sent chills down my spine. If that was my master, why was he wearing a mask? If it was truly him, why did he scream like a frightened animal and run away from me? I’ve served him long enough. And then…” The butler paused, running a hand over his face.

“These are all very strange circumstances,” Mr. Utterson said, “but I think I’m starting to see some clarity. Your master, Poole, is clearly suffering from one of those afflictions that both torment and distort the person. That explains the change in his voice, the mask, and his avoidance of friends. It also explains his desperate search for that drug, which he hopes will lead to some kind of recovery—God help him if he’s mistaken! That’s my theory; it’s sad, yes, and terrifying to think about, but it makes sense and ties everything together, easing our worst fears.”

“Sir,” the butler replied, his face turning a mottled shade of pale, “that thing wasn’t my master, and that’s the truth. My master”—he glanced around and lowered his voice—“is a tall, handsome man, and that was more like a dwarf.” Utterson tried to argue. “Oh, sir,” Poole exclaimed, “do you think I don’t know my master after twenty years? Do you think I don’t know where his head reaches on the cabinet door, where I’ve seen him every morning of my life? No, sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it wasn’t Dr. Jekyll; and I truly believe that murder has been committed.”

“Poole,” the lawyer replied, “if you say that, I’ll have to find out for sure. As much as I want to spare your master’s feelings, and as confused as I am by this note that suggests he’s still alive, I feel it’s my duty to break down that door.”

“Ah, Mr. Utterson, now you’re talking!” the butler exclaimed.

“Now we come to the next question,” Utterson continued. “Who’s going to do it?”

“Why, you and me, sir,” Poole answered without hesitation.

“That’s a good plan,” the lawyer said. “And whatever happens, I’ll make sure you don’t suffer for it.”

“There’s an axe in the theater,” Poole added, “and you can take the kitchen poker for yourself.”

The lawyer picked up the heavy poker and weighed it in his hand. “You know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “we’re about to put ourselves in a dangerous situation.”

“You could say that, sir,” the butler replied.

“Then it’s best we be honest,” Utterson said. “We both have more on our minds than we’ve said; let’s lay it all out. Did you recognize that masked figure?”

“Well, sir, it moved so quickly, and the creature was so hunched over that I could hardly swear to it,” Poole answered. “But if you’re asking if it was Mr. Hyde—yes, I think it was! It was about the same size, it had that same quick, light movement, and who else could have gotten in through the laboratory door? You haven’t forgotten, sir, that at the time of the murder, he still had the key? But that’s not all. I don’t know if you’ve ever met Mr. Hyde?”

“Yes,” the lawyer replied. “I spoke with him once.”

“Then you must know, like the rest of us, that there was something off about that man—something that made you feel uneasy. I can’t quite explain it, sir, except to say it sent a chill down your spine.”

“I admit I felt something of what you describe,” Mr. Utterson said.

“Exactly, sir,” Poole replied. “Well, when that masked thing, looking like a monkey, jumped out from among the chemicals and darted into the cabinet, it sent ice down my spine. I know it’s not proof, Mr. Utterson; I’m educated enough for that. But a man has his instincts, and I swear it was Mr. Hyde!”

“Indeed,” the lawyer said. “My fears lean in the same direction. I fear that evil—evil that was bound to arise—has come from that connection. Yes, I truly believe you; I believe poor Harry is dead, and I believe his murderer (for what purpose, only God knows) is still hiding in his victim’s room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw.”

The footman arrived at the call, looking pale and anxious.

“Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” the lawyer said. “I know this suspense is weighing on all of you, but we’re going to put an end to it. Poole and I are going to force our way into the cabinet. If all goes well, I’ll take the blame. Meanwhile, to ensure nothing goes wrong or any criminal tries to escape out the back, you and the boy need to go around the corner with some sturdy sticks and take your positions at the laboratory door. You have ten minutes to get to your posts.”

As Bradshaw walked out, the lawyer glanced at his watch. “Now, Poole, let’s get to work,” he said, tucking the poker under his arm and leading the way into the yard. The clouds had covered the moon, and darkness enveloped them. The wind, which only whispered through the deep well of the building, flickered the candlelight around their feet until they reached the shelter of the theater, where they sat in silence, waiting. London hummed solemnly in the distance, but nearby, the stillness was only interrupted by the sound of footsteps pacing back and forth on the cabinet floor.

“It walks all day, sir,” Poole whispered. “And most of the night too. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist is there a bit of a break. It’s a restless conscience that won’t let you sleep! There’s blood on every step of it! But listen closely—put your heart in your ears, Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s foot?”

The footsteps were light and strange, moving with an odd rhythm despite their slow pace; they were nothing like the heavy tread of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. “Is there never anything else?” he asked.

Poole nodded. “Once,” he replied. “Once I heard it weeping.”

“Weeping? How so?” the lawyer said, feeling a sudden chill of horror.

“Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” the butler said. “I left with that on my heart, feeling like I could weep too.”

But now the ten minutes were almost up. Poole pulled the axe from beneath a pile of packing straw; he set the candle on the nearest table to light their way, and they approached the source of the steady footfall, their breaths held tight in their chests.

“Jekyll!” Utterson called out, his voice ringing in the stillness. “I demand to see you.” He paused, but there was no answer. “I warn you, our suspicions are raised, and I must see you,” he continued. “If not by fair means, then by foul—if not with your consent, then by force!”

“Utterson,” came the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”

“That’s not Jekyll’s voice—it’s Hyde’s!” Utterson shouted. “Break down the door, Poole!”

Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow reverberated through the building, and the red baize door slammed against the lock and hinges. A chilling scream, filled with raw terror, echoed from the cabinet. The axe rose again, crashing into the door, and again the panels splintered and the frame shook. Four times the axe fell; but the wood was tough, and the fittings were well made. It wasn’t until the fifth blow that the lock shattered, and the wreckage of the door collapsed inward onto the carpet.

The two men, momentarily stunned by their own destruction and the silence that followed, stepped back and peered inside. The cabinet lay before them in the soft lamplight, a warm fire crackling on the hearth, the kettle singing a thin tune, a couple of drawers open, papers neatly arranged on the business table, and closer to the fire, the things laid out for tea. It was the quietest room you could imagine, and aside from the glass cabinets filled with chemicals, it looked like the most ordinary place in London that night.

In the center of the room lay the body of a man, twisted and still twitching. They crept closer, turned him onto his back, and saw the face of Edward Hyde. He wore clothes that were far too big for him, garments belonging to the doctor; the muscles of his face still moved as if alive, but life had clearly left him. With the crushed vial in his hand and the strong scent of chemicals in the air, Utterson realized he was looking at the body of a man who had taken his own life.

“We’ve come too late,” he said grimly. “Whether to save or to punish. Hyde has gone to his end; now we must find your master’s body.”

The majority of the building was taken up by the theater, which occupied almost the entire ground floor and was lit from above, and by the cabinet, which formed an upper level at one end and overlooked the courtyard. A corridor connected the theater to the door on the side street, and the cabinet was linked to this by a separate flight of stairs. There were also a few dark closets and a spacious cellar. They began to search thoroughly through all of it. Each closet required only a glance; they were all empty, and the dust that fell from their doors indicated they had been long unopened. The cellar was filled with old junk, mostly from the time of the surgeon who had preceded Jekyll; but as they opened the door, they were met with the uselessness of further searching, as a perfect mat of cobwebs fell, having sealed the entrance for years. There was no trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive.

Poole stamped on the floor of the corridor. “He must be buried here,” he said, listening closely to the sound.

“Or he might have run away,” Utterson said, turning to inspect the door in the side street. It was locked, and nearby on the ground, they found the key, already rusted.

“This doesn’t look like it’s been used,” the lawyer noted.

“Used?” Poole echoed. “Can’t you see, sir? It’s broken—like someone stamped on it.”

“Right,” Utterson agreed, examining the fractures, which were also rusty. The two men exchanged a worried glance. “This is beyond me, Poole,” the lawyer admitted. “Let’s head back to the cabinet.”

They climbed the stairs in silence, occasionally glancing back at the lifeless body, and began to search the cabinet more thoroughly. On one table, they found signs of chemical work, various measured heaps of white salt laid out on glass saucers, as if the unfortunate man had been interrupted mid-experiment.

“That’s the same drug I used to bring him,” Poole said, and just then, the kettle let out a loud whistle as it boiled over.

This drew them to the fireside, where an easy chair was pulled up comfortably, and the tea things were set out, even the sugar sitting in the cup. Several books lined a shelf; one lay open beside the tea things, and Utterson was shocked to discover it was a copy of a religious work that Jekyll had often praised, now annotated in his own handwriting with shocking blasphemies.

As they continued their search of the room, they came to the cheval-glass, peering into it with an involuntary dread. But it was positioned in such a way that it reflected only the rosy glow of the ceiling, the fire sparkling in a hundred reflections on the glass fronts of the cabinets, and their own pale, frightened faces leaning in to look.

“This mirror has seen some strange things, sir,” Poole whispered.

“And surely none stranger than itself,” Utterson replied in the same hushed tone. “What could Jekyll—” He caught himself, startled by the name, then pushed through the moment of weakness. “What could Jekyll want with it?” he asked.

“You could say that!” Poole replied.

Next, they turned to the desk. On the surface, among a neatly arranged stack of papers, a large envelope lay on top, addressed to Mr. Utterson in the doctor’s handwriting. The lawyer opened it, and several papers fell to the floor. The first was a will, written in the same peculiar terms as the one he had returned six months earlier, intended as a testament in case of death and a deed of gift in case of disappearance. But instead of Edward Hyde’s name, Utterson read, with indescribable astonishment, the name Gabriel John Utterson. He looked at Poole, then back at the document, and finally at the dead man sprawled on the carpet.

“My head is spinning,” he said. “He had possession of everything all this time; he had no reason to like me; he must have been furious to see himself replaced, yet he didn’t destroy this document.”

He picked up the next paper, a brief note in the doctor’s handwriting, dated at the top. “Oh, Poole!” the lawyer exclaimed, “he was alive and here today. He couldn’t have vanished in such a short time; he must still be alive—he must have fled! But why? And how? And if that’s the case, can we really call this a suicide? We have to be careful. I can see that we might still get your master into some serious trouble.”

“Why don’t you just read it, sir?” Poole asked.

“Because I’m afraid,” the lawyer replied solemnly. “God grant I have no reason to be!” With that, he brought the paper to his eyes and read:

“My dear Utterson,—When this reaches you, I will have disappeared. I can’t predict the circumstances, but my instincts and the nature of my situation tell me that the end is certain and must come soon. So please, first read the narrative that Lanyon was supposed to give you; and if you want to know more, turn to my confession.

“Your unworthy and unhappy friend,

“HENRY JEKYLL.”

“Was there a third document?” Utterson asked.

“Here, sir,” Poole said, handing him a substantial packet sealed in several places.

The lawyer tucked it into his pocket. “I won’t mention this paper. If your master has fled or is dead, we can at least protect his reputation. It’s ten o’clock; I need to go home and read these documents in peace, but I’ll be back before midnight, and then we’ll call the police.”

They left, locking the door to the theater behind them. Utterson, once again passing the servants gathered around the fire in the hall, trudged back to his office to read the two narratives that might finally unravel this mystery.