Jekyll & Hyde: Winter Retreat E-Book

Tim Major

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 522

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The Jekyll & Hyde detective agency must solve a locked-room mystery in this festive installment of the series. A tribute to classic Golden Age crime novels which is perfect for fans of Stuart Turton and Lucy Foley. When music-hall comedy duo Rolly Daconey and Irina Matei are threatened by a mysterious blackmailer, they turn to the Jekyll & Hyde detective agency for help. But the agency is experiencing turmoil and, unbeknownst to Muriel Carew, Henry Jekyll is ever more reliant on the elixir that transforms him into the brutish Edward Hyde. Still, there's nothing like a good case to clear the air, and the investigation soon points towards Lady Goodram's winter artists' retreat. But once Henry and Muriel arrive at Gaunt Manor, they're trapped by heavy snow, and they find themselves at the centre of a group of bickering performers, stage magicians and inventors whose long-standing rifts and petty grievances threaten to turn ugly. To make matters worse, a body is discovered – and the last person with whom the murder victim was seen alive was Edward Hyde. How can the detective agency get to the bottom of the case when their very presence puts everyone at risk? A thrilling locked-room mystery featuring the most unusual detectives in the business.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Part 1: Sunday 6th December 1896

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part 2: Friday 11th December 1896

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part 3: Saturday 12th December 1896

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part 4: Sunday 13th December 1896

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Part 5: Friday 18th December 1896

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

PRAISE FOR THE SERIES

“A wonderful concept, beautifully executed. Delightful and enthralling in equal measure. Replete with a delicious Victorian atmosphere, as thick as a pea-souper.”

JEREMY DYSON, BAFTA winning co-creator of The League of Gentlemen

“Jekyll & Hyde: Consulting Detectives is a fast-paced Gothic thriller that is relentlessly engaging, entertaining, and (most important of all) terrific fun.”

TOM MEAD, bestselling author of Death and the Conjuror

“Highly enjoyable, terrifically good fun, very well paced, and full of relish for Stevenson’s original story.”

J. S. BARNES, author of Dracula’s Child

“Riveting, ingenious, original. I kinda wish I’d thought of this myself!”

ADAM CHRISTOPHER, New York Times bestselling author

“Tim Major has come up with one of those ‘damn it, I wish I’d thought of that’ concepts: Henry Jekyll as a dissipated Sherlock Holmes to Edward Hyde’s demented Dr Watson. But this splendid novel is more than just a cool idea; it’s a rip-roaring, dark-hearted tale that yokes a cunning murder-mystery plot to the Gothic horror of Stevenson’s famed novella. The sequel can’t come too soon.”

JAMES LOVEGROVE, New York Times bestselling author

ALSO BY TIM MAJORAND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Jekyll & Hyde: Consulting Detectives

Snakeskins

Hope Island

THE NEW ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

The Defaced Men

The Back to Front Murder

Sherlock Holmes and the Twelve Thefts of Christmas

Jekyll & Hyde

Winter Retreat

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Jekyll & Hyde: Winter Retreat

Hardback edition ISBN: 9781835413487

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835413494

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Tim Major 2025

Tim Major asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

EU RP (for authorities only)eucomply OÜ, Pärnu mnt. 139b-14, 11317 Tallinn, [email protected], [phone]

For Phil

A LIST OF PEOPLE PRESENT DURING THE WINTER RETREAT AT GAUNT MANOR

– PERMANENT RESIDENTS –

Lady Catherine Goodram Wealthy patron of the arts

Ambrose Goodram Lady Goodram’s eldest son

– GUESTS –

Rolly Daconey Music-hall comedian

Irina Matei Music-hall comedian

Sidney Sutherland Painter

Reuben Sylvian Stage conjuror

Camille Phénix Conjuror’s assistant

Sir August Toakes-Vaughan Minister of Her Majesty’s government

Alma Howell Businesswoman and investor

Emil Sykes Student

Matthew Reed Student

Muriel Carew Investigator

Henry Jekyll & Edward Hyde Investigators

– STAFF –

Joshua Footman

Nettie Maid

Orville Groundskeeper

Lucas Butler

Hester Cook

Part 1

SUNDAY6TH DECEMBER1896

CHAPTER 1

You are beginning to feel sleepy.”

Muriel gazed unblinkingly up at the face that loomed above her. She had expected Collodi’s eyes to be piercing but she couldn’t actually see them, as he wore spectacles with circular frames and dark lenses. In these she could see only her own twin reflections, which was most distracting. Didn’t his patients mind seeing their own gawping expressions as they were put under his influence?

Collodi’s head began to bob very slightly from side to side. Daylight from the window behind him created a shifting halo around his head and cast his sallow features into shadow, which was surely intentional.

“Yes, your head feels heavier, heavier with each moment that passes.”

That was true, at least. In an attempt to mimic the style of the other people who patronised Collodi’s private surgery – women, almost all of them – she had carefully curled and then piled her hair upon her head, and set upon this fragile construction a hat which was itself laden with satin flowers and feathers. It made her head feel bulbous and her body top-heavy. If she was to become sleepy, it was less likely due to Collodi’s attempts at hypnosis, and more likely to be the effect of the gummy liquid bandoline that she had used to set her hairstyle.

“You are so very fatigued.”

She was nothing of the sort.

She cleared her throat.

“How long does this tend to take?” she asked pleasantly.

Collodi’s head stopped bobbing. His lips pressed together in a tight line.

Supporting himself with the thin cane he always carried, and with his black cloak flapping behind him like the wings of a bat, he retreated to an armchair directly opposite Muriel’s. Now Muriel had an unobstructed view of the window, which was a relief. Through it she could see only a triangular segment of dark clouds and the pitched roof of the house next door, but she had to believe that her colleague was out there, waiting, as he had promised.

“Perhaps we ought to begin with a more conventional interview,” Collodi said, smoothing his grey hair at the temples, just about visible beneath his embroidered Ottoman hat. “Many of my patients speak more freely once they have been encouraged to relax, but in you I perceive an obstacle. It is something we will have to undertake together.”

“Certainly,” Muriel said cheerfully.

“So… a little background information would be most useful.”

“Very well. My name is Muriel Carew. I live alone, and have done for some time, since my father died. That was a little over ten years ago.”

It was sensible to speak the truth as much as possible. Her performance would be more convincing if the lies were nested in true statements.

Collodi nodded and waved a hand as encouragement to continue.

“I have recently… met a man,” Muriel said. “An old friend. He had been away for some time and I had not known he was once again in the country, let alone here in London. It was most unexpected.”

“And what was the nature of your friendship, all that time ago?”

Muriel paused, wondering if her cheeks might flush, which would aid her performance.

“He and I were engaged to be married. But then, as I say, he left the country most abruptly.”

“Ah.”

Muriel could not count the number of ways in which she disliked the tone of that ‘Ah’. Collodi believed he understood her already. Or at least he had decided what sort of patient she was. Muriel had no doubt that he had begun to formulate his plans.

“And now he has returned,” Collodi said. “But he is no longer yours.”

“Quite so.”

“You are bereft.”

Muriel considered this. What was notable was that Henry Jekyll’s return, six months ago, was far from the most astounding thing that had occurred to her recently. In terms of her day-to-day activities, the most significant change was that she was now part-owner of a business – Henry’s business – which required her involvement in a great number of ways, and that the nature of her duties could hardly be anticipated. Take this consultation, for example. In the past she could never have imagined herself visiting a celebrated mesmerist to request aid in her personal problems. The fact that her visit concerned another agenda entirely only complicated the situation.

No, bereft was nothing like the right description of her state. Her life now was full. Fuller than it had ever been. Her mind was constantly alerted to new possibilities, new opportunities, new dangers.

“I would say only that it has been a most complex period of my life,” she said.

“Then this man…”

“Henry.”

“This man, Henry, he is not yet married?”

“No, and he is not likely to be.”

Collodi’s head tilted backwards. Muriel looked up, too. The sunlight from the window was playing on the ceiling, making dancing shapes. To one side of the light display was a rounded shadow. Might that be the shadow cast by a bulky shoulder?

Collodi didn’t speak for some time.

“He has not wed… but there is somebody else in his life, is there not?”

For the first time, Muriel was impressed. Might Collodi actually possess some insight into his patients’ minds? She glanced again at the window, certain now that the ‘somebody else’ that Collodi had referred to was out there.

“Yes, there is,” she said. Her voice had thickened, betraying her emotions. She told herself it was to her benefit. The plan was to appear to be a suitable target, after all.

“A woman,” Collodi said.

Muriel laughed softly. She had been wrong. Collodi knew nothing about her. He saw nothing from behind those dark lenses.

“No,” she said. “A man.”

Collodi’s posture didn’t change, but again he was silent. Presumably this situation was less common than the one he had presumed. But not unprecedented, Muriel suspected.

“You are in pain,” Collodi said finally.

Involuntarily, the fingers of Muriel’s right hand curled into a fist. Her fingernails dug into her palm.

Her mother was long dead, and her father had been killed, and she had never fully come to terms with his loss. Now she spent most of her days with the two men who had ended his life.

If it was not pain that she experienced daily, it was a twisting of the guts that had all the same hallmarks.

“Maybe so,” she said.

Her eyes stung suddenly. Her first impulse was to ignore the sensation, to bluster past her embarrassment and regain her composure. Reminding herself of her role, she instead fumbled for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, playing up her response.

“My dear woman,” Collodi said, “it is well that you have come to me.”

Muriel nodded slowly.

“When we arranged this meeting,” Collodi went on, “I asked you to bring a physical token of your problem. Such an object clarifies the mind and will focus the intangible force within you. Have you done as I asked?”

“Yes. I have brought their letters.”

Muriel reached down to pat her bag, which was resting against her chair. Collodi’s head shifted slightly as he regarded it.

“Their letters… Do you mean letters from each of these men to you?”

It occurred to Muriel to raise the stakes, making her a greater prize. Collodi’s imagination had already been lit, and now she could stoke the fire.

“No. Their letters to one another,” she said.

The idea of Henry Jekyll and Edward Hyde writing letters to one another was almost laughable. Henry hated letter-writing, or interrogating his internal state, or explaining himself. And Edward understood the power of words only when they were deployed in speech to make people do as he wished. What made this even more problematic was that the two men were never present at the same moment and so could not converse, and their sole method of communication – messages recorded on wax cylinders – was distinctly limited due to both men’s bluntness.

“Good,” Collodi said quietly. “Very good.”

He rose from his seat, using his cane for support, and approached her. Now the light from the window illuminated the right side of his face. There was something strange about his nose. Beside one of his nostrils Muriel noticed what appeared to be a loose flap of skin. The nose itself was waxy-looking, and she realised that she could see no pores in it.

A false nose.

Her eyes rose to take in the mesmerist’s grey hair that protruded from beneath his black Ottoman hat. Could his hair be false, too?

“Tell me about the pain,” Collodi said, leaning his cane against Muriel’s chair. “Its physical effects upon you. If you wish, I can transfer that pain to myself. To my knees, perhaps, or my elbows. I can bear your troubles on my shoulders, most literally.”

Muriel considered, then said, “My pain is more internal, I suppose.”

“Ah. A form of hysteria, then.”

Why was it that men were permitted many varieties of pain, with infinite complexities of treatment, and yet women’s complaints could be summed up in a single word? What was worse was that Collodi’s manner suggested that he was accustomed to his female patients agreeing with such an assessment.

She forced herself to maintain a calm tone. “That must be it. I’m prone to hysteria.”

She flinched as Collodi reached for her hands and lifted them. He turned them from side to side – an action that Muriel disliked immensely; it was as if she was a lifeless doll being inspected. He traced his index finger lightly over the chewed skin of her fingertips and the ragged nails.

But a childhood habit wasn’t pain. Chewing her nails was a comfort and nothing more.

“Nevertheless, I can drive it from you,” Collodi said.

He squeezed her hands between his dry palms, pressing harder and harder until Muriel feared her bones might crack. Just as she was about to cry out, he withdrew his hands and regarded them at length, as though he had never seen them before. Then, tentatively, he pushed the middle finger of his right hand into his mouth and began to nibble at the nail. His head bobbed, perhaps to convey that he was enjoying the taste or to convey that he was asleep and acting without thought.

Who would be taken in by this performance, Muriel wondered. The answer came to her immediately: every person who had attended Collodi’s salon a week ago. During that session he had elicited gasps of amazement and groans of yearning as he had ‘cured’ a young woman of lifelong fits – though not before he had demonstrated his hypnotic abilities by inviting members of the audience to tug her hair and push snuff into her nostrils, all to no response while she was under his influence. Then he had selected a member of his small audience to undergo a treatment of physical ailments. This woman had, apparently, walked with the aid of sticks since she was an infant. After succumbing to Collodi’s powers she was able to not only stroll across the dais in his drawing room, but also to perform a passable Viennese waltz with the doctor. After the show, Collodi was inundated with requests for private consultations, which he insisted were his primary mode of operation. That is, his salon lecture had been only a convenient means of demonstrating his services and drumming up business.

And there was more to it than that. A woman named Victoria Chaloner had summoned the courage to come to the offices at William and Mary Yard in Soho and enter the premises of Jekyll & Hyde: Consulting Detectives. She had spoken of her fears that Dr Collodi was a sham, and that when she had awoken from her trance during a private consultation, she had discovered that a substantial amount of money was missing from her purse. But it was what she had not said that interested Muriel. After six months of working side by side with Henry Jekyll, she had interviewed enough clients to know when they were hiding important details. And the jewel in the necklace around Victoria Chaloner’s slender neck suggested that she could bear the loss of a great deal of money.

Collodi shook his head.

“I can sense the trouble in you,” he whispered.

Instantly, Muriel was on guard. Had he identified her as a sham?

But Collodi went on, “This trouble within you is complex and acute. These men of whom you speak are only a part of it. We must work together to grasp the root and draw it forth. Only then will your mind be clear enough for you to act in your best interests. You must yield to a mesmeric trance.”

Abruptly, he withdrew again. “But we must be patient. I must put you at ease. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

It was the first thing he had said that held any appeal for Muriel. She nodded enthusiastically.

Collodi poured two cups of tea from the pot and handed one to Muriel. As she sipped it, her mind raced. She had to distract Collodi if she was to set to work.

She scowled and said, “Is this tea Assam?”

Collodi seemed to stifle a shrug. “I believe it is.”

“I’m sorry to say I dislike it intensely. Do you have Earl Grey?”

“I do not.”

“I will struggle to be put at ease without Earl Grey tea.”

Collodi chewed his fingernail – this time, the action appeared natural.

“My neighbour may have some,” he said finally, and moved to the door, his cane tapping as he went.

The moment he left, Muriel bolted from her chair and made for the connecting archway that she presumed led to Collodi’s bedroom. Henry had been watching the house for the last several days. Soon after each private consultation in his third-floor apartment, Collodi tended to leave the building alone, carrying a patterned carpet bag. Each time he returned, Henry had seen his silhouette at the window of the room that overlooked the street. Muriel could only assume that the bag was secured in his bedroom.

The room was scrupulously neat and sparse. In the wardrobe were five suits and shirts and a spare cloak, all precisely the same as the outfit that Collodi was currently wearing. Above the rack was a box containing a grey wig, which cleared up that mystery.

The chest at the foot of the bed was empty. The sight of this void made Muriel shudder, though she could hardly explain why.

She dropped to her knees beside the bed, more heavily than she had intended. She cursed the dress she had chosen, which was far larger and more cumbersome than her preferred clothing.

Reaching under the bed, her fingers grazed rough fabric. The carpet bag.

She pulled it towards her, then opened its clasps, which were stiff and made her feel that her fingers were moving clumsily.

Inside the bag was an envelope stuffed with banknotes. Good. Alongside it were several card folders, each labelled with a name, all with the prefix Mrs, apart from one, which was Baroness. Muriel opened one of the folders at random. To her surprise, it contained only a small piece of notepaper, a couple of inches square, held between two pieces of clear acetate to preserve it. Upon the paper was written a message:

V-

Meet me again next week, I beg you. The same time, the same place, the same everything.

-L

Muriel consulted the front of the folder to see that the name was Mrs Victoria Chaloner.

So she had been right. The money was the least of it. Collodi was in the business of accumulating secrets – and not only that, but secrets in physical form.

Her success made her lightheaded. Dimly, she recognised the sound of a door opening and shutting. Then the tapping of a cane on floorboards.

She stood up, swaying. Why was she swaying?

“Miss Carew?”

And why did Collodi’s voice echo so?

Oh.

The tea.

She turned to face the doorway. Collodi stood there.

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

Muriel gestured at his bed. Her arm swung too far, feeling leaden. “I felt faint,” she said. “I think I might be ill.”

A smile formed on Collodi’s face. The effects of whatever drug he had given her made his features ripple. Muriel imagined his wax nose dripping off his face.

“I see,” he said. “Perhaps you are more susceptible than I took you for. The bed is not the conventional site of my work, but if you would like to lie down, then of course I can accommodate you.”

Collodi was nothing more than a confidence trickster and likely not dangerous in himself. When she passed out, whether here or in the drawing room, he would go through her bag and help himself to her secrets. That was of no matter, because she had written the letters in her bag herself, an act of literary creation that she had very much enjoyed. She told herself that after she woke she would leave, collect Edward, then report back to Henry and they would plan their next move.

Collodi moved towards her. Then the dark lenses of his spectacles glinted as he looked down.

Muriel looked down too. The folder labelled with Victoria Chaloner’s name lay on the bed covers. At her feet was the carpet bag. She could have sworn she’d shoved it back under the bed.

This error changed everything.

Drunkenly, she scooped up the bag and in the same motion she swung it at Collodi. It hit him at shoulder height and knocked him off balance. Clutching the bag to her chest, Muriel sprinted out of the bedroom, then through the drawing room to the window. She yanked at the sash clumsily and shouted, “Edward!”

CHAPTER 2

Edward spat at a pigeon that had been staring at him. It burst from the rooftop in a flurry of wingbeats. Ignoring the ache that had set into his thighs, Edward scrambled towards the window of the neighbouring house he had been watching. He had been crouching up here in the cold for an hour or more, keeping still because he had been told to, and because he had feared he was too heavy and might drop through the tiles.

Muriel Carew stood at the window. Her cheeks were red and her eyes were strange. Her lips parted, but Edward saw the bared teeth of a trapped animal and not a smile.

“Edward!” Muriel called again. She looked over her shoulder. “Take this and get away from here!”

She threw something big and soft at him. The distance between rooftops wasn’t far. He caught it instinctively. It was a bag.

He didn’t move.

“Go!” Muriel cried.

Her voice was as strange as her eyes. The voice of Muriel in his head was hard and sure of itself. This voice was soft at the edges. And her eyes didn’t have the same glint as usual.

He saw movement behind her. It was the man they were trying to trap: Collodi. But it was not a trap of the ordinary sort. Muriel and Henry believed he was a thief, and to catch him Muriel had insisted they would steal from Collodi in turn. It was difficult to understand.

He supposed that the bag was what Muriel had stolen from Collodi. She hadn’t entered the building carrying a carpet bag like this.

Muriel had explained the plan in detail. But had Edward agreed to run away with this bag, leaving Muriel behind?

Inside the room, Collodi gripped Muriel’s arm.

Collodi scared Edward. Muriel had explained what he did for a living. He charmed people. He removed all the pictures from inside their heads and he pushed new ones in.

Edward did not want that sort of business going on in his mind.

But fear was one thing, and Muriel being threatened with violence was another.

Edward threw the bag down and hurled himself through the open window.

“No, Edward!” Muriel shouted. But Collodi’s hand was still on her arm. And his teeth were bared too. A wild dog.

Edward roared and lunged at Collodi. The old man would snap like a bundle of dry sticks.

Collodi jumped backwards before Edward reached him. He was fast.

He lifted his cane in both hands, then pulled in opposite directions. Part of the cane came away. That part he dropped onto the floor.

What remained was a thin blade.

Edward hesitated. Then he feinted left. Collodi’s sword swished in the air as Edward ducked in the opposite direction. But before Edward could lay his hands on him, Collodi had swung the sword. It stung. Edward touched his own neck and his hand came away red.

There was something wrong with this man. He was faster than he should be. Edward was good at understanding opponents, in fights held behind public houses or on the dockside, and in brawls in alleys. Collodi was behaving in a way that did not match the picture of the fight Edward had made in his head.

He turned at a sound from behind him. Muriel was trying to climb out of the window onto the roof. Her stupid dress made it impossible.

“Leave him!” Muriel said in a thick voice. “It’s his bag that’s important.”

Edward looked out of the window. The bag was on the roof tiles. It had slid down the slope but it wasn’t moving now.

From the corner of his eye Edward saw Collodi dart towards the window. Edward spun, lashing out. His arm struck Collodi in the face, but then Edward flinched and withdrew his hand as the sword nicked it. Edward stared down at his hand. He was holding something between his thumb and first finger. A nose.

He had never torn off a man’s nose before. The sight of it charmed him.

Something was happening nearby. Collodi had reached the window. He pushed Muriel back and she fell to the floor. Collodi stumbled through the window and onto the roof. He picked up the bag and then turned.

His nose was ragged. Peeling skin. No blood. And there was another nose where the first one had been torn away.

Edward stared with his mouth open.

“The bag!” Muriel cried.

Collodi turned and scrambled to the metal gantry that led down the side of the building to the ground.

Muriel was safe now. Collodi was outside the room, and so was the bag. Everything had become simpler.

Edward pushed his bulky body through the window and set off in pursuit.

CHAPTER 3

Muriel’s head spun as she stumbled from Collodi’s building, but her giddiness wasn’t only due to the effects of the drug. Collodi’s patients must ordinarily consume more of it than she had, before he robbed them. He would have put another dose in the Earl Grey tea she’d insisted he make for her.

She felt sick because she’d been a fool. Even though she was sceptical about Collodi’s ability to mesmerise patients, his patter had been convincing enough that she had been alert only to a trick that involved at least a pretence of hypnotism. Knocking out his victims with drugged tea was so straightforward that she had fallen for it. In future, she would remind herself that criminals were not always subtle.

Due to her light-headedness she had taken several minutes to leave Collodi’s building. Now the cold December air cleared her mind somewhat, but she feared she was too late. Then she saw Collodi’s cloak abandoned on the cobbles, at the far side of the junction beyond the foot of the gantry steps of his building. She pressed on.

Close to the next junction of backstreets was Collodi’s Ottoman hat. Further along, she found his spectacles, one dark lens smashed. A little later, a grey wig. Towards the end of the narrow street she came across a discarded mass of flesh-coloured canvas, a face missing its false nose.

She was on the right track – but the Collodi that she and Edward were chasing must now appear nothing like the man she had encountered in the salon.

She stopped at the next junction, shivering in the cold wind that whistled through the narrow passage. She could see no clues. Which way to go? To the left were more narrow backstreets, whereas to the right she could see people striding along a busy thoroughfare which she supposed must be Brixton Road.

Having witnessed Edward’s display of strength, Collodi would fear facing him alone in an alley. Certainly he would seek the safety of a crowd.

She hurried to the right, tripping on her skirts. When she saw the carpet bag discarded at the side of the street and checked it to find it empty, she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or frustrated. On one hand, she had chosen the correct route. On the other hand, Collodi was now not only carrying the evidence she needed on his person, he had abandoned the final element that would have allowed her to identify him.

When she reached Brixton Road, she groaned in dismay.

Amid the crowd of pedestrians she saw a towering figure with wide, stooped shoulders, stalking up and down the pavement. He was a head taller than most of the people around him, so she could clearly make out the grotesquely large gap between his front teeth and his scowl, emphasised by the dark stubble that shadowed his jowls.

With some difficulty, Muriel pushed through the crowd to approach him.

“Which direction did he go?” she asked.

Edward ran his hand over his slick black hair. “None.”

She had learnt enough about Edward to interpret his meaning. Having tracked Collodi and then lost him, his instinctive conclusion was not that Collodi had escaped, but that he had simply disappeared. Edward was effective in many ways, but his understanding of the world around him was often as simple as a young child’s.

She was about to explain that Collodi had been wearing a disguise and that not only his attire but his face would now be different. But then something caught her eye: a group of men who stood motionless against the flow of people walking along the pavement.

Perhaps Edward was right. Collodi hadn’t gone anywhere.

As she watched, the group of men began to shift, like ants disturbed in their nest. Muriel looked along the road to see a horse tram approaching.

“Oi, that’s my hat!” someone cried.

She spun around to look at the owner of the voice. His hands were placed on his head and his facial expression was a caricature of confusion. He turned around, searching in all directions.

This man couldn’t be Collodi. He was far too short. That could only mean that Collodi had stolen the hat, and his transformation was complete.

The waiting men bundled onto the tram. Muriel leapt on too, assisted by two men who took pity on her in her ridiculous garb. Then two other men were compelled to offer her their seats, as only one would not have allowed room for her skirts.

Muriel twisted to look out of the window. Edward was watching her incoherently. When the tram set off, she pointed in the direction of its travel. Edward nodded and began pushing through the crowd to keep up with it.

Now Muriel turned her attention to the occupants of the tram. It was full enough that several people were standing, but she could still make out each passenger well enough.

They all wore identical overcoats, suits and hats, and stolid, vacant expressions.

Not actually identical, she told herself. Some faces were interrupted by moustaches, some men were older or younger than the average. But given how little she knew of Collodi’s appearance, any of them might be him. Though she was tempted to eliminate those wearing spectacles, he might easily have been carrying – or have stolen – a pair to replace his dark lenses. And she could see none carrying a cane, but she reminded herself that Collodi had transformed his into a sword, and could not have risked carrying it in public. If he hadn’t tossed it away, he would have secreted it in some nook on the way here, in the hope of retrieving it later.

When the tram stopped next, some of these men would get off, and she would be left with no indication whether to remain on board or not.

All of the men stared directly ahead, or at the newspapers spread before them. How could she interrupt their blankness to provoke some sort of response?

She had it.

“That man just took your pocketbook!” she shouted.

Instantly, every man in the carriage moved, each pressing a hand to his breast, which was presumably where they all kept their own pocketbooks. It was only after they had performed this action that their heads turned towards Muriel and then attempted to follow her line of sight to identify who had been the victim of robbery.

Muriel paid them no attention. The only man she cared about was the fellow whose hand had not moved when she had shouted. Only a thief would believe himself immune to thieves.

His skin was clear, his hair dark, his eyes bright. He was far younger than she had anticipated. His performance as an aged Italian had been subtler than his performance as a mesmerist.

He glanced up at her. The second their eyes met, Muriel knew that he understood he had been found out.

She rose. Collodi did too, before dashing to one side and flinging himself from the tram. Muriel tried to follow him, but her dress hampered her, and she could barely find her way along the aisle to the open entrance of the vehicle. The bumping motion of the tram and the blur of the road surface below her made queasiness rise in her belly once again.

She hated to acknowledge it, but she was in no state to give chase. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted again for Edward.

CHAPTER 4

Edward had seen a man drop from the tram. He was young and fast. It was only when Muriel shouted and pointed that Edward told himself that this man was Collodi, no matter that he was not the same Collodi he had chased earlier.

So Edward set off after him.

Collodi weaved through the crowd as he fought his way to the edge of the road. Edward barrelled straight through.

In the alleys and side streets, Edward would catch up with his prey easily.

But Collodi didn’t enter the side streets. Like a cat he scrambled onto an awning and then up the guttering of a shoemaker’s premises.

Edward climbed after him. Not like a cat, but like a large-bodied spider. Above him, Collodi looked back several times. His lips were a tight line. Either he feared being up high, or he just feared Edward. It gave Edward confidence. He was beginning to enjoy the chase now that it was simpler.

Before long Collodi disappeared over the flat top of the building. Edward arrived only seconds behind him.

Collodi ran.

Edward ran. He whooped and swung his arms.

Collodi hurdled over chimney pots, and so did Edward.

Edward saw that the row of terraced roofs came to an end up ahead.

Two pictures came into his head. The first was of Collodi jumping. If he did that, the race would continue and Edward would catch him soon enough. The second picture was of Collodi skidding to a halt, then turning to face Edward without his sword. That picture meant the game would end even sooner, and it would end with Collodi’s pretty young face mashed into the roof tiles.

Edward tasted iron. He grimaced with pleasure at what was to come.

Ahead of him, Collodi slowed. The second picture, then.

But no. After this hesitation, Collodi’s body bowed and he sprinted ever faster, towards the gap between the buildings.

No matter.

Except the iron taste in Edward’s mouth had grown stronger and more bitter.

He spat to one side as he ran.

Collodi sprinted on. He reached the edge of the roof and threw himself from it, his arms and legs flailing. When he landed on the next rooftop he staggered and tripped, then fell and rolled onto his back to recover.

Edward faltered and slowed. Why?

He tried to increase his pace. Without greater speed, he could not picture himself managing the jump. But he was slowing even more.

He spat again. And he was hot.

He knew what this meant. It made no sense, but he recognised the signs: the surge of bile rising from his stomach, the tight knot of rage.

It meant that he would leave, very soon. And he could do nothing to stop it.

He was no longer running. He plodded on for a few paces, then dropped to his haunches.

He swore, so that the first thing Henry Jekyll would know would be the curse still on his lips.

CHAPTER 5

Henry raised his head, which felt heavy. Bile swilled in his stomach and in his throat. His teeth chattered due to the cold.

He was in the clouds. In every direction was dark grey vapour.

His body was hunched. He was crouching on a flat surface. To one side and far below he saw a busy road full of people. On the other side, endless rooftops.

What was he doing up here?

Edward.

Of course Edward was to blame. What misfortune in his life was not attributable to that monster?

And Collodi. The details of the case returned to him.

On the rooftop of the next building he saw a man looking around desperately. Henry deduced he was assessing which way he might flee.

That was Collodi, then. Muriel’s part in the investigation must have failed. They had been forced to rely upon Edward’s far blunter approach once again.

But now Edward was gone. If anyone was to apprehend Collodi, it must be Henry himself.

He stood. His ears were ringing. He had never been comfortable with heights.

Imagine you’re Edward, he told himself.

He moved in Collodi’s direction and peered over the edge of the rooftop to look down at the gap between this building and the next. Far below, washing was strung between the buildings and two children danced around, playing some sort of game.

The gap was not great. But it would require a run-up, and when was the last time Henry had run anywhere?

Then again, he would have to get down from this rooftop somehow. Without his cane, even that would be a struggle. It would be as well to catch Collodi first.

On the neighbouring rooftop, Collodi continued to hesitate, peering over one side and then the other. Clearly, a route to reach the ground eluded him. He might be trapped for a time.

Edward could have managed the jump and tackled Collodi within moments.

It was an impossible situation. Henry wondered whether he might simply lie down and wait for Edward to return. But his transformations into Edward ordinarily occurred only every three days. He would die of thirst before his alter ego came to his aid.

So he would have to playact at being Edward. He had no choice but to try to jump the gap.

He moved away from the roof edge, to give him enough distance to build up speed.

When he began to run, every bone in his body screamed complaints. His limp became ever more pronounced, but he tried to stifle the ache, to keep his pace level.

Imagine you’re Edward.

He reached the edge of the roof. His right ankle twisted painfully as he launched himself up and away.

CHAPTER 6

Henry tried to sit up. He groaned loudly, and after a couple of half-hearted attempts he abandoned the action entirely. The pain spread from his ribs and around his torso to his spine, at which point it blossomed into discrete blooms of agony at each vertebra. He pictured his body as it might be depicted on an anatomical diagram, with the areas of discomfort highlighted in red. His pictorial form would be encased in a scribble of red ink, with only a gasping mouth and squeezed-shut eyes visible above it.

He heard light footsteps and scuffling sounds from the office that adjoined his living quarters. Ignoring them, he stared up at the network of cracks on the shabby ceiling. One of the cracks was in the shape of a reversed letter J. It had always reminded him of Edward Hyde, who was the inversion of Henry Jekyll. But this was Henry’s bed, and his alone. Edward’s was in his cell on the opposite side of the premises.

The bedroom door opened.

“Any better this morning?” Muriel asked.

“Worse,” Henry replied. “Much worse.”

“Let’s see, shall we?”

Henry protested, but allowed Muriel to help him to a sitting position. The action didn’t hurt quite so much when it was her providing the motivating force. He winced as he raised his arms above his head, and she slipped his nightshirt over his head as though he were a child being prepared for bathing.

Muriel sucked air through her teeth.

“You’re certainly a strange colour,” she said.

Henry looked down at his chest. Amid the sparse hair, his flesh was yellow in parts, grey in others, and in some places blue. There appeared to be no pattern to the discoloured patches.

“I look like a block of marble – one that a stonemason would reject,” he said mournfully.

He gasped as Muriel placed her fingertips lightly on his chest, above the pectoralis major muscle.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then why did you gasp?”

Because I am in pain through and through, damn it, he thought. But if he said it aloud, Muriel would chide him. He had no desire for her to see him as a tantrumming infant, any more than she already did.

“You surprised me, that’s all.”

“Where is the actual source of the pain, then? Where did you strike the roof edge?”

Henry considered this. What was the core physical pain, as opposed to the chain reaction of associated torments? Finally, he touched his finger to the base of his sternum. The merest touch of this button triggered a fresh wave, and he whimpered.

Muriel nodded and leant over him to look closer. From his vantage point propped against the pillows Henry looked down at her, amazed at seeing her face so close to his chest. The strange angle made her nose appear longer, her eyelashes the most prominent features of her face, her lips hidden. Her dark hair had come free of its clasp at one side, and one curled strand mirrored the shape of her ear.

She was kind, his Muriel.

No. Not his Muriel. He had never possessed her, even when they had been engaged to be married. Nobody could possess her. Now she did not even pretend to love him, as she had a decade ago.

She had been only twenty years old then. Perhaps love could only be a performance at that age. They had barely known each other.

Muriel had soon learnt that her faith in him, or rather her faith in the propriety that made him a suitable match, had been misplaced. Henry had proven weak. Back then he had told himself that summoning Edward Hyde would rid himself of that weakness, but it had only compounded it. And then Edward had destroyed Henry’s future unequivocally. After the killing of General Sir Danvers Carew, Muriel’s father and only relative, fleeing the country had been Henry’s only available course of action.

He could feel Muriel’s breath on his skin. Where was his pain now? He couldn’t sense it at all.

He imagined her placing a kiss on his chest.

“Your heart’s racing,” Muriel said.

She withdrew. Her thick eyebrows made a V of concern.

Henry swallowed, his throat dry.

“It’s nothing,” he managed to say. “I’m hungry, that’s all. I haven’t had breakfast.”

“You’ve missed it entirely. It’s two in the afternoon.”

Henry blinked in surprise.

“There are buns and cheese in the office. I’ll help you to your desk. I won’t have you eating in bed.”

“But I am—”

“In terrible pain, I know. But you must move around, or you’ll only add cramp to your list of complaints.”

“Muriel, you must understand how serious my injuries are. Don’t forget I’m a doctor. Two of my ribs are fractured, and torn cartilage is now flapping around my breastbone like a flag on a ship. I must rest!”

Muriel stood up. Her hands were on her hips, which seemed a default posture when she addressed Henry.

“I know you well, Henry Jekyll. You’re awful when you’re left to wallow. What’s that statement of Aristotle’s? Nature abhors a vacuum. With a small amendment, it can be applied to you: Henry Jekyll abhors a lack of occupation. When your mind is unoccupied, you become self-centred and surly.”

“But I want to be self-centred and surly!”

Muriel snorted softly. She turned to leave the room.

Immediately, Henry called her back. He needed her help to get out of bed.

After struggling to put on his nightshirt and dressing gown, they edged together into the office, where Muriel deposited Henry into his chair at his desk. She stood back, appraising him, then went back into the bedroom and returned with a pillow, which she pushed behind him for support.

The office was tidier than Henry remembered. The books on the shelves were arranged neatly, the walls had been cleared of their sunlight-curled maps and the corkboard was empty. Muriel, too, abhorred a vacuum and did not suffer boredom well. Upon his desk was spread a chequered cloth, upon which was a loaf, already sliced, and a plate of cheeses. Henry ignored it. His claim of hunger had been a lie. What concerned him more was what was not on his desk.

“Where are my files?” he asked.

Muriel bit her lip. “I thought it might be better to put them aside for now.”

“What about the occupation that you so insightfully claim that I require?”

“It will have to be another occupation.”

Henry squinted at her. What wasn’t she telling him?

“I’ve been to the police station this morning,” Muriel said in answer to his unasked question. “Acting upon the information we gathered, they took it upon themselves to enter Collodi’s rooms. They found nothing, other than Victoria Chaloner’s note which was still upon the bed where I left it. That has now been returned to her, and she asked me to pass on to you her warm thanks, and she insists that the case has been resolved to her satisfaction. It seems that the money that was taken from her was not uppermost in her mind, as we suspected.”

Henry waved this away. “But she was one of many. Collodi was a serial thief, and we have a list of his recent patients as a result of my watching him closely this week. In that carpet bag—”

“Was a collection of compromising documents that he could use against his former patients. He emptied the bag and escaped with the documents on his person. But the police have approached those women, Henry. And they will not speak against Collodi.”

“They’re afraid. Afraid of the mesmerist, and afraid of the documents they’ve lost being found and made public.”

Muriel nodded.

“Collodi won’t return to his rooms, will he?” Henry said glumly.

“I should think not. The police will watch the entrance for a time and the landlord has agreed to alert them if Collodi returns, but their hopes are not high.”

Henry’s head jerked up as a thought occurred to him.

“When you say ‘police’, I presume you mean Prentice?”

“Detective Constable Prentice. Yes.”

“Oh.”

The thought of Muriel having spent the morning with that eager young man made the pain return to Henry’s body, shooting along synapses and bending his spine. Now it was Detective Constable Prentice that Henry imagined as the recipient of her kisses. A bitter taste flowed into his mouth, and he shoved in a piece of bread to staunch it.

He chewed slowly, then swallowed.

“He failed us,” he said.

“Prentice?”

“No. Edward.”

“It was hardly his fault. He can’t choose when he turns back into you, can he?”

Henry shrugged. “So much of the transformation process remains mysterious. Sometimes I imagine he is waiting for the most inopportune moment, then bursts free to cause me trouble, and abandons me with the same intention.”

“He’s your partner, Henry. It says so on the plaque beside your door.”

“A partner who left me on a rooftop with no course of action but to hurl myself from it. In the process, he scotched a week of patient detective work and allowed the perpetrator to flee. Collodi is probably on a boat across the Atlantic as we speak.”

Muriel didn’t refute his statement. Instead, she said, “Do you have any thoughts as to why Edward was present so briefly, this time?”

Henry shook his head so quickly that it made his neck ache. “None.”

“It could present a problem for us in the future, if we can’t predict his appearances accurately.”

“I know, Muriel. You forget that I’ve lived with Edward for a decade. So I know.”

Muriel’s smile was infuriatingly patient and understanding.

“It’s funny,” she said. “You’re quite right that you’ve lived with the situation involving yourself and Edward for ten years. Yet you’ve never met him.”

“I fail to see why that’s funny.”

“You’re like a lord of a manor, and he’s a member of under-stairs staff you’ve never encountered face to face. Your only proofs of his existence are the results of his actions.”

“I don’t feel like a lord. Or at least, this lackey of mine is a menace who pours salt in my wine and sprinkles thumbtacks in my bed.” When Muriel didn’t respond, he puffed out his cheeks. “So, the case is over.”

“There seems nothing we can do. We have no leads to pursue, and no client to satisfy.” Her head tilted. “You’re the one who always tells me that we’re a business, and without a client we should not dedicate our efforts to any mystery, no matter how great.”

Henry nodded. It was true that he said that. But there was a difference between a case not accepted and an investigation failed.

“But as I said, you need something to occupy your mind,” Muriel added. “I suggest that we take out the files related to your previous cases and organise their contents. Every time you’re required to consult them, I despair. They’re in no sort of order.”

Henry groaned. The thought of pulling fistfuls of paperwork out of their adequate hiding places and strewing them on the floor made his head ache along with his injured body.

“Anything but that, Muriel.”

“What’s the alternative? We can hardly sit here silently, waiting for a new client to appear.”

They both jolted at a sound from the lower door that led to William and Mary Yard. Then footsteps sounded from the stairs that led to the office proper. Two pairs of footsteps, one set confident and light, the other hesitant and heavy.

Despite the ache in his chest, Henry managed a tight smile.

Clients.

CHAPTER 7

Muriel burst up from her chair and towards the coat rack. She pulled from it her winter cloak, then threw it around Henry’s shoulders, ignoring his winces and complaints as she shoved it behind him. It didn’t hide his dressing gown fully, but it gave him a scholarly aura that was certainly better than the sight of him in his pyjamas in the mid-afternoon. She smoothed the wayward curls of his hair and then spun to welcome their guests as they appeared at the head of the stairs.

The man grimaced as he plodded into the room, and Muriel felt the floorboards shake beneath his weight. He was enormous, which immediately made her think of Edward – but where Edward was tall and stocky, this man was wide and flaccid. He wore a loose shirt with rolled-up sleeves, which hung from his wide shoulders in a torrent of creases. His trousers were baggy and ended above the ankles, and around his neck was a red cravat with white spots. His hair was slicked back, but rather than oil Muriel suspected it was simply sweat that held it in place. Rivulets of perspiration ran down both sides of his face, originating somewhere beneath the hairline.

The man cast his eyes over first Henry and then Muriel, lingering on Muriel for a couple of seconds too long. His head was like a ball, as were his bulging eyes, and his imbecilic grin stretched decidedly too far to either side; the odd thought occurred to Muriel that if it grew any wider it might bisect his head entirely. He rolled his eyes laconically, then gestured over his shoulder with a thumb.

Muriel moved to one side to see beyond his immense bulk. Now she saw the second visitor. This man was far slighter than his companion. His body was bent forward and his head was bowed, and both his hands were placed on the larger man’s lower back. He must have been pushing the other man up the stairs, or at least doing his damnedest to apply pressure.

This second person had a very different manner of dress. While his shirt also had baggy sleeves, the effect when combined with a tight tunic was Byronesque rather than slovenly, compounded by the tight breeches and black stockings that accentuated his slender figure. His hair was dark and where it wasn’t oiled it formed into pronounced ringlets.

Realising that they had reached their destination, the smaller man stood upright – which added little to his height. Muriel estimated he must be around five feet tall, and two heads shorter than his companion.

The bulky man said drily, “Our entrances usually warrant at least a smattering.”

His companion elbowed him in his ribs – or at least in roughly the area where his ribs must be, cushioned by layers of flesh. “Ignore him. There’s been many a night when we’ve shown up to be greeted by nothing but coughs and stares.”

Muriel blinked in surprise. The voice of the smaller man was high-pitched and melodic. She glanced at Henry, who appeared similarly confused.

The person wearing breeches and stockings looked down, then laughed and said, “Oh, excuse my get-up! I’m principal boy at the Aquarium tonight. Mother Goose, if you haven’t seen it.”

Muriel understood immediately, but Henry only stared at the newcomer, none the wiser.

“You’re… a boy in an aquarium?” he said slowly.

“It’s a theatrical term, Henry,” Muriel said. “The tradition of the principal boy involves a woman playing the part of a boy.”

“In pantomime, that is,” the newcomer added. “Mother Goose. Did you suppose I was telling you my own mother’s a goose?”

“Of course not,” Henry said gruffly.

“And of course the pantomime is performed underwater at the Aquarium,” the large man added.

Henry glared at him and pulled his cloak around his body – which was quite a theatrical gesture in itself – and said in a defensive tone, “I’ll thank you for behaving in a more serious manner while in this office.”

The other three of them watched him for a moment. Then the two visitors began to guffaw. Muriel couldn’t help but join in.

Henry didn’t seem to appreciate the joke, and certainly not being the butt of it. He rose from his chair, his injuries for the moment forgotten. He appeared to be about to launch into a tirade—

—but he was stopped short when the rotund man pointed at Henry’s attire and exclaimed, “The fellow’s in his nightgown!” He clamped a hand over his huge face, then immediately parted the fingers to peer through them. “He’s positively indecent! Don’t look, Irina, or you might see his lobcock!”

Henry’s face reddened immediately. He spluttered, “I assure you that I’m perfectly decent. Beneath this cloak is merely—”

The man roared, “No! Don’t take off your cloak, for pity’s sake!” He turned to his companion. “A flasher, that’s what he is!”

The ‘principal boy’ who he had referred to as Irina retorted, “In this business I’ve been told to do plenty of things for exposure, but this isn’t what I had in mind!”

Henry turned his attention to her, squinting. It was clear to Muriel that he was still trying to unravel the confusion of this young woman’s appearance.

It was time to put an end to this charade. Muriel stepped forward.

“Henry, please sit down,” she said firmly. “Sir, madam, please make yourselves comfortable and tell us why you’ve come here.”

The large man’s eyes widened. “Sir and madam, is it? We’ve come to a high-class lurk, Irina, old girl!”

His companion shushed him, then pressed him into one of the two chairs positioned before Henry’s desk. It creaked beneath his substantial weight. Irina took the other seat for herself, then turned to look at Muriel, who had taken her usual place at the side of the room, notebook in hand.

“What are you doing all the way over there?” Irina asked her.

“Muriel acts as my assistant during interviews,” Henry said before Muriel could reply.

Irina spun to glare at Henry. “I wasn’t speaking to you, was I?” Then, to Muriel, “Are you a part of this chit-chat or not?”

“I am,” Muriel said.

Irina nodded approvingly. “Then get yourself over here, how about that?”

Muriel obeyed, carrying her wooden chair closer to the desk. On instinct, she placed it alongside Henry’s, as if the conversation was to be a contest between the two of them and these strange visitors.

“So,” Henry said, “perhaps you might begin by introducing yourselves.”

“Really?” the young woman said in surprise. “All right then. I’m Irina Matei, and the birth certificate of this lump over here says he’s Roland Daconey.”

Her companion stared at Henry and then Muriel with widened eyes, as if he was trying to encourage a response from them.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said. “Ought I to know those names?”

“You’d know him as Rolly,” Irina said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Rolly Daconey