Seeking Hyde

By Thomas Reed

2018 Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Awards Finalist!

Reveal the fascinating history behind Robert Louis Stevenson and discover how the epic horror story of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde came to fruition.

Struggling to write a worthy successor to his hit Treasure Island, Robert is instead focused on defying his father's wishes, amidst facing charges for driving an old friend's fatal alcoholism, all while his American wife—ten years his junior—pushes him relentlessly to write one more great novel. After Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde come to him in a dream, Robert writes tirelessly until he has created this classic masterpiece. His work is met with great acclaim, yet is ultimately blamed for the inspiration of a gruesome series of murders now unleashed in London's East End.

Seeking Hyde follows Robert Louis Stevenson through the dark underworld of Victorian London, exploring the realm of "what if?", as he wrestles with the demons of prostitution, police corruption, and, finally, Jack the Ripper himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beaufort Books
• Release date: Nov 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780825307713

Thomas Reed

Tom Reed has been writing poetry over the span of four decades. Philosophical, political, poignant, or romantic, his poems run the gamut of life—whether about political history, like the “Dirge,” with hidden innuendos about John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr., Richard Nixon, Mother Teresa, and Bosnia; or romantic poems like “Mortals Cry,” or “The Last Poem.” Also found are prophetic nuggets like “Journey Within,” “Obliteration,” and “Jerusalem.” His early struggle with suicidal thoughts can be seen in the poems “Trial,” “Changes,” and “Thoughts on the Night of 10-19-76.” But his triumph over the menacing darkness can be seen in “The Answer.” His broad range of thirty-three different vocations—including host of a Miami Beach restaurant, sound man and roadie, construction laborer, youth pastor, tree trimmer in New Orleans, and a variety of others—has helped to collectively paint this collage of life experiences called From Midnight till Dawn.

Book preview

Stevenson

Part One

FERRIER

1

I was born in the year 18—to a large fortune, endowed besides with excellent parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond of the respect of the wise and good among my fellow men, and thus, as might have been supposed, with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished future. And indeed the worst of my faults was a certain impatient gaiety of disposition, such as has made the happiness of many, but such as I found it hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my head high, and wear a more than commonly grave countenance towards the public. Hence it came about that I concealed my pleasures.

—HENRY JEKYLL, STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE (1886)

LONDON, APRIL 1883

Good morning, Mr. Stevenson. May I call you a hansom?

The moderately well known author of Treasure Island was passing through the paneled foyer of the Savile Club towards the front door, leather traveling-case in hand. He paused in mid-stride, canting his head to catch up with what he had just heard. The ache in his right temple flared with the gesture into a stab of real pain, but he huffed it resolutely away.

Beg pardon? he asked, setting down the well-worn Gladstone and turning to the roundish attendant.

A hansom, sir. May I call you a cab?

Ah! Yes, of course. A cab. He pinched at his chevron of a moustache, wondering distractedly if the man had exchanged any words with the night porter as he began his day—perhaps heard an embarrassing tale involving the past evening. The fellow’s expression seemed stolid enough. I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere, explained the writer. I thought you’d asked, ‘May I call you handsome?’

Oh my goodness, no.

It occurred to Stevenson that his flippant candor might have caused the man discomfort. It was something he might have called back, something that would not likely have escaped him in the first place had last night’s indulgences not left his judgment somewhat compromised. He scanned the porter’s face for a sign of his response. The ghost of a twinkle in his eye seemed the only possible rift in his professional composure. Of course not. Much relieved, though, Dobbs. It would have been forward of you, don’t you think?

Of course, sir, the man replied, with what was unmistakably a narrow smile. Very forward indeed.

Stevenson nodded. What to say? Now, Mrs. Stevenson, for some reason, frequently tells me I’m handsome.

Of course she does, sir.

Blinded by love, I expect. He managed a grin. Are you a married man, Dobbs? And if so, he wondered on the fly, must your wife ever assist you to your bed of a drunken evening, as I was assisted only hours ago…sadly not by my spouse?

Why, yes, sir. Blessed to be, sir. Been dead and married, what, these thirty years?

‘Dead and married,’ echoed Stevenson through a chuckle that approached a cough. Excellent, Dobbs. Worth remembering. On a burdened morning such as this, an ounce of levity was worth hours of light opera on a sunnier day. Perhaps he could risk one more sally, if only to be sure his wits were truly restored. Not to belabor a point, but I do sometimes find it a wee bit confusing when anyone but my dear wife, you know, claims to find me… Stevenson’s hand fluttered to his unfashionably long brown locks.

Of course, sir. Very sorry, sir.

No need for apologies, declared the writer. It was all in my damned head, wasn’t it? Damned head indeed! No escaping it. We writers are constantly making things up.

Yes, sir. And it does you credit, if you ask me.

That’s very good of you, Dobbs, I’m sure. Now, shall we put it all behind us? And, yes, thank you. Please do.

Sir?

Do call me a hansom. He winked at the man, not without another twinge in his temple. If you’d be so kind.

Of course, sir. Right away. Dobbs snatched the bag from the lustrous tile and backed decorously towards the door. Thank you, sir.

Waiting at the portico, taking in a reviving breath, Stevenson wondered how many London clubs boasted attendants as ready as this man to take such measured but refreshing liberties. Likely none. The Savile, though, had been specifically founded on relaxed principles. This, Stevenson assured himself, was the sole reason he hadn’t laughed in Colvin’s face nine years back when his friend and mentor offered to propose for membership an unknown scribbler such as himself. A quasi-Socialist Bohemian into the bargain, if Stevenson’s père’s despairing estimate were to be trusted! As it happened, the Savile had proven an oasis of tempered ease amidst the arid respectability of Mayfair, especially since it had fled Savile Row and resettled just across Piccadilly from Green Park.

Today, of all days, it was cheering to witness that soupçon of wit flit across Dobbs’s lips. The news in from Edinburgh with the most recent post weighed on him gravely, a fact he recalled trying to explain to Dobbs’s fellow porter just the other side of a fitful sleep—as though sad tidings might excuse his humiliating condition. He tapped his stick, straightened his hat, felt vaguely for the letter in the breast pocket of his frock coat, and stepped as resolutely as he could manage down to the street.

Thank you, Dobbs, he said, smiling as he joined the attendant at the curbside. I am much obliged.

Not at all, sir. The man extended his arm to help the lanky figure up into the cab, then handed up the bag. Travel safely, Mr. Stevenson.

Thank you, Dobbs. And thank you also for your flattering observations. Truly voiced or not. King’s Cross, please, driver.

As the cab lurched away in a clatter of hooves, Stevenson craned back to spy Dobbs looking out after him, tautly erect in the morning sun. A full grin split the man’s ruddy face. Heaven only knew what exactly for.

Settling himself on the tufted bench, Stevenson unbuttoned his coat and checked his watch. 8:43. The Flying Scotsman departed at ten sharp. That would put him into Waverley Station shortly after six in the evening, in time to drop his bag at his parents’ house before joining Baxter in Old Town for dinner—assuming they bothered to eat. Well, eat they must, he quietly told himself. Surely, by then, he would be able to compass the thought of a meal.

He gazed idly at the minute engraving inside the cover of the turnip. Robert Louis Stevenson, Attorney, 16 July, 1875. From an Admiring Father and Mother. That legal career had lasted, what? A matter of weeks? Nothing more than an effective but disingenuous bridge between the engineering career he’d refused to pursue and the literary life to which Thomas Stevenson had sworn no son of his would ever stoop. He grinned, shook his head, closed the timepiece with a snap, and slipped it back into his vest pocket.

The hansom rattled through Piccadilly Circus and on up Shaftesbury Avenue, moving at a brisk trot despite the morning crush. Just short of Charing Cross Road, they slowed. There was some sort of disturbance ahead, and waves of curious pedestrians flowed across the thoroughfare and swelled into a mass on the left pavement.

Stevenson tapped on the hatch and the cabman opened up.

What is it, do you know? asked Stevenson.

Can’t rightly say, sir. P’raps we’ll see in a moment.

My train departs at ten.

Naught to worry you, sir. There’s a mess o’ Metropolitans on the scene already. ’Ello there, constable! They’ll see us through, certain.

The hansom edged forward until Stevenson could see through the shifting crowd. A slender, plainly dressed young man stood above the throng atop an imposing row of hogsheads stacked on a brewer’s dray. His face was crimson, his veins distended, and he flourished his cloth cap right and left like a limp cattle switch. He was doing his best to shout over the buzzing crowd. Stevenson could pick up a phrase here, a word there—Devil’s cargo, brothers, every dram! Some of the jockeying masses shook their fists and roared, Aye! Others scrambled to pull the lad from his perch, and he kicked vigorously at their grasping hands. Fearful rocks, he bellowed on, struggling to maintain his balance. Tear the bottom. Something of life. Barque? Barque of life?

Damme! It’s them teetotalers again, sneered the driver, leaning his head into the cab. Stevenson caught a whiff of gin on the man’s breath. Gin and onions. He bit back the urge to retch. Lawson’s mob. Can’t abide a single drop, that lot. And can’t abide no-one else ’avin’ ’is. A belch might have added the perfect touch. Another pickled cabman. Everyman at Work. "I’d like to jump down and fix ’is wagon."

I quite understand, remarked Stevenson, thinking that he himself would have done well to embrace Sir Wilfrid’s abstemious principles the previous evening. At the same time, there’s a train to catch.

Naught to worry about, guv’nor. Like I said. The hatch clapped shut, and the lean bay was soon back at a trot, wheeling them north towards the Great Eastern terminal.

Naught to worry about. That might be the case, for the short and the long term equally. It was hard to take too seriously any soul who could declaim in public about the barque of life, if that is what the fellow had indeed said. Facile metaphors tried Stevenson sorely; at times, he thought, adversely affecting his digestion—especially on days when he had risen early and damaged. Still, disruptions like this one had become frequent throughout Britain as the multiple incarnations of the Temperance Movement grew ever bolder and more organized. Their nay-saying militancy had provoked an equally fervent and boisterous opposition, such that uniformed soldiers of the Salvation Army were now regularly challenged by rag-tag masses dubbing themselves a Skeleton Army. Marching under a black flag emblazoned with skull and cross bones, Stevenson had been intrigued to learn, these real-life, gin-swilling mates of Long John Silver had taken to pelting their sanctimonious opponents with anything they could lay their drunken hands on: mud, stones, paint, hot coals—even, in one lurid incident, dead cats. Their increasingly violent clashes had left millenarian pundits at the Times declaring that the Drink Question had turned one nation into two—as indeed, thought Stevenson ruefully, drink itself so often turned a man against his own better judgment. Thinking selfishly, Stevenson doubted any new legislation would ever deny wine-lovers such as himself the pleasure of an evening glass or two.

In any event, any resolution to the fiery debate wouldn’t matter much for Ferrier. The damage had long been done.

Goodge Street. Another ten minutes? Stevenson reached for the letter that had found him in Bournemouth the day before and called him away on the next express to London. He raised the flap of the envelope, removing and unfolding the single sheet of bond stationery. Dearest Louis, wrote his mother. It pains me beyond words to let you know that we have heard again from Mrs. Ferrier. As we feared, poor Walter continues to decline, and his dear mother assures us that it must now be weeks and not months before he goes to his Eternal Rest.

It struck Stevenson once again that Margaret Stevenson had not mentioned an "Eternal Reward. But would a good Scottish Calvinist ever use the term? Rewards presupposed a measure of control over one’s doings on this earth—merit for deeds freely chosen, virtue freely embraced; an orange for the good boy, a wormy apple for the bad. Neither the watered-down catechisms of his nursery nor the interminable harangues of his boyhood kirk had ever spoken to him of rewards—scarcely ever about choice, if truth were told. And by what Christian theology, even those based on some notion of the free and independent will, would Ferrier in particular rest? Would he not writhe interminably in deserved or undeserved perdition? Poor Walter! Had he ever been able to steer his barque" at all?

Your father and I, he read on, know how consuming your affairs have become these recent days and months. We are profoundly gratified to see the path upon which you have so promisingly ventured of late. Nevertheless, I know you realize that we are put on this earth to look after those who are dear to us. Walter, I know, yearns to see you one last time before he departs. Please, if ever you may, dear Louis, hasten home and dispatch this last obligation to one who has counted you among his most faithful friends. With the greatest hopes of seeing and embracing you very soon, I remain, as ever, your loving Mother.

He lowered the sheet despondently to his lap. Could there have been any doubt he would come? He dearly hoped not. At the same time, he was pained to recall, his father had once declared that his sole child’s godless antics had rendered his own life an utter failure. The words of that particular missive had ever after stuck in Stevenson’s head with the tenacity of a jagged splinter: I would ten times sooner have seen you lying in your grave than that you should be shaking the faith of other young men and bringing such ruin on other houses as you have brought already upon this. A father who could pen such words might easily think anything of him. Still, more nights than he could remember, Stevenson had staggered back to Ferrier’s rooms under the weight of his nodding friend, lowering him into his bed and tossing a blanket over his crumpled frame before he lurched back to his own digs as first light began to glow over Arthur’s Seat. One did not hold a man’s head while he vomited or shield his eyes from a clawing whore and not speed to his deathbed when the call arrived.

The cab turned east on Euston Road and shortly pulled up at King’s Cross. Modestly invigorated by all the fresh air, the writer leapt down from the cab, paying the driver and adding a generous tip. He glanced up at the station clock. Half past nine.

You’ve made good time, he called up to the man. Thank you.

And thank you, sir, for making it worth my while. The fellow pocketed the coins with a grin.

Well, good day, then. Stevenson expected he knew exactly where the fare and aptly named pourboire would go—most likely before the man took on his next passenger. There was a row of already-busy public houses just to the right, a half-dozen empty cabs pulled up in front of them.

Your bag, sir?

Ah, yes, sighed Stevenson. It pained him to be this dull and distracted.

G’day, sir.

Stevenson turned and raised his eyes to the terminal’s façade, two huge glassed archways flanking an Italianate clock tower. With a half-dozen entrance doors from which he was free to choose—or so the anti-Calvinist within him presumed—Stevenson made for the centermost portal of the right-hand arch, aiming for Platform 10. He did not have the slightest notion how he missed seeing the little flower girl standing just inside the entrance. In a trice, she was down on the pavement in front of him, and it was all he could do to keep from treading on her. He extended his stride to avoid crushing a slender arm, but his heel landed squarely on a tangle of flower stems and skidded away in a slick green mash. Fortunately a stout man in a bowler, just to his right, caught his arm as he made to crash over backwards, holding him up as he got his feet back under himself.

Oh my! sputtered Stevenson, dropping his bag and reaching down to the blonde mite who lay there in a scattering of bright yellow daffodils. Have I hurt you? Are you injured?

Just frightened, I expect, said the man with the bowler. Isn’t that right, little miss?

Frozen at first, the girl soon nodded, though biting back tears. Stevenson helped her to her feet and brushed ineffectually at her threadbare frock. There was more bone than flesh to her. Aye! she replied.

What a brave girl you are! said Stevenson, gathering up the flowers. And what a clumsy sod I am, running you down that way. I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?

The girl stood and gazed uncertainly then slowly nodded. A single tear coursed down over pale skin the thinness of which Stevenson thought he had never seen. It was like a dusting of flour on glass.

Here, I’ll take them all, he said, stooping again to pick up the last of the flowers. Will a shilling do? Two shillings?

The girl’s eyes widened and she nodded energetically.

We’ll make it three shillings then, he declared, dropping the coins one after the other into her dirty palm. Will you forgive me, milady? He went to one knee, taking both of her tiny hands into his own. Will you accept a gentleman’s sincere apology?

Oh, yes, sir, she piped, blushing as she grinned. Bless you, sir.

All’s right, then?

She nodded.

Good. And bless you, too. He caught the bowler man’s eye as she scampered away. Would that all of our carelessness could be put right so easily.

That’s the gospel truth, said the other. We’d all of us sleep better, would we not?

Stevenson had dreaded the eight-hour journey north, alone with his thoughts. In the event, he found himself sharing a compartment with most agreeable company. Mostly agreeable, that is: a dour Scots barrister-type peered judgmentally over the top of his Times every time the writer lit a cigarette, which these days was increasingly often. Stevenson’s wife berated him endlessly for what she histrionically referred to as his addiction, claiming that a man with tender lungs could ill afford to fill them with tobacco smoke every time he had the chance. Often enough he simply nodded and allowed that it was a wretched habit. Now and again, though, he indulged the urge to reply that if her affection for him were as tender as she took his lungs to be, she might be less censorious. Then again, she and her son had willingly left the sun-drenched heaven of California and followed him back to a bleak insular climate about as salubrious as the inside of a drainpipe. They had cast in their lots entirely with his own, with no reservations he had been able to detect. It seemed only fair that he should try to keep himself alive—as long as he possibly could—for their collective welfare. If only Fanny worried less. Or stopped smoking herself.

The pretty young woman sitting across from him looked up and he suddenly realized he had been staring. She cast him a benign smile, easy enough to return. She was a governess, as he learned after a polite inquiry, on her way to York with one of her charges, the seven-year-old lad perched just to her left. The aesthenic scamp peered intently out the window as the landscape rushed by, his eyes wide with wonder.

Stevenson smiled. He had been a similar age when he took his first trip to Glasgow, along with his mother and father, but virtually glued to the side of his austere nursemaid. He remembered as though it were yesterday the dizzying thrill of the occasion, as the varied countryside hurtled past at an impossible pace. Ever since, whichever of his mental faculties it was that brought him his dreams had found an occasional but highly effective use for that vertiginous feeling of momentum, that enthralling sense of helpless acceleration.

Stevenson leaned towards the boy. Is this your first journey by rail? he asked.

The boy looked at him and shook his head, slightly apprehensive, it seemed, at being addressed by a perfect stranger.

William has been to Edinburgh before, explained the young woman as she adjusted her trim figure in her seat. And to Bath as well.

Ah, Edinburgh, nodded Stevenson, leaning back on the plush bench. That is where I am bound, in fact. All the way to Edinburgh. And do you enjoy riding on the train, then?

The boy looked towards his custodian, who nodded her reassurance.

Yes, indeed, he answered in a reedy little voice.

And riding backwards? Are you happy enough to ride backwards?

Again the look for approval. Another nod.

Very happy, thank you. The boy blinked at him uncertainly.

Well if you tire of it, declared Stevenson, folding his hands neatly, I would be more than happy to exchange seats with you. I am perfectly content riding along backwards. Seeing where I have been, you know. Surprised by where I’m arriving. It’s most exciting! He gazed over at the girl, who smiled in frank amusement. She was remarkably attractive: pale oval face, glowing chestnut locks, grey-blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and wit. Where was she headed, he wondered? Beyond York. In life. Her finished manner spoke to good breeding, although the prospects for a young woman in her position were not particularly scintillating. He turned, with a sniff, back to the lad, who now studied him closely.

If you were to ride a horse, shall we say, would you prefer to ride backwards or forwards? asked Stevenson.

Why, forwards, of course.

And why is that?

So as not to ride under a tree branch…and clonk the back of my head, said the boy with a grin, and tumble off into the dirt.

No, we shouldn’t like that, should we? laughed Stevenson. Dirt being so…dirty and all.

The boy giggled. And heads not liking to be clonked and all.

Not in the least, agreed the writer. He struck his brow lightly with the heel of his hand, crossing his eyes for effect. Again that giggle, liquid as a freshet bubbling off a heathered hill. There was such joy to be had in childhood, ready to burst out anywhere at all, on the instant, even in the least likely of places. His thoughts slid back to the little flower girl at King’s Cross and he wondered if she had moments of joy. What might they entail? A minute or two resting in the sun? A sliver of warm pie?

Can you read? Stevenson asked the boy as he pulled his thoughts back to the speeding train.

A bit. I’m just learning.

He’s a very good reader, the young lady affirmed, patting the boy’s hand. An extremely apt pupil. A blush warmed the lad’s face.

And are there things you especially like to read about?

The boy nodded enthusiastically. Of course there are! I like to read about knights who are heroes. And dragons. And fairies. And sometimes pirates.

Ah, fairies and pirates. Are you frightened of pirates, then? asked Stevenson. I am. Constantly. Even on trains. He looked apprehensively from side to side, and then pointed slyly at the paper-reading gentleman, who took no notice.

There’s no pirates on trains, declared the boy sagely. Are there, Miss Winton? He looked at the young woman, who shook her head. You see? You needn’t be afraid of pirates here, sir.

That’s most reassuring. Thank you. And do you like poems?

Very much.

And how might you like a poem about riding on a train? And perhaps fairies?

Do you know one? the lad asked eagerly.

Not yet. But perhaps I shall write one for you.

The boy peered at him quizzically, as though he had just suggested they all sprout wings and fly off together to the moon.

You don’t believe me? Goodness! Why ever had he asked that? Now the little chap looked cornered, as though he were sensing all this chatter had been calculated to tease him rather than to woo him. Stevenson recalled his earliest days with Sammy, when Fanny’s son had seemed as inaccessible to him as the North Pole. Let’s just see, then, said the writer, bending to extract a notebook from his bag and snatching a pen from his pocket. The cap flew off in his haste and skittered across the carpeting, coming to rest against the governess’s buttoned shoe.

How clumsy. May I? Stevenson made to reach down to retrieve the item.

Of course, said the young woman, moving her foot slightly to make room.

There, said Stevenson, as he sat back up, fighting the vague dizziness that still haunted him. I shall take this as a challenge. He adjusted his trouser legs and looked squarely at the boy. I solemnly swear that, well before we reach York, I shall have written a poem about riding in a railway carriage—backwards or forwards—which I shall present to you in token of my esteem for the gifted young reader you are reported to be. And there shall be fairies in said poem. Whether they wish to be in it or not. He looked up and caught the young lady’s eye before he turned to her beaming pupil. Satisfactory?

Satisfactory, nodded the boy, with a wriggle of excitement.

By the time they had reached Sheffield it was done. Not perfect, perhaps, but passable enough for a quick and distracted draft. Stevenson realized, in passing, that he hadn’t lit a cigarette the entire time.

There. Ink barely blotted. May I read it to you?

Please do, said the boy, scooting up to the edge of his seat.

Very well. Off we go.

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

And charging along like troops in a battle

All through the meadows the horses and cattle:

All of the sights of the hill and the plain

Fly as thick as driving rain;

(Oh my! I think we’re missing a foot there!)

And ever again, in the wink of an eye,

Painted stations whistle by.

(And again. My goodness!)

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,

All by himself and gathering brambles;

Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;

And here is the green for stringing the daisies!

Here is a cart runaway in the road

Lumping along with man and load;

And here is a mill, and there is a river:

Each a glimpse and gone forever!

Stevenson set the notebook down with a moderate flourish. Well, do you like it?

Ever so much, replied the boy, beaming anew. The other man glowered at the three of them as though all this were the quintessence of uselessness. The girl, in contrast, looked positively charmed.

Very well, then. Let me make a fair copy for you. I shall tear it out of my book and you shall have it forever and ever. The original I shall keep against future need—should I ever write a book of poems about, well, trains and fairies. One never knows, does one? Now, to whom shall I dedicate it? William…?

The boy looked confused.

To William Forbes, if you please, volunteered the governess, now in an unguardedly appreciative voice. Under the circumstances, Stevenson found it curiously unsettling.

To the Honorable Master William Forbes then, trumpeted Stevenson, from his most humble wandering bard, Robert Louis Stevenson.

The sullen man’s head jerked up. Was he familiar with the name? The fellow shook his paper and looked back down with a snort. Perhaps it was only compounded disdain for a modestly renowned waster of words, the writer first of a vapid pirate story and now this stranger-wooing silliness. It was oddly satisfying, though—giving a little something to this wee sensitive soul as he hurtled northwards, his back to an unknown future. To pay a tribute to another boyhood, glimpsed and then gone forever from his ken. Was it better than the three shillings, Stevenson wondered, that he had given to a hungry London waif? It was certainly less likely to put a meal on a table. Either for the boy or, now that he thought of it, for himself.

2

Poor Harry Jekyll…, my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was wild when he was young; a long time ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no statute of limitations.

—GABRIEL JOHN UTTERSON, ATTORNEY TO HENRY JEKYLL

EDINBURGH, APRIL 1883

St. Giles tolled midnight as Stevenson and Baxter rounded into Advocate’s Close. They had visited a good half-dozen old haunts before they wound their way up West Bow to the High, and both men were well into their cups. There were few nights now when Baxter was not, if truth were told. As for the oenophile writer, he was finding that an evening’s forced resort to whisky, relieved only by the occasional ale, was leaving him a trifle wobbly. There was powerfully little drinkable claret to be had in Old Town Edinburgh, and had Stevenson even managed to find a decent bottle, Baxter would surely have savaged him for his newfound Froggish tastes.

As they trundled into the vaulted narrow at the head of the sloped alleyway, their laughter swelled up hollowly around them. The sound bore Stevenson back even more relentlessly to student days and student nights, more than a few of which had found the two of them just here and just so, stumbling down the slick steps and landings of the constricted way.

"And you remember Ferrier would lean his shoulder into the wall here, and slide along like…who was it in Bleak House? Bill? Old Bill?" Baxter slapped at the wet stone, drew his hand back with a sneer, and wiped it on Stevenson’s sleeve.

Phil! laughed Stevenson, brushing disgustedly at his arm. "Phil’s mark it was. But yes. I do. Ferrier’s…um…what? Ferrier’s smudge! Wearing down Auld Reekie, one drunken ramble at a time. Like rain on stone. Like…"

Here’s to ’im, Johnson! erupted Baxter, raising his right arm with an extravagant flourish. He overbalanced and lurched heavily against his companion.

Easy, Thomson! Ye havnae a drop in yer han’. Ye canna toast wi’ nae glass.

Nae technicalities, Johnson. Dinna pester me wi’ nae technicalities.

Twenty yards further on, two undergraduates exploded from a low door, one of them missing the step and crashing to the cobbles in a muffled thump. He spat out an indistinguishable curse.

What be these? queried Stevenson. Pickled Ghosts of Christmas Past?

Ach, mon! exclaimed Baxter as he lurched to a querulous halt. Are ye thinkin‘ nou yer Scrooge?

Scrooge?

Eleazer Scrooge! Baxter sneezed violently and his hat tumbled from his head. "Must you always, Lou-ee? Must you always fancy you’re livin’ in a soddin’ book?" He bent to retrieve the headgear and slapped it carelessly back onto his pate.

Stevenson grinned indulgently at his old friend. Was it I, laddie, conjured up the venereal Dickens just now? ‘Old Bill!’ Trust a lawyer to bugger the facts. The writer turned and stooped to help the fallen stranger to his feet while the man’s fellow stood back from the three of them, giggling insipidly. Once erect, the fallen student pawed at his trousers and coat, belched loudly, and staggered towards the head of the close.

This way, ye daft catamite, yelled his companion, wobbling down towards the bend that emptied into Cockburn Street. D’you mean to sleep in the High?

I’ll sleep where I want, barked the youth, struggling mightily to reverse his direction. And I’ll drink what I want. And I’ll fuck whomever I want. I’ll fuck…

Not in your condition, you won’t fuck anyone, shot Baxter, sidling recklessly up in front of the man. Not with breath like—he sniffed extravagantly at the air around the lad’s head—like a bilious fart.

The drunken youth took a long moment to register the insult and then squared up in an attempt at belligerence. Baxter smirked at Stevenson. He turned back to the lad and wagged his chin, whereupon the fellow cocked his arm and swung gamely. He missed his mark, twisting again to the cobblestones and toppling sideways off his rump with a pitiful Ow!

Bravo, Thomson, chuckled Stevenson. Worthy of Rabelais. ‘Breath like a bilious fart.’ I wish I’d penned that!

How’s for a couplet, then? A veritable Capulet? Baxter leaned over his target, pinching his nostrils. "Out of fart," he keened nasally, "shall issue art. Thusly. ‘Breath like a bilious fart—Da! Da! Da!—rude exhalation thou art!’"

The drunken man rolled up onto hands and knees, his head lolling like a clubbed dog’s.

Nobly coupled, declared Stevenson. A master coupler thou art. Canst thou now copulate me this? As perchance, ‘Primed for a vomitous sneeze?’

Sneeze, you say? Vomitous sneeze! Baxter pulled languidly at his ear until his eyes bulged in merriment. Prepare thyself. He cleared his throat and loosed a thunderous, Bwaaahhhh!

The fallen lad gawked in bewilderment, peering lamely down to see if he had actually been spewed upon.

Primed for a vomitous sneeze, chanted Baxter, sadly rained down on your knees.

Bravo, Charlie!

Or perhaps on your arse. Your sorry bloody arse. Baxter kicked ineffectually at the fellow’s rear, missed, and nearly toppled over himself.

Stevenson nearly choked with laughter. "Arse don’t rhyme!" he cried, catching his breath.

Of course it do. Rhymes with ‘sparse.’ Or ‘farce.’ And you bloody well call yourself a bloody poet?

Enough! Stevenson yanked his companion towards the still-open door and the warm glow inside. "Exeunt. Molto presto. Methinks yon tumbled scholar may wax anon vexatious."

Ach, aye. Vexatious he’d be, muttered Baxter as he stumbled through the entrance. To be sure. My God, I’ve a thirst like to flay me, mon!

The scent of Dunbar’s hadn’t changed an iota since Stevenson, cousin Bob, Baxter, and Ferrier had founded their legendary LJR in these very precincts what seemed a lifetime ago: the bracing smoke of tobacco, softly underscored by sulfur from the coal grate; roasted flesh and boiled cabbage; spilled ale and spirits; toasted cheddar and burnt bread; the dank redolence of seldom-washed clothing and bodies. The LJR Society—Liberty, Justice, Reverence—had sworn their eternal pledge to disregard everything our parents have taught us. Stevenson cringed to recall his father’s rage when the old