The Man Who Was Jekyll and Hyde
Read The Man Who Was Jekyll and Hyde Online
Authors: Rick Wilson
For Daisy and Corin
Thank you to – Dutch writer Marco Daane for his insights on Deacon Brodie’s Amsterdam arrest; antique journo Bill Sinclair for his antiquarian Edinburgh journals; Ian Nimmo, past chairman of the Robert Louis Stevenson Club, for all his borrowed knowledge; Edinburgh University’s Owen Dudley Edwards for his thought-provoking views; Keith Walker, Napier University information services adviser, for his ‘enlightening’ help; tour leader Magnus Moodie for his Old Town guidance; David S. Forsyth, National Museums Scotland, for pointing me to Brodie’s forged keys and dark lantern; and John and Felicitas Macfie for showing me around their house that once housed RLS.
1 The Brodie Root of Jekyll and Hyde
3 The Birth of his Criminal Half
5 The Last Letters of his Life
6 The Trial: You Stand Accused
Who was Deacon Brodie? Many people profess to know the name, but a surprisingly large number are unsure if they know his story. Not to be smug about it: that number would have included this writer before embarking on this project.
The daytime William Brodie was a superficially charming gentleman and city councillor who commanded the timorous respect of fellow citizens as he went about his business of winning work for his cabinet-making company. Certain things about him, however, betrayed the fact that he was something more than a good, solid, upright Edinburgher. In what was a fairly grey-toned eighteenth-century Scotland he could seem like a bit of a dandy, with his cocked hat, flowered waistcoat and silver buckled top-quality shoes; not to mention a livid scar on one cheek – the result of a dispute over loaded dice in a card game. Even a stranger might have reckoned there was at least a boyish naughty streak there.
But it was far more serious than that. Despite showing occasional flashes of fatherly tenderness for favoured members of his five-strong illegitimate brood, he was basically a selfish and ungrateful soul with an insatiable appetite for money, who once said he would rather go to sea than develop the business left to him by his father – along with a huge fortune – as he had seen that big treasure prizes were being taken by sailors of every rank. Nor was he grateful for his privileged position on the city council that, in the days before corruption as we now know it, afforded him, as deacon of wrights, an endless conveyor belt of business opportunities. These, crucially, included crime. For as his day job gave him access to clients’ shops, houses and safe keys – from which he made copies – by night he morphed into a cloaked, sinister burglar who skulked around the closes of old Edinburgh with a dark lantern and darker intentions.
Eventually found guilty of a long series of robberies that had shocked and mystified the city’s population, this was an extremely aberrant man who was to fall foul of his own greed and deep psychological complexities – including an enthusiasm for theatricality – that prompted him to become another person in the same body. So perhaps that should be persons, plural. By his own confession he was a ‘very ingenuous fellow’, but he was also a gambler, a spendthrift, a deceiver of two mistresses and generally – perhaps the biggest societal sin of this particular period – a betrayer of his own class and upbringing. Not for murder, but for this – as well as his audacious attempt to rob the Excise Office of Scotland – he and an accomplice were hanged on a scaffold said by some to have been designed by himself a year before.
But another piece of joinery figures large in his tale. One of his cabinets was to be the catalyst that ‘fathered’ Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde in Edinburgh. A century after its creation in Brodie’s workshop in the Lawnmarket, the cabinet stood at the foot of Robert Louis Stevenson’s bed in the New Town, and the then-young author, reminded every day of its provenance, became so obsessed by the Brodie story – and thus by any human being’s capacity to be more than one personality in one body – that he was moved to no fewer than three creations based on him. These were two plays and a horror-story novella that became an immediate bestseller and introduced the world to the character(s) whose names have figured ever since in everyday English speech.
Talking to the Museum of Edinburgh about details of William Brodie’s life, including the family Bible from whose birth register all reference to him had been excised, we learned that in planning to mount an exhibition entitled ‘Edinburgh, City of Stories’ it had invited friends of the institution to vote for their favourite tale out of three – Burke and Hare, Greyfriars Bobby or Deacon Brodie. The vote went to Greyfriars Bobby, but surely its proponents were barking up the wrong tree? For as we were saying, if more people knew more about the Deacon, his remarkable tale would doubtless have easily swung the vote.
Why is it so remarkable? There are many reasons – because of the stark differences in his two personalities; because he eluded truth and justice for so long; because he was not all evil, having a gentler side for friends (and families); because his upbringing gave him a false expectation that he would survive all that life would throw at him, regardless of his crimes; because he did not, in the end, survive them – not his flight to Amsterdam as he prepared to take a ship to America and probably not his final demise, despite stories of collusion with the hangman, a protective steel collar around his neck and a doctor standing ready to revive him.
But mainly it’s because he symbolised – at an extreme level – that alarming human ability to be a split personality, and as such could fairly be seen as the driving impulse behind Stevenson’s still-resonant creation of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
Not convinced? You are herewith invited to read the story with sceptical eye, be carried along by it and see if, in conclusion, you disagree.
THE BRODIE ROOT
OF JE
K
YLL AND HYDE
When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.
The night was a different matter. In that famous poem from his
A Child’s Garden of Verses
,
Robert Louis Stevenson fondly described the eponymous Land of Counterpane as ‘pleasant’. But it was not always so. Sometimes, as he snuggled under his sleep-time bedspread – or counterpane – in his second-floor room in the family house in Edinburgh’s Georgian New Town, the bronchitis-affected young Robert struggled to hold back the darker side of his fertile, vivid and often fevered imagination.
It was another early affliction that he would one day turn to his own fictional advantage, but it was often scarily real at the time, exacerbated by the looming presence in his room of a tall, double-doored cabinet, which, though he once called it ‘a very pretty piece of work’, was pregnant with sharp meaning for him. It had been bought by his grandfather, was then owned by his father, and had an origin of unusual interest for someone who was to become a writer of spine-chilling human experience and swashbuckling adventure.
Why was it so meaningful? It had been made nearly a century before by one of Edinburgh’s most notorious characters, a man whose double life still fascinates today: William Brodie. Known more commonly as Deacon Brodie – with his title as convenor of the city’s Incorporation of Wrights and Masons serving almost as a forename – he sparked outrage in Edinburgh by dramatically betraying his class in having another, much darker side at play against his daytime persona, which was all about respectability. He had sartorial flair, a ready if thin-lipped smile, a family fortune, quick-witted conversation for clients and neighbours, a seat on the town council and – most impressive of all – a serious employer-career as the city’s most respected cabinet-maker, who would often be expected to access his customers’ shops and homes to work in situ.
It was that circumstance that helped him to become an entirely different animal by night. He was good with his hands, having acquired his skills as well as his company and fortune from his much-respected father, Francis, but it was not just woodwork that went on in his shop in the Lawnmarket (still identifiable today with the words Brodie’s Close above its arched entrance). What also went on there was the repair of locks and keys, and not always for legitimate purposes. Having surreptitiously made wax or putty impressions of his clients’ door keys, he then made accurate copies of them; so that after nightfall – dressed in black clothes and clutching a dark lantern – he would return to their premises as a common thief to steal their money, shop stock or valuable possessions.
Perhaps ‘uncommon thief’ would be a better expression, for these crimes mystified their victims, the citizens and authorities for a long time, as there was never any sign of forced entry; it looked almost as if the robber was a ghost that could pass through walls. And in the meantime, Brodie used his ill-gotten gains to maintain an extravagant lifestyle that threatened to drain his huge £10,000 legacy – an out-of-control gambling habit that included cock-fighting, cheating with loaded dice and the expensive maintenance of two mistresses (who did not know of each other) with whom he had a total of five children. But it couldn’t go on forever. His first big mistake was going for a degree of delegation in recruiting three unreliable helpers, all of whom were to eventually betray him after his second big mistake, mounting an audacious but abortive raid on the depository of the very taxes of Scotland – the Excise Office at the back of Chessel’s Court in the Canongate. The handsome building can still be found there today.
What did Brodie look like? One contemporary said that, set inside a big wig, his face looked like that of a fox, narrowing on each side down to his chin – a good picture indeed for someone so wily. But there was more detail. When he had been named as the prime suspect in all these crimes, especially the tax office raid, and the hunt was on to catch him as he took flight down through England and across to the Continent, the following description of him appeared in the Edinburgh press, as given in the Sheriff Clerk’s appeal for his arrest, on 12 March 1788:
WILLIAM BRODIE
is about five feet four inches – is about forty-eight years of age, but looks rather younger than he is – broad at the shoulders and very small over the loins – has dark brown full eyes, with large black eye-brows – under the right eye there is the scar of a cut, which is still a little sore at the point of the eye next the nose, and a cast with his eye that gives him somewhat the look of a Jew – a sallow complexion – a particular motion with his mouth and lips when he speaks, which he does full and slow, his mouth being commonly open at the time, and his tongue doubling up, as it were, shows itself towards the roof of his mouth – black hair, twisted, turned up, and tied behind, coming far down upon each cheek, and the whiskers very sandy at the end; high topped in the front, and frizzed at the side – high smooth forehead – has a particular air in his walk, takes long steps, strikes the ground first with his heel, bending both feet inwards before he moves them again – usually wears a stick under hand, and moves in a proud swaggering sort of style – his legs small above the ankle, large ankle bones and a large foot, high brawns, small at the knees, which bend when he walks, as if through weakness – Was dressed in a black coat, vest, breeches, and stockings, a striped duffle great coat, and silver shoe buckles.
After he was arrested – in a rented room above a pub in Amsterdam – and brought home to be tried and hanged, the remarkable story of Brodie’s double life and demise before 40,000 citizens, on a gibbet often said to have been designed by himself, made him a permanently potent part of Edinburgh’s lore that still held its folk in thrall a century later. Robert Louis Stevenson was one such person, almost obsessed not just with the literary potential of such human duality – didn’t everybody have a devil like Brodie’s balancing on one shoulder? – but by knowing that the cabinet with which he shared his early bedroom at No. 17 Heriot Row had been designed and made by that bad piece of work himself.