Whatever Happened To Sister Hyde? free porn video

When I posted my story 'Dr Jekyll & Sister Hyde - an alternate ending', which is a reimaging of the ending of the Hammer studios movie, I thought I was done with the character. Turns out I was wrong.... If you haven't seen the movie go seek it out. Seriously, it's really good and you should watch it. N.B.: This story is a sequel to, and contains spoilers for, my tale 'Dr Jekyll & Sister Hyde - an alternate ending'. * Whatever Happened to Sister Hyde? by BobH (c) 2017 Running a hand through his shoulder length hair, Adam Cooper looked at the small group around him sitting at the corner table of the Black Bull pub and sighed. These were his friends, and they were his rivals. All were drinking beer except for Grace, who preferred wine. They were meeting here in Whitechapel as they did every Wednesday evening to expound their theories, but though most had been coming for years he knew that none of them would ever break the case and discover the identity of the Ripper. No, there was only one person who could do that, and that person was him. "Walter Sickert," said Jim Pierce, firmly. "It was Walter Sickert." Jim was small and Scottish. He was also twice Adam's age and the oldest person in their group. "A painter? You think the Ripper was a bloody *painter*? Nah, I'm telling you it's Prince Albert Victor," said Gerry Martin, supping his Guinness. "I don't understand why none of you can see it. I mean it's bleedin' obvious." Large, round, and bearded, Gerry's method of argument tended to make greater use of his booming voice than it did of reason and logic. "Right," snorted Bruce Smith, pulling his sheepskin coat tighter about him - Bruce was almost skeletally thin and felt the cold even on mild days like this - "because a member of the royal family is going to be able to skulk around the streets and alleyways of Whitechapel without anyone clocking it's him." "Yeah," said Janice Smith, hugging her husband's arm. "Everyone wants the Ripper to have been someone famous, but it's more likely he was a nobody, a sick, sexually-inadequate little fuck who hated women." "Sing it, sister!" This was Grace Harley, the newest member of the group. An American now living in London, she had only been coming along to meetings for a few weeks. Janice nodded, but didn't smile. Feminist solidarity was all good and well, but being outshone by another woman after having been queen bee of the group for so long clearly stung. Tall, gorgeous, and effortlessly elegant, Grace was one of 'the beautiful people' of the swinging sixties and moved in circles Adam and the others could only dream of. She had even hung out with the Beatles before their break-up and been one of those up there with them when they gave their final performance on the roof of their Apple Corps building on Savile Row. Some might think it strange that a person living such a glamorous life would choose to associate with the pub group, but that was the thing about Ripperology; it attracted all sorts. Bruce and Janice ran a record shop in Notting Hill, Jim was a postman, and Gerry was a butcher by trade who worked at Smithfield Meat Market. You could smell it on him sometimes too, not that this was something Adam felt he was in a position to comment on. Despite all the showers he took and his liberal use of cologne, he wasn't convinced the odours of the mortuary ever entirely left him. "So we're discounting William Withey Gull?" said Winston Green, the only black member of the group. Winston was a student who spun the records at a club in Brixton three nights a week that specialised in reggae and ska. Just as Bruce had the thickest mutton-chop sideburns Adam had seen on anyone so Winston had the most impressive afro. Ever since Grace had joined the group Winston had been trying just a bit too hard to project a Jimi Hendrix vibe, but she gave no outward sign that this had impressed her or that she had even noticed. As for William Withey Gull, he was a relatively new suspect for Ripperologists to chew over having only really been in contention since a recent article by Dr Thomas Stowell in the November 1970 issue of The Criminologist. "He leads us back to Prince Albert Victor," said Gerry Martin, triumphantly. "Sort of," agreed Adam, entering the conversation. "That is if you give any credence to the theory that Gull was part of a plot to silence prostitutes who knew of a secret marriage between Prince Albert Victor and Annie Elizabeth Crook and were going were to use that knowledge to blackmail the government." "Gull makes for a pretty unlikely hitman," said Grace, lighting a cigarette. "He was seventy one years old at the time of the murders, and in ill health. Could someone like that really have overpowered so many young women?" This was a good point, and it led to much argument. While this was going on Adam, as he so often did, surreptitiously studied Grace. She was wearing a leather mini-skirt that displayed her legs in all their full, dark pantihose-clad glory, a floral patterned yellow silk blouse with long, many-buttoned cuffs, and the low-heeled suede shoes that were now the fashion. Adam preferred the high-heeled pumps that had been in vogue until about ten years ago, but you couldn't have everything. Eventually noticing Adam's attention, Grace smiled and fluttered her long, heavily mascaraed false lashes at him. Adam felt himself go bright red. "Guys," she said, cutting through the conversation, "Adam hinted last week that he was onto a new suspect, someone he's been investigating for several months. I think it's about time he told us what he's found so far." "Yeah, Adam," said Gerry, "what you got?" "Probably nothing," sneered Bruce. "It's hardly likely Adam Cooper has uncovered somebody everyone else investigating the Ripper case has missed for the last ninety years." "You hinted at a police cover-up last week," said Grace, encouragingly, as she took a long drag on her cigarette. "Is that why no one else has heard of your suspect?" "A cover-up?" said Janice, scornfully. "What, like the supposed cover up over the Kennedy assassination? I hope your new suspect isn't Lee Harvey Oswald." Bruce laughed at his wife's witticism, though no one else did. "Go on, Adam," said Jim. "Tell what it is ye have, lad." Adam, cleared his throat. "My guy was definitely the subject of a cover up. His name is Dr Henry Jekyll. He lived in Whitechapel during the time of the murders and is recorded as having taken his life shortly afterwards, drowning in the Thames. His body was never found." "So?" said Winston. "Lots of blokes ended up face down in the river back then. What makes this one so special?" "That's where the cover-up comes in. There's nothing in the press or police reports of the time to suggest anything out of the ordinary about his death. It was chalked up as just another unexplained suicide and I had no reason to think it was anything more until I interviewed Samuel Murphy. He's ninety two now. At the time of the murders he was nine years old and lived with his grandmother, who owned a pie shop in Whitechapel. He'd occasionally been interviewed before, of course, but no one expected a child to have remembered anything significant and, anyway, his memories got further scrambled when he was in a house that got bombed during the Blitz. Memory's a funny thing, though. When I mentioned Jekyll's name in passing it was as if a key had turned in his mind and unlocked a treasure chest." Adam paused, to take a long, deliberately slow drink of his India Pale Ale. "Well out with it, man!" said Gerry, impatiently. "What did he say?" Adam wiped the beer froth from his top lip and smiled, enjoying the moment. "He said 'Jekyll, yes, Jekyll. That was the name. It's all coming back to me now.' He then described the events he'd witnessed. It happened shortly after the Ripper claimed his last known victim. Sam was asleep in his room above the pie shop when he was awoken by commotion outside. He looked out the window and saw a mob descending on a house opposite, a mob led by the police. There was lots of noise, milling about, and policemen running back and forth. It was only later Sam learned what had happened, that the mob had come for one of those who had rooms in that house, Dr Henry Jekyll. This was the very same night he took his life. There were rumours Jekyll was the Ripper - there were rumours lots of people were the Ripper back then - but they all dried up and Jekyll quickly became a topic no one would talk about." "Did Sam know why?" asked Janice. "No, he didn't, but as you might imagine I was intrigued. I looked further into Henry Jekyll and was surprised to discover he'd been a friend of Professor Robertson." "The pathologist stabbed to death in his flat on the same night the Ripper committed his fourth murder and whose own murder was never solved?" said Jim. "The very same. Intriguing, eh? And Sam had also given me another clue. He referred to the policeman who led the mob as 'the fat sergeant'. Now who might that be, hmmm?" "Sounds like Sergeant Danvers," said Bruce, "the drunk who was busted back down to constable during the murders because of his drinking. But he's a peripheral figure at best. He had almost nothing to do with the investigation. Just another of the many coppers in Whitechapel at the time, which is why he's barely been looked at." "But what if it wasn't his drinking? What if that was just a cover story and he was actually demoted because, on the basis of a rumour heard in a pub, he led a mob to the home of a man who subsequently committed suicide? If no evidence was then found that the man in question, a respectable young scientist no less, had committed any crime... Well, you can see what an embarrassment that would be to the Metropolitan Police, and to those in the mob when they realised what they'd done. Little wonder the police hushed it up and no one would talk about it afterwards. This was a shameful thing everyone wanted to forget, and forget it they did." "Do we know for sure Jekyll didn't commit the murders?" said Grace, stubbing out her cigarette. "From what you've told us the murders stopped soon after his death." "They also stopped after Francis Tumblety went back to America," said Jim, "and resumed over there after his arrival." Tumblety was Jim's own favourite to be the Ripper, and he could make a compelling case for him. Then again, at one point he had seriously suggested Alfred Lawson, the owner of the local Mears & Stainbank Bell Foundry, as a promising suspect. "No, we can't know for sure that Jekyll didn't commit the murders," said Adam, "and it's because absence of evidence is not evidence of absence that I kept digging into the good doctor. I checked the Whitechapel register of electors for 1888 to find his address. Unfortunately, the house where he lived no longer exists. It was destroyed by Hitler's Luftwaffe during the bombing raids of May 1941. There's a block of council flats on the site now." "You can't have got anything about a cover-up from the pigs," said Winston, thrusting his chin out aggressively. "Even after all this time they're not gonna cop to a cover-up." "No, I didn't, but having worked out that must be what had happened, and armed with Jekyll's name, I approached Sergeant Danvers's family." "They haven't wanted to talk to the few who've approached them about the Ripper," said Jim. "No, they haven't. What happened to the Sergeant is still a sore point with them. I wrote a letter laying out what I knew about Jekyll, what I suspected had actually happened with the demotion, and the injustice of Danvers being cast as a drunk when, if I was correct, he'd been no such thing. A week later I received a reply from his granddaughter, who agreed to meet me. In fact we met in this very pub. She brought along a letter her grandfather had written to her about those events shortly before his death. Once again, the Jekyll name had unlocked a long-closed door. She let me copy the letter. All she asked of me was that I 'do right by our granddad'." "I assume you have that copy with you," said Grace. Adam looked at her and at the others and smiled. Every face was filled with anticipation. "Of course I do," he said, producing a paper from his inside jacket pocket and unfolding it. He began to read: 'If it were possible to turn back time and undo the events of that wretched night in 1888 I would, but since it is not I am writing this account for you, dearest Mabel, to set the record straight and recalling them to the best of my ability at this remove. The story begins the day after the fifth and final of the Ripper's murders. I was still mourning Professor Robertson, a fine gent, very much a ladies man, and someone for whom I had the greatest respect. This being so you will appreciate that I was not in the best frame of mind when I entered the pub where the hurdy gurdy man Blind Billy Hare was holding forth. I intended to take a drink in the Professor's memory and I curse whatever fate caused me to choose that pub. Hare claimed to know who the Ripper must be and I, in my anger over the Professor, forced the name from him. It was a name with which I was all too familiar, and someone the Professor himself had suspected. He had once bade me join him in watching outside the house where Doctor Henry Jekyll lived so that we might follow him should he leave that dwelling to be about the foul business of the Ripper. The doctor did not leave his home that night, indeed the only person we observed departing the premises was a young lady I later discovered to be Jekyll's widowed sister. That very night, as we watched the house, the Ripper committed another murder. This appeared to have ruled Doctor Jekyll out as a suspect, yet his was the name Hare gave me. I immediately apprehended that the doctor could have fooled us in some fashion, that there might be a secret way out of his home we were unaware of. I bade five constables come with me to his house. As we proceeded a mob formed behind us, and it is to my eternal shame and regret that I did not turn and disperse them. Though I had men at both the front and the rear of the house and we had spied him therein, he was nowhere to be seen. I eventually determined he must have fled through the sewers, but by then he had too great a start on us to be easily apprehended. An hour later, while my men and I were securing Doctor Jekyll's rooms, his sister Mrs Hyde arrived. I recognised her as the same woman Professor Robertson and I had seen leave the house on the occasion referred to above. A striking young lady of obvious refinement, she was but newly returned from an evening at the theatre. When I informed her of my belief that her brother was the infamous Whitechapel Murderer she was distraught and sought comfort from her neighbours, Mr Howard Spencer and his sister Miss Susan Spencer, who lived with their widowed mother in the rooms above Dr Jekyll's own. Indeed, I heard that Mr Spencer courted Mrs Hyde for a short period thereafter, though she eventually left him for the Duke of Cranford, whom she married in due course. Despite an extensive search, we were unable to find anything in Doctor Jekyll's room to connect him directly to the evil deeds of the Ripper. If it was indeed he, then he had made an excellent job of concealing that fact. The following day the doctor's discarded clothing was discovered beside the Thames at Limehouse and it was concluded that he had thrown himself into the river and drowned. This was the ruin of me. My superiors ruled that I had led a mob to the house of an innocent man on the basis of nothing more than the word of a drunken hurdy gurdy man. All mention of the true facts of that night were stricken from the record and I was demoted to constable with the official reason for that demotion recorded as being drunk on duty. This was a foul calumny, yet one I was forced to live with. As for Doctor Jekyll, I still believe him to have been the Ripper for the murders stopped with his demise. I take no little comfort from that fact, the only comfort the whole affair affords me." There was a few moments silence when Adam stopped reading. Winston probably spoke for everyone there when he said: "Wow, man." "You've found another credible candidate," said Jim. "Well done, laddie!" "What about this Blind Billy Hare?" asked Janice. "Were you able to find out anything more about him?" "Only that he was found stabbed to death several weeks after the Ripper's final murder, his hurdy gurdy having been smashed against a wall and the remains scattered over him. His killer was never identified." "Probably a music-lover," said Bruce. "I'm intrigued by Jekyll's sister, this 'Mrs Hyde'," said Grace, "were you able to discover any more about her?" "She later remarried and became the Duchess of Cranford, achieving some notoriety for her many alleged affairs. I say 'alleged' because I wasn't able to confirm whether or not any of these actually occurred or were just the result of jealously on the part of others. One day, after nine years of marriage, she walked out and was never seen or heard from again." "Huh," said Janice. "This is all very interesting but I don't see how a woman leaving her husband a decade after the murders ties in to the Ripper." "It may not," admitted Adam, "but there is one last, rather interesting coincidence. Everyone who wrote about the Duchess remarked on her beauty, something we can't judge for ourselves since there are no surviving pictures of her. At one point the Duke commissioned a portrait of her, but this has been lost. You'll never guess who the artist was." "You're kidding!" said Bruce, his world-weary pose replaced for once by genuine surprise. "Yep, Walter Sickert. Now how's that for a coincidence?" After this revelation the meeting descended into a frenzy of increasingly wild speculation until, shortly after last orders, Grace asked: "So where do you go from here, Adam? What's your next move?" "I don't have one at the moment. The trail's gone cold and I'm not even sure where to look for another lead." "Time, gentlemen, please!" the pub landlord called out. "Please finish your drinks and quietly make your way off the premises." This they did, draining their glasses, putting on their coats, and exiting. As the others were leaving, Grace took Adam aside. "Hang back a minute, Adam, and let the others head off to their tubes and buses. Stay with me while I wait for my boyfriend Hugo to come and pick me up. There's something I want to show you." Adam did as she asked, and when they were alone Grace got down to business. "I've never told you how I first got interested in the Ripper murders, have I?" "No, I don't believe you have." "Last year in New York, going through my late father's effects, I came across an old journal. How he came by it I don't know, but it dates from that period and it mentions Doctor Jekyll." "So you already knew about him?" said Adam, genuinely astonished. "I did, but I didn't know how credible the journal was. I read a lot of literature on the Ripper over the next few months, none of which mentioned Jekyll at all. When I moved to England I found your little group and thought perhaps you'd have the answers. I decided not to mention Jekyll but to just listen and see if any of you brought him up, which you didn't. Until tonight." "Do you have the journal over here with you?" asked Adam, his mouth going dry at the prospect. "I not only have it over here, I have it on me." She reached into the pocket of her long suede coat and it out a small, somewhat worn book. "Dr Robertson's journal," she said, handing it to him. Adam took it from her with trembling fingers. "Dr Robertson!" he said. "I can hardly believe it." Then he noticed the brown stains on the cover, stains made a long time ago by blood. And in those stains.... "Fingerprints!" he said, excitedly. "Those have to be his killer's fingerprints! He must have taken the journal after stabbing Robertson to death!" "Yeah, that's what I figure, too. A shame the police didn't establish a fingerprint bureau until 1901 so none were taken of anyone at the time. If we had records to compare those to we might be able to identify the man who killed Robertson." "You're right, of course. Thank you for this." "My pleasure. Just promise me you'll bring anything you find to me first before showing it to the others. I always feel like I'm the least informed of the group and it would be nice to be ahead of them just this once. Hugo and I will be spending the next few weeks at an ashram in Kathmandu. Hopefully, you'll have found something by the time I get back. And speak of the devil, here's Hugo now. Good night, Adam." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek then headed over to the E-type jag that had just pulled into the kerb. Adam was so enthralled by the journal he didn't notice them leave. "Professor Robertson's journal!" he whispered to himself as he ran his fingers reverently along its spine. "I can't believe I'm holding Professor Robertson's journal!" True to his word, Adam let Grace know of his findings before anyone else which was how, several weeks later, he found himself in Mayfair, entering Claridge's via the entrance on Brook Street. Just beyond the lobby was the celebrated Foyer. Designed by Thierry Despont in a 1930's art deco style, this was a bright and airy space themed with Roman stone and jazz moderne mirrored walls. It was here that the hotel served its famed afternoon tea and here that he found Grace at one of the tables. "Claridge's," said Adam, gazing around the room and shaking his head, "you're staying at Claridge's." "Well, yes. John and Yoko said I could use their Surrey mansion while they're out of the country but I prefer room service, and where is the room service better than at a luxury hotel? Tea?" "Yes, why not?" He watched her closely as she poured him a cup from the teapot, both of which were striped. In fact the entire china service, including the plates, boasted a distinctive pale green, striped pattern. "Stripes," said Adam. "That's unusual." "Exclusive to Claridge's and made by Bernardaud of France," said Grace. "So, did you find anything?" "I think I may have found *everything*. I'll read you the relevant passages from the Professor's journal that helped me solve the puzzle. First there's this one dated Saturday 18th August 1888, thirteen days before the Ripper's first murder: 'Called on Henry J today. I was concerned for his welfare, having not heard from him in several days. In doing so I woke him from his slumber. When I informed him it was Wednesday he expressed astonishment, claiming to have slept for three days, whereupon he rushed through to his laboratory. He pointed me to a glass bell jar claiming that the fly moving within, which I knew to be of a variety that lives for only a few hours, had been alive for all of those three days after his latest potion had been administered to it. An amazing accomplishment if true. Knowing of Henry's use of female hormones in formulating his potion I wondered if it might be as successful when applied to a male fly, whereupon he insisted the fly was male. He was wrong, as proven by the eggs it had laid. It's easy to make a mistake when sexing flies - the things are damnably small, after all - but I wonder if perhaps Henry hasn't been working himself too hard?' Jumping forward ten days, there's this entry: 'Encountered Henry J at one of our favourite watering holes this evening. He made the extraordinary claim that he had been right in the matter of the mis-sexed fly, that it had indeed been male to begin with but had been rendered female by his potion. On hearing this I joked that he should keep it well away from me. I'm happy as I am and have no desire to change. Why, the loss to the ladies of London would be incalculable!'" "I must be missing something," said Grace, spreading thick cream on a scone. "What does all this stuff about the sex of flies have to do with anything?" "I'm getting to that. Robertson was called in after the first murder, but it's what he writes in his journal the day after the second murder where things get interesting: 'Another poor young woman butchered by the man they're calling 'the Ripper'. I was brought in to examine her and once again I was impressed by the surgical precision with which her wounds were made. Could the Ripper be a doctor? More disturbing still is what he removed, for it's that same part of the anatomy from which Henry J extracts the female hormones needed for his experiments. The thought is almost too ghastly to entertain, but is it possible my dear friend could be the Ripper?'" "That *is* interesting," said Grace. "It gets better. A couple of days later he wrote: 'Posted a police constable at the rear of the house where Henry J has his rooms this evening, then waited out front in a Hansom with Sergeant Danvers in order to follow Henry if he emerged. Danvers discerned Henry had a woman with him having seen her outline through his curtains. If true, it's about time. Henry has shown precious little interest in the fairer sex in the years I've known him. As it happens the only person we saw leave the house in all the time we observed it was a member of that sex, and a deuced pretty one too! When the call went up that the Ripper had committed another murder, I'm ashamed to say my first reaction was one of relief. Henry had not left his dwelling all evening. My old friend was not the killer after all!'" "That tallies with the account in the letter Sergeant Danvers wrote his granddaughter. I'm confused. Does this mean Jekyll wasn't the Ripper after all?" "That's certainly what Professor Robertson hoped - Doctor Jekyll was his friend, after all. He visited Jekyll at home some time later, and got a surprise: 'Called on Henry J today. I felt obliged to do so, feeling some guilt for the suspicions I had entertained about him. His main room was strewn with women's clothing and he appeared very distracted. That he didn't want me there was clear, the young woman to whom the clothing belonged obviously being present in another room. I was both happy to swiftly say my farewells and pleased to see him engaged in healthier pursuits than those I had suspected him of.' Those suspicions obviously returned. Here's the final entry in the journal, written on the night of the Ripper's fourth murder and Robertson's own: 'The Ripper has struck again. The police have just called at my home to summon me to the scene of yet another murder. I shall head there presently, but first I need to call on Henry J. I have of late been haunted by the idea that I may have been too hasty in dismissing him as a suspect.' That was it. The last entry he ever wrote." "And what did you deduce from this?" asked Grace, sipping her tea. "It took me a while to figure it all out but I believe that, as fantastic as it seems, Jekyll used the potion that had changed the fly's gender on himself and that Mrs Hyde wasn't his sister but Jekyll himself transformed. Clearly, the change was unstable at first and she would revert to Jekyll, hence the Ripper murders. He needed what he cut out of those women to create more of the potion. The murders stopped when his need did, when his transformation into Mrs Hyde became permanent. You'll recall from the fly experiment that the potion had a second effect - it greatly increased life expectancy and youth. It stood to reason therefore that it had had the same effect on Mrs Hyde. When I discovered what she looked like, I searched through newspaper and magazine archives to see if I could find her in old photographs. If she had maintained a low-profile this would have proved impossible. Fortunately, she didn't. She likes the high-life and I turned up photos of her, using different names, from the time they first began appearing in newspapers, up through the early sixties." "My, that's certainly some story," said Grace. "Accepting the possibility of physical transformation and life-extension of the sort you describe isn't something most people could do, yet you sound so sure of your facts. Why is that?" "The thing about Ripperologists you have to understand is that at heart we're all amateur detectives, and every now and then you try your hand at the sorts of things real detectives do, just to learn if you can do them too. A while back, I decided to see if I could tail someone. I chose a girl who passes me every day heading in the opposite direction when I'm on my way to my job at the morgue. I've no idea who she is, but I thought I'd try to discover where she works. So I tailed her. Easy to do on the streets at first, but the London Underground during peak periods is very crowded and I had to stay closer to her than I'd have liked so as not to lose her. When we got off at her stop, I was able to fall back a bit and keep some distance between us. Since she had no reason to think she was being followed she didn't spot me. The only point where she could have done was when she stopped at a small coffee bar. She sat in the window, drinking her coffee and smoking a cigarette. Staying out of sight when she was gazing out of the window, while still making sure not to miss her leaving the coffee bar when she was done, was pretty challenging. When she did, I followed her to her workplace, which I discovered to be an American bank. In the same vein of trying things out, I surreptitiously nicked a glass from the Black Bull after one of our recent meetings in order to dust it for prints, like I've seen them do on TV detective shows. Then you loaned me Dr Robertson's journal and, on a whim, I compared the two sets of prints. You can imagine my astonishment when I discovered they were identical. Given the longevity involved, it followed that the gender transformation was also probably true. And knowing who the glass belonged to I now knew what Mrs Hyde looked like and could search for her picture in old newspapers and magazines. *That's* why I'm sure of my facts, Grace....or should I call you Dr Henry Jekyll?" "That's a name I haven't been called in a very long time," said Grace, dropping her American accent and smiling at Adam. "Bravo! You're the only Ripperologist ever to figure out who the Ripper really was, but now you know that it's me the real question is: what happens next?" ...and that was where I decided to leave it for now. I closed my laptop, placed it back in the desk drawer, and stood up. It was almost three pm. I'd be expected to join my hostess out on the terrace soon and I didn't want to disappoint her. So I left my room, pausing as always to admire the painting in the hallway, a portrait of the Duchess of Cranford by Walter Sickert that few had ever seen, or ever would. Once outside, I made my way down the stone steps that led from the villa to the terrace, with its magnificent view across Lake Como. Italy was spectacular this time of year, and Lombardy particularly so. There were two loungers side-by-side on the terrace, facing the lake. She was reclining on one of them in a bikini, leaning back against its raised back, as long-limbed and gorgeous as ever. When I took the other lounger she looked at me over the top of her sunglasses and gave me a dazzling smile, her beautiful face framed by her long, dark hair. "Perfect timing," she said, throwing back the remains of the glass of wine she had been drinking, "I was just about to get another bottle brought down." She picked up her cellphone from the small table beside her. "Porta gi? un'altra bottiglia di vino, per favore," she said. This done, she turned back to me. "How far along are you with your writing?" she asked. "I've just reached the point where Adam Cooper confronted you in Claridges and revealed he knew who you were." "Ah yes, poor Adam. Hard to believe it's been the better part of fifty years since I was a member of that group of his. When word got back to me that someone was investigating Henry Jekyll I joined to find out how much he had uncovered. Did the group continue after Adam's disappearance?" "For a good few years, apparently." "Do you know what happened to the others?" "I do. Jim Pierce died of cancer in the early nineties. Gerry, Janice, and Bruce are all grandparents, and enjoying their retirements. Then there's Winston Green. He's been a Member of Parliament for the last forty years and is a senior member of Labour. He was once tipped as a future leader of the party and possible first black Prime Minister, but his time has passed. Oh, and he's now bald." "What a shame! That afro of his was glorious, but I suppose old age comes to everyone. Well, *almost* everyone." One of her servants arrived with a bottle of wine and two fresh glasses on a tray. "Il tuo vino, contessa," he said, before uncorking the bottle, filling the two glasses, and presenting them to us. "Grazie, Vincienzo," she said. He gave a little bow, then departed. "'Contessa'", I chuckled. "That still gets me." "I always did have a soft spot for a title. It's why so many of my husbands down the years have been noblemen." "I thought you were going to try to maintain a lower profile now that cameras, social media, and even facial recognition are so ubiquitous." "I vary my hair and make-up when I appear in public at social events, and Carlo and I do not live the sort of jet-setting lifestyle I enjoyed in the sixties and seventies." "Where is your current husband, anyway?" "Carlo is away for a few days visiting one of his auto plants. He's not a possessive lover, which is something I won't abide in a man. Like all my husbands before him he understands I have needs that he alone cannot satisfy. My appetites are such that no one man ever could." She gave my thigh a little squeeze and I smiled, remembering last night and the many hours our bodies had spent entwined. "That's Villa Oleandra on the western shore of the lake," she said, gazing across its blue waters. "It's owned by George Clooney. For a while, thirty years ago, we were lovers. I sometimes think I should present myself to him as the daughter of the woman he used to know, maybe even hinting he's my father. Or would that be cruel? I've always had difficulty gauging such things." "Me too," I said. "I wonder why that is?" "I never had any intention of ever showing anyone else Professor Robertson's journal," said the Contessa, "yet I loaned it to Adam Cooper, who turned out to be everything I'd hoped he would when I gave it to him." "A kindred spirit." "Exactly. Something I hadn't known I was looking for until I found it. When I asked him what happens next all those years ago in Claridges, he gave me the answer I wanted to hear." "He said 'I want to take your potion'." "I wonder if it was everything he expected it to be?" she mused. "I doubt it. Like Henry Jekyll, he was weak. I still feel him deep inside me occasionally, small, unmourned, and locked away." The Contessa leaned across, and kissed me softly on the lips. "I'm glad," she said. Grinning, she slid a hand inside my bikini top and gently fondled the flesh of my left breast - the firm, eternally youthful flesh. The End ************** Note: 1) People sometimes ask writers where they get their ideas. The answer, of course, is "everywhere". When I wrote 'Dr Jekyll & Sister Hyde - an alternate ending' I had no thought of writing a sequel to it which, when you think about it, would be a very odd thing to come up with for a tale which is itself a reimagining of the ending of an old movie. However, shortly after posting it to FM I was thinking about the film itself - which I'd rewatched just the day before - and something struck me about it. When Jekyll first tests his formula he does so on a fly. This not only changes the fly's gender but also extends its lifespan from several hours to several days at least, at which time it still appeared young and healthy. Which begged the question: what if the formula extends the lives of humans, too? The film never addresses this loose end - since Jekyll dies at the end it didn't need to - so I decided I should. This tale is the result. 2) The chronology of the real Ripper murders does not fit that of the movie murders, which appear to take place over the course of a few weeks or possibly a month. Robertson's journal reflects the movie, obviously, and this is why I didn't attach dates to his journal entries.