A/N: Hi readers! This story is slightly AU but in book terms it's an alternative chapter to The Murder of Carew, and fits in with the general plot of the original story. I don't ever plan to try and extend this into a full blown AU but reviews are welcome and I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)

Disclaimer: The only thing I own here is my plot; sad but true...

The morning after his unpleasant chat with Dr. Jekyll, Utterson received a letter from his friend in the morning post. It read:

My Dear Utterson,

I apologise for the manner in which I addressed you last night, and I fear that in doing so I have cut the fragile bonds of our friendship. I beg of you to forgive me, and in return I propose we share a meal together at 12 this afternoon at my mansion. I do hope then that we will then be able to settle our doubts.

Your friend,

Henry Jekyll

Utterson was shocked that Jekyll had taken the time to apologise to him, as the feeling he had left with after the dinner party had been one of betrayal and distrust, and he even wondered if he should reply to the letter at all. However, his growing worry for Jekyll's current circumstance made Utterson decide to meet him.

When he arrived at the house, Poole was waiting for him by the front door. "I'm afraid there's been a change of plans, Mister Utterson," he spoke as Utterson approached him with both a look of surprise and confusion. "Master Jekyll wishes you to meet him at this address." Poole handed over a slightly grubby envelope containing directions for a restaurant in the West End of London, and a cheque. "He says that there is a private room booked for the two of you. He will join you as soon as possible."

"As soon as possible?" Utterson repeated with a look of suspicion. Poole's expression changed to one of great discomfort, and he briefly avoided the lawyer's gaze. "Master Jekyll is a little preoccupied with matters of his own business," Poole was now looking back at Utterson, except it was with a cold, shifty stare that deeply troubled the lawyer, as he had never seen Jekyll's most beloved assistant act like this before, "I can assure you that he will join you shortly"

"I'm sure he will!" yelled Utterson from the street as he made his way to an empty cab waiting for him, desperate to escape from Poole's omniscient stare.

Utterson was still trying to piece together the events of that morning as he sat alone in the private suite where Jekyll was supposed to meet him. So far, he had found the restaurant less pleasing than anywhere Jekyll had ever taken him; it was a squalid, dirty hovel filled to its brim with the most displeasing acquaintances. He had planned to talk to other guests during his visit, but given the circumstance he had quickly retired to the room the doctor had reserved for them, and an hour later he was still there when he finally heard the door slowly creak open.

He sat up in excitement only to slump back down again; it wasn't Dr. Jekyll. Instead, a thin weasel faced man entered. In his right hand he held out a handful of dirty looking matches, and in his left a tin filled with ground tobacco. "Here's the tobacco you ordered" he said with a wry smile, before leaving and slamming the door behind him.

Utterson was bewildered; since he had arrived he hadn't ordered anything, and Jekyll wasn't known to smoke. The lawyer himself wasn't too keen on the habit either, but after the bitter disappointment of his day he felt that a quick smoke was just what he needed.

He filled his pipe with the tobacco powder, making sure only to add the slightest pinch as he often found the smoke overwhelming. However he still wasn't satisfied and so he decided to light it from a distance, so that the majority of the tobacco smoke had been used up before he smoked it. His pipe drawn away from his face, Utterson struck a match on the side of the table and took it to the powder, expecting to see the usual cloud of dark smoke…

A loud bang shook the room as the pipe suddenly exploded in Utterson's hands. He screamed in pain and dropped the pipe onto the carpet which burst into flames around him. In a blind panic, he ran for the door only to find that it was locked.

"Help!" he screamed in horror, "Help Me!"

The whole room was ablaze, and burning with a scorching heat that made Utterson cover his face. He rushed to the flaming chair that he had only been sitting on moments before, and with a superhuman strength brought onto him by intense fear for his life, he lifted the burning wood and charged straight into the door. The chair crackled and splintered as it impacted, lodging itself into his skin, but to Utterson's delight the door opened with a sickening "pop!" from the lock. Relieved, he swung the door open only to find that he hadn't escaped the inferno yet.

The restaurant was chaos. Flames licked the dull walls as children screamed and women wailed; a number of bodies littered the floor, and Utterson could see the remains of those who had involuntary started the fire: the heavy smokers, the respectable gentlemen loading their pipes, the workers smoking after a hard day: they were now dead, a splattered heap of flesh, bones and entrails decorating the floors and walls with whiplashes of red gore, and Utterson shivered at how close he had come to sharing that same fate, how if that pipe had been in his mouth…

He didn't want to think about it.

The fresh London air was like a light in the darkness for Utterson as he stepped out of the burnt ruin. A rather raucous crowd had begun to form on the street, and as he tried to figure out how to avoid being pressganged by journalists, he noticed two smartly dressed policemen standing at the edge of the mob, who seemed to be having a very deep discussion. Being a very curious man, Utterson moved closer so that he could hear the conversation.

"…and the tobacco was actually gunpowder!" he heard the younger of the two exclaim. The older (and more experienced, Utterson thought) gave the younger policeman a wise and serious look. "Yes, it is true. Even stranger so, the owner of the establishment has admitted that he had no clue the powder wasn't genuine. In fact he claims that he only bought it this morning, and off a street seller too!"

"So I guess that means the street seller is responsible"

"Too true young sir, too true, but our chances of finding him are slim."

The policeman looked at his elder, confused. "Whatever can you mean?"

"What I am trying to say is," said the wise policeman with a sigh, "that our only witness has for some reason failed to describe the scoundrel." He lifted his own gunpowder free pipe to his mouth and lit it as he spoke, "All he could say about him was that there was an air of deformity around him, something wrong about him, but he couldn't say what"

Utterson froze, his muscles tensing in shock. A horrible feeling of deja-vu hit him as he slowly began to recall the same words used by Charles Enfield earlier that week. Trembling with realisation, he approached the policemen, and said in a low tone,

"The man you are looking for… is Edward Hyde."