The Abduction of Pretty Penny

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  For Paige and Julie

  All the world’s a stage,

  And all the men and women merely players;

  They have their exits and their entrances;

  And one man in his time plays many parts.

  —SHAKESPEARE, AS YOU LIKE IT

  CHAPTER 1

  Pretty Penny

  March 1917

  As chroniclers for the world’s most famous detectives, it was our weekly custom, when not otherwise caught up in an investigation, to glance over the notes of previous cases which we believed merited publication. This dreary Wednesday morning found my father, John H. Watson, M.D., the friend and colleague of the long-dead Sherlock Holmes, reviewing dusty records from the mysteries the Great Detective had so admirably solved, while I studied similar pages from the twenty-odd cases unraveled by my wife, Joanna, whose analytical skills were now believed to be on the same level as those of her revered father. Outside, a clap of thunder broke our concentration, which gave us a moment to relight our pipes and enjoy the warmth of a cheery three-log fire.

  “Here in ‘A Case of Identity’ was where Holmes uttered his often-quoted axiom,” my father remarked.

  “Which was?” I asked.

  “That the little things are infinitely the most important,” my father replied.

  “And that is exemplified by the woman I have been studying for the past ten minutes,” said Joanna, who was peering out the window of our rooms at 221b Baker Street.

  “Pray tell what is the little thing you observe?” inquired my father.

  “A woman with a walking stick,” she answered.

  My father and I rose and joined Joanna, so that we, too, could view the woman under consideration. I could see nothing out of the ordinary about the subject, and the expression on my father’s face told me that he held the same opinion. The individual in question bore the signs of an average, commonplace woman, somewhat rotund and slow walking.

  “Please describe what you gather from her outward appearance,” Joanna requested.

  “Most noticeably, she is wearing a broad-brimmed hat, with a curling green feather atop it,” said I. “Her jacket is a light shade of brown, buttoned at the neck, and has what appears to be leather patches on its sleeves. She has on scant jewelry and is adorned only with dangling silver earrings. I cannot see her boots, nor do I have a good view of her gloveless hands. I would say she is quite ordinary, perhaps a housewife out on a shopping tour.”

  “And her walking stick?”

  “Relatively inexpensive, for it has no metal ornaments.”

  Joanna clapped her hands gently at my conclusion and chuckled under her breath. “Excellent, John. You are coming along wonderfully well, and your description is spot-on, particularly your keen eye for colors. But unfortunately, you have missed everything of importance.”

  “Such as?”

  “The details, dear John, for they are the most instructive. Do not simply observe the walking stick, but wonder why it is being used. As you have noted, this woman cares little for ornaments, and thus one might well conclude that the stick has some particular value.”

  I once again studied the woman who continued to stroll up and down the footpath, looking straight ahead except for occasional glances across Baker Street. For a moment, I had a clear view of her entire body as she moved between other shoppers. “She limps!”

  “Yes, and that is why she employs a walking stick,” Joanna remarked. “Now, Watson, you being an experienced practitioner of medicine for over thirty years, please observe her gait and inform us which of her joints is so afflicted that it requires additional support.”

  My father leaned in closer to the window and scrutinized the woman’s every step. “It is her right hip which is damaged, for that is the side she supports with her walking stick. You will also note that she flexes and extends her knee with ease, which is more evidence that it is the hip that causes her problem.”

  “And the cause of her joint damage?”

  “Being in her middle years, I suspect she has cartilage degeneration from wear and tear, although a traumatic cause cannot be excluded. I see no evidence of generalized arthritis.”

  “Most helpful, Watson,” Joanna commended. “So then, let us place all of our observations together and see what conclusions can be reached. We have a middle-aged woman, with a painful right hip, strolling back and forth on a wet footpath, and she continues to do so despite the chill and drizzle which threatens to become a steady rain.”

  “But to what end?” I asked. “She seems to have no purpose.”

  “Oh, she has a purpose, for with each turn she steals a peek at our window,” Joanna explained, just as the woman performed such an act. “Her purpose is us, you see, for she wishes to visit and no doubt seek our help, but is hesitant to do so. We are looking at a most worried and determined woman.”

  “But why then does she hesitate?” I asked.

  “There are two likely reasons,” Joanna replied. “She either feels her problem does not carry the gravity to interest us or she fears she does not have sufficient funds to pay for our services.”

  “Which do you favor?” my father queried.

  “I never guess. It is a shocking habit which is destructive to logical reasoning,” she stated, before pointing a finger to the street below. “Ah, she makes her move now. We shall have the answer to your question shortly.”

  “If either of your reasons is correct, we should at least give the poor woman a hearing,” my father proposed.

  Joanna shrugged indifferently. “Any port in a storm, Watson.”

  I had to nod at my wife’s words, for there had been a definite, prolonged lull in criminal activity over the past month. Other than the occasional shop burglary, the newspapers had reported no notable felonies, and Scotland Yard had not called even once to enlist our services. It was as if the criminal element of London had gone on holiday. I easily filled the open time with my work as an assistant professor of pathology at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, while my father busied himself chronicling another, but as yet unpublished, mystery of Sherlock Holmes. Joanna, on the other hand, sat at the fireplace moodily and puffed on cigarettes or paced about aimlessly, for she abhorred the dull routine of our current existence. She required challenging work which necessitated the use of her finely tuned brain. The more difficult the problem, the more exaltation she felt at its solution. My father told me that Sherlock Holmes behaved in a similar fashion when his mind was stagnant, and that this trait as well seemed to run in the family’s genes.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a gentle rap on the door, followed by the entrance of our landlady, Miss Hudson, who announced, “I am afraid there is an early-morning visitor to see you. She is most insistent and refuses to return at a more convenient hour.”

  “The woman with the walking stick?” Joanna asked.

  “It is she,�
� Miss Hudson replied. “Were you expecting her?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Joanna answered. “Please be good enough to show her up.”

  Moments later we heard footsteps on the stairs, each producing a characteristic creak as the climber slowly ascended. Each step was followed by another, the later accompanied by the tapping sound of a walking stick.

  “Would you care to approximate her weight, John?” my wife asked.

  I quickly considered all the variables before stating, “I think any such assessment would prove inaccurate, for the use of her walking stick would lighten the load being applied to the wooden stairs.”

  “That would be so on a level surface,” Joanna elucidated. “But on ascending a flight of stairs, the individual moves the good leg first, and follows with the affected leg and walking stick simultaneously. So you must ignore the creak associated with the step and stick, and concentrate on the initial step sans the noise of a walking stick. Taking this under consideration, our visitor weighs in at Miss Hudson’s weight, which measures one hundred and thirty pounds.”

  “But from our observation, the visitor is much shorter than Miss Hudson.”

  “And far more rotund, which explains why their weights are the same despite a difference in height.”

  After a brief knock on the door, our visitor entered our drawing room. The woman was not what we expected, but rather the complete opposite of commonplace. She was rather attractive, with high-set cheekbones and dark blond hair pulled back severely into a tight bun. Her complexion was smooth with heavy makeup, but her true age was betrayed by obvious crow’s-feet and deep lines in her forehead. Yet it was her pale blue eyes that drew one’s attention, for they looked directly at you, without a blink, and told that she would not be easily intimidated.

  “I am Mrs. Emma Adams, the owner of a pub in Whitechapel,” she introduced. “And I am here to see the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I have that honor,” Joanna replied.

  “I have come for advice.”

  “That is easily got.”

  “And your help.”

  “That is not so easily gotten.” Joanna’s eyes studied every aspect of the visitor, head to toe, before coming to rest on the woman’s left arm, which appeared normal to me in every regard. “Prior to my hearing your story, pray tell why a middle-aged pub owner in Whitechapel spends hours every morning at her writing desk.”

  “I am a playwright,” Mrs. Adams explained.

  My wife rubbed her hands together gleefully, as if she had picked up the scent of an intriguing mystery. She motioned to an overstuffed chair by the fire and said, “Please take a seat and inform us how two such clearly different occupations have come to be tied together.”

  We gathered around the fireplace to listen to the woman’s now interesting tale. Mrs. Adams proved to be quite articulate and gave a concise summary, as would be expected of a playwright who was accustomed to communicating with an economy of words. She stared into the fire while gathering her memories and telling us her story.

  In her mid-twenties, Emma Adams married a young lance corporal in the British Army who shortly thereafter was sent off to fight in the Second Boer War. On his return, a handsome inheritance awaited him which he smartly used to buy a busy pub in Whitechapel. She worked as a barmaid but was free in the morning to practice her dream of becoming a playwright. With her husband’s encouragement, she established a playhouse by renting a deserted warehouse at a scaled-down fee and transforming it into a theater, with a stage, dressing rooms, lighting, and makeshift seating.

  “That must have been quite expensive,” my father interjected.

  “So one might think, but the cost was modest by all accounts,” she continued on. “In the neighborhood itself were skilled carpenters, plumbers, electricians, and such, all willing to do the required work free of charge. They even rummaged about and found used materials which kept the cost to a minimum. Then there were even local directors and producers who volunteered their services, as did playwrights such as myself. Word of our endeavor spread and this attracted actors from neighboring districts to come and apply for auditions. We had far more applicants than roles to be filled, which allowed us to pick the most talented. And this is how the Whitechapel Playhouse came into existence. Initially we performed once a week, then progressed to every other night, with an entrance fee of only two shillings; and at the present there is nary an empty seat to be found. Thus, the playhouse became firmly established and to this day flourishes, all of which attests to the fact that the love of theater thrives in even the poorest neighborhoods.”

  There was a look of approval upon Joanna’s face, as well as that of my father, for we all realized that this was not a woman to be trifled with. If ever an individual personified sheer determination, it was she.

  “I take it there is an ongoing play?” Joanna inquired.

  “There is,” Mrs. Adams answered. “We are currently performing an updated version of Romeo and Juliet, which I take some pleasure in saying I wrote. The leading female role is played by a lovely teenager, and that is the reason for my visit here today.”

  “How so?”

  “Our young Juliet has gone missing.”

  Joanna sighed with disappointment. “This is not the sort of case I find myself attracted to, for the meandering of a teenage girl almost always involves love and similar emotions of the heart.”

  “But we are not dealing with teenage love, but with a talented, self-sufficient young woman who believed that danger lurked in the darkness.”

  Joanna abruptly leaned forward, as if waiting for more words, which did not come. “What sort of danger? Was it obvious or presumed?”

  “Listen to my story and then you can decide for yourself.”

  “Begin at the very beginning then, leaving out no detail, regardless of how trivial you may deem it to be,” Joanna instructed. She rose to reach for a Turkish cigarette and, after lighting it, began to pace the floor of our parlor. “I shall walk about while you speak. Do not allow it to distract.”

  Mrs. Emma Adams took a long, deep breath as her mind seemed to be back in time. “It was the third day of auditions for Romeo and Juliet when I first encountered Penny Martin. Our search for the perfect Juliet was falling far short and we feared we would be forced to choose an actress of lesser talent for the role. That is when Penny appeared onstage and stole our hearts and minds. Here was this slender, beautiful young woman whose face of seductive innocence mesmerized the judges. Then she spoke with such a soft, alluring voice that all male listeners became her Romeo. To say she was talented would be an understatement. She was given the role of Juliet on the spot, and she performed in a dazzling fashion at each and every rehearsal. I gave little thought to her life off the stage until late one evening I returned to the playhouse to retrieve some books I had unintentionally left behind. There was a light on in one of the dressing rooms, and I entered to find Penny spreading an old blanket on the floor as she prepared for sleep. She was quite destitute, you see, and had no choice but to steal into the closed playhouse, where she would spend the night. The few shillings she earned sweeping the floor at a nearby jewelry shop were needed for food and other necessities.”

  Our visitor sighed deeply as a look of sadness crossed her face. “It was a heartbreaking scene beyond words. This wonderfully talented girl was living the life of a street urchin so she could perform on the stage, which provided no income. I immediately offered her lodging in my pub, for I live in comfortable rooms on the second floor of the establishment. There was plenty of space in that my dear husband had died of consumption ten years ago and I have the entire floor to myself. Penny initially refused, for she wanted no part of charity. But I insisted and allowed her to work in the early afternoon as a barmaid to earn her keep. And that is how I came to know and become attached to Pretty Penny.”

  Joanna stopped in her tracks and glanced over to our visitor. “Pretty Penny, you say?”

  “That is the na
me she was given by her fellow players and by which she is known by everyone who saw her onstage. Mention the name Pretty Penny on any street in Whitechapel and the people will beam with pleasure, for she is both admired and loved by all.” Mrs. Adams reached into her purse for a neatly folded poster which she opened for us to see. “Here is her picture, which will say more than any of my words.”

  The photograph revealed a stunning beauty whose soft features immediately caught and held one’s attention. Her doe-like eyes and short, ruffled hair projected an aura of adolescent innocence, while her lips were parted into a most beguiling smile that seemed directed at the viewer. It required no imagination to see how mesmerizing and appealing this actress could be, both on and off the stage.

  My wife crushed out her cigarette and moved in closer to study the photograph with a magnifying glass. “I note that her hair appears to glisten. Is that natural?”

  “It is not a wig, if that is your question,” Mrs. Adams replied. “Her hair is truly dark blond, but only glistens because pomade has been applied.”

  “It looks to be professionally done.”

  “So it is by Mrs. Marley, a widow here in Whitechapel who dresses and styles hair in her parlor on Back Church Lane. Because we have sent her so many clients, she credits us with a discount.”

  Joanna tapped a finger against her chin before asking, “How often does Pretty Penny avail herself of Mrs. Marley’s talents?”

  “Every Tuesday promptly at four,” Mrs. Adams answered. “She failed to show for her appointment yesterday, which was most unusual. But when she was absent for last evening’s performance, we all became greatly worried. And my worry was made even greater when she did not come home later, and this morning her bed remains unslept in.”

  “Were any of her personal items missing, such as clothing or jewelry?”

  “All were in place, including her cosmetics and a few pieces of inexpensive jewelry which were particularly dear to her. Even the last of her asthma medications were in the bathroom cabinet, and she would never leave those behind.”