The Abduction of Pretty Penny Read online

  “She has asthma, you say?” my father joined in.

  “Indeed, sir, and how she managed to survive on the cold, polluted streets of Whitechapel is beyond me.”

  “Perhaps it was of the milder sort.”

  Emma Adams shook her head at once. “It was quite severe and almost took her life. She hid her condition from us, for fear it would disqualify her from the role of Juliet. After all, we could not have the lovely Juliet coughing and wheezing during her love scene with Romeo. But this worry became less of a concern when she moved into her warm, comfortable room and away from the dreadful night air. The frequency of the attacks diminished and they virtually disappeared when she began taking the asthma medications.”

  “Where and how did she obtain these drugs?” asked my father. “They can be rather costly.”

  “She received them from St. Bart’s,” Mrs. Adams replied. “They were a godsend and absolutely necessary, for once she foolishly went several days without them and that omission brought on an attack so severe I feared for her life. What I am attempting to convey to you is she would never depart without taking her asthma medications with her.”

  “An important observation,” Joanna noted, and gazed over at me and my father, as if instructing us to docket the information. After a moment’s thought, she came back to the visitor. “I take it an understudy replaced her onstage?”

  Our visitor nodded gravely. “Much to the disappointment of those in attendance.”

  “And this has never occurred in the past?”

  “Never.”

  Joanna lighted another cigarette and returned to her pacing. “Earlier you spoke of danger lurking about Pretty Penny. Describe when and where, and if there were witnesses.”

  “There are more than a few dangerous neighborhoods in Whitechapel, madam, where violence occurs all too often. Nevertheless, those associated with the theater, particularly the players, are known and well liked, and are considered untouchable and safe from harm by even the criminal element. I was therefore much surprised when Pretty Penny told me of an encounter with a stalker who remained in the shadows, but let his presence be known. It was as if he meant to frighten her.”

  “So there was never a face-to-face confrontation.”

  “Never, but at times he was close enough so she could hear a menacing laugh or highly suggestive groan. At first she thought it might be some of the local lads playing a prank, but then came the thrown bottle with the note in it.” Once again Mrs. Adams reached into her purse, and now extracted a wrinkled sheet of paper. “It was most frightening—the way it was written.”

  She placed the note on the arm of her chair and smoothed it out so that its words printed in block letters became legible:

  DO NOT ATTEMPT TO GANE A HIGHER STASHUN

  IT WOULD ONLY HASTEN YOUR FINAL ACT

  R

  “The note was obviously written by an illiterate, but it is chilling nevertheless,” said Emma Adams.

  Joanna studied the wrinkled sheet at length before holding it up to the light and examining it further with her magnifying glass. “It is a rather clumsy effort.”

  “To what end?” I asked.

  “To give the impression that the writer is an illiterate and from an impoverished background.”

  “But the misspelling of gain and station surely backs up that contention.”

  “So it was meant to appear,” Joanna elucidated. “Allow me to draw your attention to the spelling of the word attempt, which is quite difficult for the uneducated because of its silent p. Yet the writer does so correctly. Also, recall that the word station is clearly seen by all as they pass or enter the underground, so even the unschooled would know its spelling. Thus, the writer intentionally wrote the words gain and station phonetically to make us believe he is illiterate. And finally, the paper has the watermark of A Pirie and Sons, a stationer of some distinction, who cater primarily to the upper class.”

  “But why would someone of that status send such a chilling note?” asked Mrs. Adams.

  “There is a criminal element at every level of society,” Joanna remarked. “A noble statesman can be just as deadly as a carpenter.”

  “Whoever he is, why bother to sign the note with an initial R which is written in script rather than a block letter?” I wondered aloud.

  “It gives it a personal touch, I would suspect,” my wife replied.

  “Yet surely it does not stand for Romeo, for it does not fit the play, in which Romeo and Juliet are deeply in love,” I said.

  “Unless it is the delusional love of a madman,” my father suggested.

  Joanna flicked her cigarette into the fireplace and began pacing again. “With the danger obvious, did Pretty Penny not take precautions?”

  “She was unworried because she felt she would be protected by her Romeo,” Mrs. Adams answered.

  “From the play?”

  “Perhaps that is so, but I cannot be certain, for she refused to identify him.”

  “Was there any undue touching and embracing between the two on the stage or in the wings?”

  Our visitor shook her head firmly. “It was all very professional, although I must say the pair did make a fine couple.”

  My wife came over to an overstuffed chair and sat directly across from the visitor. Their eyes locked as my wife’s tone of voice became far more serious. “We have now reached the point where you must be completely open and honest, for not to do so will render it impossible to find your Pretty Penny.”

  “I have done so.”

  “No, Mrs. Adams, you have not,” Joanna rebuked mildly. “There is information on this secret Romeo you are withholding, for women living under the same roof will discuss their romantic encounters in detail, and I must have those details.”

  Emma Adams hesitated before responding with a reluctant nod. “I did not go into this aspect of her story because I believed it unimportant.”

  “Permit me to decide what is important and what is not,” said Joanna. “Now, if you consider their affair to be too delicate, I can ask the Watsons to retire to another room, although I assure you I will later repeat to them exactly what you reveal to me.”

  “Very well, then,” the visitor agreed, yet I sensed a hint of reluctance in her voice. “There was nothing reproachable or reckless in her behavior. She first met him at the playhouse, and there was an immediate and mutual attraction between the two. They arranged their dates outside of Whitechapel and usually in the better districts of London. There were dinners and walks and kisses and embraces, and their love grew even more intense. But deep down she worried it was not to last, for he came from the upper class, whose members did not marry actresses, particularly those from a playhouse in Whitechapel. He assured her they would work their differences out, but she was still concerned that they would be forced apart, much like what happened in the star-crossed romance between Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.”

  Joanna considered the new information carefully before speaking. “Did Pretty Penny see her secret lover every night?”

  “They met only on the evenings she was performing,” Mrs. Adams replied.

  “After the performance, I take it,” said Joanna.

  The visitor nodded. “Which always ends at nine sharp.”

  “And what form of transport took her to their undisclosed rendezvous?”

  “Motor taxi.”

  “The same taxi each time?”

  “I did not ask.”

  Joanna rose from her chair and, with a firm nod, said, “We shall look into the disappearance of Pretty Penny.”

  “I am ever so grateful,” Mrs. Adams replied, reaching to take Joanna’s hand in both of hers. “I shall somehow arrange to pay for your services, regardless of the cost.”

  “My fee is three tickets to the next performance of Romeo and Juliet.”

  “And the best seats in the house you shall have.” Emma Adams stood to depart, but at the door she turned and asked a final question. “How could you possibly have kno
wn I write every morning?”

  “From the clues you present,” my wife replied. “You have leather patches on the elbows of your jacket which prevent wear as you lean upon your writing desk. Furthermore, the left sleeve from the elbow down is obviously worn, which attests to your frequent writing. You also have a writer’s callus on the third left finger from gripping your pencil too tightly, and there is a smear of graphite on the outer edge of your left palm which occurs in left-handed writers, for in those the hand follows the pencil across the paper.”

  “But how did you know I only write in the early morning?”

  “Because that is the only time available to a busy woman who must open her pub by ten.”

  For the first time Mrs. Adams smiled. “You are as clever as they say.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “That is how it was meant. But pray tell, is there any hope?”

  “Just a glimmer.”

  Once the visitor departed, closing the door behind her, Joanna reached for her coat and spoke in a most urgent tone. “We must hurry, for we are dealing with the essence of evil.”

  “Because of the vile stalker?” I asked.

  “Because he intends to kill her, if he has not already done so,” Joanna said darkly. “That is the final act he writes of.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The Hairdresser

  The Widow Marley had rooms in a quiet, working-class neighborhood located at the southern edge of Back Church Lane. Her parlor was tiny by all accounts, but she made space for her salon by placing a wooden stool in a far corner, upon which she stood while performing her trade. Seated beneath her was a remarkably obese woman, with stringy blond hair that defied the curling iron held in the widow’s deft hands. The chatter between them was incessant and only paused to allow the customer to insert a piece of chocolate candy into her brightly colored mouth. Joanna and my father sat on a cushionless bench and waited patiently, while I remained standing next to a hound of some mixture whose eyes stayed fixed on the blond customer’s package of candy.

  At last, the obese woman rose and paid with a few coins before departure, with the hound following her out into the street.

  Mrs. Marley placed down her curling iron and studied us carefully prior to speaking. “And what can I do for you fine people this morning?”

  “We require some of your time,” Joanna replied.

  “That will be two shillings.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And for what purpose is my time needed?”

  “Our search for Pretty Penny.”

  The wiry widow’s stern face softened noticeably at the girl’s mention. “And who might you be?”

  “The daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”

  Mrs. Marley raised her brow for a moment, obviously impressed. “So the matter is as serious as I believed.”

  “Quite so.”

  “I truly pray you can find her, for she is in many ways special. Behind that pretty face is a kind soul and a keen mind. But I must admit that I thought she was stepping out of her depth.”

  “In what regard?”

  “She was going from one class level to another, which all too often leads to heartbreak.”

  “I need the details of their affair.”

  Mrs. Marley’s face closed abruptly. “I don’t know that much of her private life.”

  “Oh, but you do,” Joanna insisted. “And every second you prevaricate places Pretty Penny in even greater danger.”

  “I did not pry, but only listened to what she chose to tell me.”

  “That is precisely what I wish to hear.”

  Mrs. Marley sat wearily on her wooden stool and stared down at the bare floor as she spoke. “She was not the talkative type, but she visited here twice a week, which gave us time to share stories—”

  “Mrs. Adams told us she paid for only a single visit,” Joanna interrupted.

  “So she did, but Pretty Penny often came in a second time for the application of more pomade, which caused her hair to glisten so,” Mrs. Marley clarified. “Since it required little effort on my part, I did not charge for the service, although I was rewarded with a piece of apple spice candy, which the darling girl purchased from Mr. Hardy’s Sweet Shop.”

  “I take it that the goods at this sweet shop are somewhat inexpensive,” Joanna said.

  “No, no,” the widow replied at once. “Some of the candy, such as the apple spice covered with chocolate, runs a shilling apiece.”

  “Perhaps I will stop in for a sample.”

  “It is only three blocks south on Prescot Street, where you will find a grand display to select from.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “It will not disappoint,” the widow assured. “Even for a lady of your standing.”

  “I trust not,” Joanna said, with a thin smile, before flicking her wrist as if to change the subject. “But I remain interested in your pomade and why Pretty Penny considered it so important.”

  “For the obvious reason,” Mrs. Marley answered. “It caused her hair to shine and truly brought out her natural beauty. She also adored its fragrance, which many of my customers do. I can attest to its popularity, for I myself mix up the formula, which I bottle and sell for a very modest half crown. Perhaps, madam, you would care to sample it.”

  “I would indeed,” my wife said to my surprise.

  The Widow Marley hurried over to a weathered cabinet and came back with a round green jar that had a white ribbon tied around it. She removed its top with a bit of a flourish before presenting it to the prospective buyer.

  Joanna gave the jar careful attention and, after two whiffs, pronounced, “It has lard at its base and carries the heavy scent of lavender. Altogether, it is quite pleasant.”

  “Would you care to purchase a jar, then?”

  “Very much so.” Joanna held out a hand to me for a half crown, which she passed on to the widow. “Now, let us return to Pretty Penny and her secret lover.”

  “Which no doubt Emma Adams spoke of,” the Widow Marley said, somewhat derisively. “She talks too much.”

  Joanna waved away the comment. “I am interested in your description, not hers.”

  “So it shall be,” said the widow. “She never revealed his name, but only spoke of him as ‘my dearest.’ According to Penny, he was quite dashing, with a quick smile and a gentle voice. It was clear he came from the upper class, as attested to by his dress and manners, but he always made her feel comfortable whatever their surroundings. This lover was obviously a man of means who was accustomed to the best life had to offer.”

  “Which surroundings are you referring to?”

  “The posh areas, such as walks along Battersea Square and expensive restaurants in Knightsbridge and Piccadilly, where they had dinner and ten-pound bottles of French wine were served.”

  “Did Pretty Penny ever mention the names of these delightful restaurants she visited?”

  Mrs. Marley gave the matter considerable thought before responding, “Not that I recall. But there was a rather fancy restaurant in Piccadilly which Penny was quite fond of. It was high class indeed.”

  “Did she describe it so?”

  The Widow Marley shook her head at the question. “I gathered that from the matchbook cover she brought me, for I collect such things as a hobby. It had very nice colors to it and showed a gentleman wearing a top hat.”

  “May I see it?” Joanna requested.

  “Of course.” The widow returned to the weathered cabinet and rummaged through its uppermost drawer until she found the item she was seeking. She obviously valued it, for it was carefully wrapped in tissue paper. After removing the wrapper, she held up the matchbook by its edges, so as not to soil its front with fingerprints. Proudly, she presented it for us to see. “Here it is,” she announced. “And I must ask you not to touch its surface.”

  The matchbook cover was pale blue in color, with bright red trimming. At its center was a handsome gentleman tipping his top hat. Bene
ath the picture was the name of the establishment written in deep blue script.

  ALEXANDER’S

  ST. MARTIN’S LANE

  “It is in the theater district, which she would naturally gravitate to,” my father commented.

  “As might her companion,” Joanna added. “May I inquire as to when you received this rather striking matchbook? If possible I need a specific date.”

  “Tomorrow, a week ago, which was the last time I saw Pretty Penny,” Mrs. Marley responded at once.

  “Was this her first visit to Alexander’s?”

  “Oh, no. She had been there on a number of occasions, during one of which she actually spotted a royal.”

  “A number, you say?”

  “More than a few.”

  “Mrs. Adams told us that Pretty Penny always traveled to their rendezvous by motor taxi and only on the nights she was performing.”

  “That is what I was told as well.”

  “Did Penny ever mention the name of the taxi or its driver?”

  “Never, and there was no conversation between the two, for the taxi driver had already been given instructions as to her destination.”

  “Did she ever speak of the danger she was in?”

  “Only when the bottle was thrown at her by some idiot,” Mrs. Marley recounted, her face turning into a scowl. “I can assure you it was not done by the local lads, for everyone in Whitechapel knows that the players from the theater are not to be harmed and anyone who does so would be severely punished.”

  “Are you speaking of a beating?”

  “I am speaking of a permanent limp and an arm which will never be used again.”

  With the reminder that Whitechapel could be a very violent neighborhood, particularly for those who crossed a certain line, Joanna rose and said, “We owe you two shillings for your time.”

  The Widow Marley waved away the fee. “You bring Pretty Penny home safe, and that will more than cover any charge.”

  We walked out into smoky, sulfurous air which was being polluted by the coal-burning fireplaces inside the crowded dwellings of Whitechapel. The sky itself was stained with a black mist that irritated both the lungs and the eyes. The irritants were such that we had to place handkerchiefs over our faces to filter out some of the foul contaminants. Watching our step, we walked down a slippery cobblestone street, for there was rotting garbage piled up along the footpath. The decaying refuse did not seem to bother the poorly clothed children who played within it.