The Abduction of Pretty Penny Page 3

  “Appalling,” my father commented. “Surely they must have garbage collectors serving the area.”

  “The backstreets are often neglected,” Joanna said. “And unfortunately, that is where the need is the greatest.”

  “When we return to Baker Street I shall file a complaint.”

  “Register the complaint in the form of a letter so that the three of us can sign it.”

  “Do you think it will bring positive results?”

  “No, but it will make us feel better.”

  “Revolting,” my father grumbled as he stepped around a mound of spoiled food. “I daresay we will have difficulty finding a taxi or carriage along Back Church Lane.”

  “That can wait, for first we must visit Mr. Hardy’s Sweet Shop,” Joanna directed. “It is a mere three-block walk away.”

  As we waited for traffic to pass before crossing onto Prescot Street, I asked, “What is the importance of the sweet shop?”

  “Wherever Pretty Penny stopped, we shall stop,” Joanna answered. “For that is the road map the girl followed before her disappearance.”

  “Do you believe it represents a trail left behind by her?”

  “That is what we are about to find out.”

  “You do realize that the girl may not be in any danger at all,” my father proposed, watching a police wagon speed by. “Teenage girls can disappear for a number of reasons.”

  “Three come to mind,” said Joanna. “First would be elopement. Here we have a young woman who is deeply in love with a gentleman of higher class whose family would be strongly against marriage. But love prevails and the couple run away and marry.”

  “My thought precisely,” my father agreed.

  “But unlikely,” Joanna retorted. “You see, we are dealing with a talented, determined individual who would not act irresponsibly, for no matter how much she loves this fellow, she has now found a perfect niche in life. She has a roof over her head, she practices her art, and she has the love of the entire community. Thus, she is strongly attached to Whitechapel and its theater, and would never abandon them.”

  “Yet love in young women exerts a most powerful pull,” my father argued.

  “True, but you are not considering her strong attachment to Mrs. Emma Adams, who provided her a comfortable home and the theater where she performs. Their relationship seemed much akin to that of a mother-daughter or at least one of close sisters. Pretty Penny, if I measure her correctly, would never suddenly desert her guardian angel and the entire stage crew at the theater who love her so dearly. Nor would she ever leave without giving some notice to Emma Adams. And remember, she shared her deepest secrets with her mother figure. No, elopement is far down the list of possibilities.”

  “I am still not convinced,” my father persisted.

  “That is because you are not taking into account the fact that she left her clothing, cosmetics, and jewelry behind,” Joanna countered. “No woman would ever do that, even if overwhelmed with the excitement of an elopement.”

  “You raise a most important point,” my father conceded.

  “The second reason for her sudden disappearance would be suicide,” she went on. “Like in the play Romeo and Juliet, a lovestruck teenager, who believes there is no resolution to the barrier separating her from her lover, sees no way out other than suicide. But we have no sign of that. She is neither distraught nor depressed, and her outward appearance would indicate she anticipates a happy ending. Furthermore, individuals who commit suicide leave notes behind and want their bodies discovered, not hidden away never to be found. No, suicide here is out of the question. Thus, we are left with the third reason and by far the most chilling one. I am afraid she is in the process of meeting her death or has already done so.”

  “But you cannot totally exclude elopement or suicide,” I argued.

  “I am dealing with probabilities at the moment,” Joanna said candidly. “With that in mind, we must seek out the clues that back up my conclusion, for those same clues will lead us to Pretty Penny.”

  Leaving Back Church Lane behind, we strode down Prescot Street where the quality of the neighborhood changed for the better. Now there were small shops that reflected the international flavor of London itself and Whitechapel in particular. We passed a Polish food store that displayed appetizing spicy sausages hanging in its window, and just beyond was a French bakery that emitted the sweet aroma of fresh baguettes and brioches. The people strolling about were quite varied as well. There were shoppers and merchants and workmen and loiterers, most in common attire and speaking with a distinctive cockney accent.

  Across the street we saw the sign for Mr. Hardy’s Sweet Shop, which was written in fancy script above the door. The closer we came the stronger the aroma of sweet chocolate. Inside the shop a short, plump man, with a most cordial face, waited behind the counter to serve us. A sleepy-eyed cat looked up at us briefly before going back to sleep.

  Joanna introduced us to the shopkeeper and told him of our investigation, not mentioning our earlier visit to the Widow Marley. Mr. Hardy’s face showed immediate concern.

  “Such a lovely girl, who meant so very much to us,” he opined.

  “You speak of her in the past tense,” Joanna noted. “Is there a reason behind that?”

  Mr. Hardy sighed sadly. “In this neighborhood, madam, when a person disappears they are for the most part never seen again.”

  “But we were told that the individuals associated with the playhouse were considered untouchable and free from danger.”

  “They were until this incident,” Hardy said. “I knew something was amiss when she did not show up to purchase her favorite candy. She was quite a creature of habit, you see, and always arrived promptly at four twice a week without fail.”

  “Did she buy the same candy on every visit?”

  The shopkeeper nodded. “Again, she was a creature of habit and always bought four pieces of chocolate-covered apple spice, but I added an extra which I know she shared with the Widow Marley, who has come on hard times since the loss of her husband.” The shopkeeper sighed once more to himself. “Such a kind, sweet girl she was.”

  “Was she the only person in the neighborhood who fancied chocolate-covered apple spice?”

  “The answer is yes, if you are referring to buying on a consistent basis. It is more expensive than the others and most cannot afford it. Nevertheless, Pretty Penny’s purchases were so regular that I had to lay in a goodly supply of several dozen every month. With the girl’s disappearance, I was concerned the new order would remain on the shelf indefinitely, but a new customer came in late yesterday and bought nearly an entire trayful. I shall now of course put in a much smaller supply, with Penny’s absence.”

  Joanna’s brow went up. “How many pieces of chocolate-covered apple spice were purchased by this new customer?”

  “Twenty, exactly twenty.”

  “Was that the number you had on hand?”

  “No, madam. I had twenty-five, but he insisted on me counting out twenty pieces under his careful eye,” he replied. “And most surprisingly, he paid with a five-pound note. I don’t see many of those in my shop, I can tell you for sure.”

  “He demanded an accurate count, did he?”

  “Made me count the pieces twice.”

  “What was the final charge?”

  “One pound two shillings,” Hardy answered. “And there was another odd thing. He did not bother to count the change, but simply shoved it into his pocket. In this neighborhood, I can assure you we all count our change most carefully.”

  “Can you give a description of this man?”

  “He was an older chap, with long gray hair that was partially covered with a fisherman’s hat,” the shopkeeper recalled. “But he didn’t have the complexion of a seagoing man.”

  “Do you remember his outer garments?”

  “Only that he was wearing a dark sweater which had seen better days.”

  “Not the type of individual you would e
xpect to pay with a five-pound note.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Did he have any facial scars or disfigurement?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  Joanna considered the matter further. “Did the customer speak with a cockney accent?”

  Hardy shook his head. “He sounded more like an educated man.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “Neither before nor since.”

  We thanked the shopkeeper for his time and bade him good-bye. Once well away from the sweet shop, Joanna rubbed her hands together gleefully and asked, “What do you make of that?”

  “Of what?” I asked.

  “Mr. Hardy’s new customer who comes in poorly dressed to buy precisely twenty pieces of an expensive candy with a five-pound note and pays little attention to the change he receives. A man who labors greatly for five pounds does not buy an excessive amount of expensive candy and, if by chance he did, he would most certainly count the change.”

  “You believe he is not poor, for he deals with a five-pound note as if it is not of great consequence,” deduced my father.

  “Spot-on, Watson,” said Joanna. “But then, we have an individual who dresses poorly, yet speaks with an educated tongue. A strange mixture, eh?”

  “Much like the individual who wrote the note and pretended to be illiterate when he obviously wasn’t,” my father recollected.

  “So it would seem the stalker and the candy buyer are one and the same,” Joanna reasoned. “I put it to you that he is from the upper class and attempting to hide it.”

  “But why wear a disguise to buy apple spice candy?” I asked.

  “So he will not be recognized.”

  “By whom?”

  “By Mr. Hardy, the shopkeeper,” she asserted. “You see, this individual wishes to conceal his identity, for he knows the police will soon be on his trail to follow his tracks.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “For Pretty Penny, for he is the man responsible for her disappearance.”

  “Based on what, pray tell?”

  “The twenty pieces of apple spice candy he purchased,” Joanna replied. “Is it not a rather odd number which he demanded? Not one more or one less, mind you.”

  “I fail to see the connection between the number twenty and Pretty Penny’s disappearance.”

  My wife smiled thinly. “Do you not think it odder yet that a disguised man pretending to be poor walks into a sweet shop and purchases a large amount of expensive candy which is rarely bought by anyone except Pretty Penny, who went missing a day ago?”

  “He was buying the candy for her,” I breathed in astonishment. “But why the number twenty?”

  “It is a straightforward calculation which will give us the answer,” Joanna replied. “Do you recall how many pieces of apple spice candy Pretty Penny purchased on each visit to the sweet shop?”

  “Four.”

  “Divide that number into twenty.”

  “Five.”

  “And that is the number of days he plans to hold Pretty Penny in captivity, during which time he will feed her four pieces of apple spice candy each evening.”

  “And then?”

  “He will bring down the curtain on the final act.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Whitechapel Playhouse

  As promised by Emma Adams, we were provided with the very best seats at the Whitechapel Playhouse, where we enjoyed an updated version of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. The performance was surprisingly good, but even more surprising was the fact that I was personally acquainted with three of the main actors, all of whom were on staff at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. The printed program listed Peter Willoughby and Thaddeus Rudd as the heads of the feuding Capulets and Montague families, neither of whom would ever allow their children, Juliet and Romeo, to marry. Willoughby was director of pathology where I served as an assistant professor, whereas Rudd was a sharp-tongued surgeon whose skills far outweighed his manners. The third member from St. Bart’s was Maxwell Anderson, who was a perfect fit for Romeo. Handsome and charming, he was the newest addition to the pathology department and all believed his brilliance was such that he was destined for an outstanding future in medicine. Despite my close professional association with the three, I had no idea how they happened to appear onstage at the Whitechapel Playhouse. But my father knew the answer and explained all at intermission, during which time the audience filed out for refreshments.

  “They are members of the St. Bart’s Players, an amateur actors club which was formed many years ago. I myself joined the group, for I had some acting experience during my university days in London. However, it became clear that the talents of others far exceeded mine, and I gracefully withdrew,” my father recounted. “They rehearse on a regular schedule and audition for various roles on the stages of amateur playhouses throughout the greater London area.”

  “I take it you were a member of the group long before Willoughby, Rudd, and Maxwell,” I surmised.

  “By more years than I care to count,” said he.

  “Would it not be unusual for three actors from the St. Bart’s group to be given roles in the very same play?” Joanna asked.

  “One might think so, but the three onstage tonight are said to be the most talented, and I was told they often appear at the same playhouse.”

  “Have you ever seen them perform?”

  “Not until this evening.”

  Joanna gave the matter more thought before inquiring, “Tell me more about the pathologist who plays Romeo.”

  “I am afraid I know virtually nothing of the man, for I retired prior to his arrival at St. Bart’s,” my father replied. “Perhaps John can assist you with that information.”

  “First, I must confess that I know little of this actors group, so I can only inform you of his professional status within the department of pathology,” I began.

  “That is where my interest lies.”

  I waited for a working-class couple, with sleeping children in their arms, to pass by, then continued in a low voice. “Maxwell Anderson came to us two years ago after distinguishing himself at Oxford University Hospital. He is a rather bright fellow who specializes in histopathology, a subspecialty in which diseased tissues are sectioned, placed on slides, and stained for study under the microscope. He is quite handsome and single, and thus the nurses and technicians constantly try to catch his eye, but with little success, or so the rumor goes. I am of the opinion his stay at St. Bart’s will not be long, for his skills are such that he will be offered even more desirable positions at other hospitals as his reputation grows.”

  “He does appear to be extraordinarily handsome onstage,” Joanna commented.

  “As he is offstage, to the extent he turns heads and causes women to stare.”

  “Yet unmarried.”

  “To the best of my knowledge.”

  “He is by far the most talented of the group,” Joanna noted. “And with his striking good looks, he represents the ideal Romeo.”

  “Just as Willoughby fits so well his role as the curmudgeon head of the Capulet family,” I added. “He easily comes by acting in such a disagreeable manner, for that is his natural behavior. No one in the department of pathology, including myself, is spared the sting of his mean-spirited tongue. His one saving grace is that he is a renowned neuropathologist whose excellence is such that specimens are sent to him from all over Europe for final review and diagnosis.”

  “He was not always held in high esteem,” my father informed us. “He was once in fact a figure of ridicule.”

  “I was unaware,” said I, taken aback by the revelation. “This must have occurred long ago.”

  “Indeed so, for the incident has faded with the years.” My father reached for his cherrywood pipe, which was already packed with tobacco, and slowly lighted it. “It goes back to the time I was first entering the practice of medicine and had been granted admitting privileges at St. Bartholomew’s. Willoughby was a young as
sistant professor who, like many starting academicians, yearned for instant recognition. In contrast to the prevailing belief, he was convinced that criminal behavior was caused by a lesion in the cerebral cortex, and set out to prove it by examining the brains of recently hanged murderers. One of the initial corpses belonged to a rather handsome woman who poisoned her husband so she could gain his insurance money and enjoy life with a string of secret lovers, of which there were said to be many. Much to Willoughby’s delight, she was found to have an abnormality in the frontal lobe of her cerebral cortex. Not long after, a second corpse was discovered to have a similar lesion. The latter brain was dissected from a woman of low morals who stabbed a brothel owner to death over a money issue. Willoughby claimed that in both cases the cortical lesions accounted for their criminal behavior.”

  “So he was about to make quite a name for himself,” I supposed.

  “For both he and his coworker on the study, Thaddeus Rudd.”

  “But Rudd was a surgeon,” I noted. “How could he have been involved?”

  “Back then, he was a surgeon in training and was obliged to undertake a rotation through the pathology section, where he met and soon began to work alongside Peter Willoughby. It was during that time that their startling discoveries were made.”

  “Startling to say the least, if they were confirmed,” said I.

  “But they weren’t,” my father went on. “Willoughby and Rudd submitted the research to the Lancet detailing their findings, which the medical journal refused to publish because the brain lesions were clearly the result of repeated trauma and not some long-standing structural defect. Undeterred, Willoughby decided to present his research to the Royal Society, where he was literally jeered off the podium.”