The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Yes, he would,” Joanna affirmed.

  “That is absurd,” I said too loudly.

  “Perhaps not so absurd.”

  “I can give you more than a few reasons why it is so.”

  “Please do, and be good enough to list them one by one.”

  “First, he cannot be the stalker.”

  “Why not? Have you seen the stalker? Or has anyone for that matter?”

  “But we do have a partial description of the individual who appeared at the sweet shop and in the jewelry store.”

  “In obvious disguise,” Joanna countered. “Recall that Anderson is a fine actor whose talents depend on his ability to convert himself into a totally different person, with a change in voice, appearance, and behavior.”

  “But how do you account for the age difference between the original outings of Jack the Ripper and those now taking place? His initial killings took place twenty-eight years ago when Anderson was a mere toddler.”

  “He reads all the stories and events and autopsy reports which deal with The Ripper, much as I have,” Joanna replied. “He is also a pathologist and that makes him an anatomist who is expert at dissection. Furthermore, he is a bachelor and does not have to account for his whereabouts late in the evening.”

  My father gave Joanna a lengthy, studied look before saying, “You do realize that you are once again giving us a perfect example of a Dr. Jekyll–Mr. Hyde personality.”

  “I am afraid, my dear Watson, that is precisely what we are up against.”

  “You of course are assuming that the fictional Dr. Jekyll–Mr. Hyde exists in the real world,” said I.

  “To some extent it exists in all of us,” Joanna stated. “Which of the two arises depends on the circumstances. Think of the peace-loving farmer who goes off to war and kills or the adoring mother who one day decides to poison her children for the insurance money.”

  “So Maxwell Anderson could be a modern-day Ripper,” I agreed reluctantly.

  “I, too, must admit that is a possibility,” my father concurred.

  Joanna gave the two of us an affirming nod before saying, “Then we are on the same page, for we are following one of my father’s most important dictums. Namely, that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains behind, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

  Moments later we were served and enjoyed a deliciously prepared dover sole, which we washed down with a superb Chardonnay, but all the while I kept glancing at the secluded corner where Maxwell Anderson and Pretty Penny had sat, and wondering what role he might have played in her disappearance.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Gentleman Drifters

  My father and I were firmly opposed to Joanna’s plan, but she prevailed by convincing us it represented our very best chance to bring this monstrous case to resolution. The plan itself was simple enough, but not without danger. Joanna and I would be in deep disguise when entering the Black Lamb, while my father was stationed in a carriage a half a block away, with his Webley No. 2 revolver in hand. Our intent was to find and save Annie Yates, whom we would later use as bait to catch Jack the Ripper before he could kill again.

  Looking into the mirror of our dressing room at 221b Baker Street, I was struck by the remarkable transformation we had undergone. Joanna was disguised as an Unfortunate, with tattered, soiled clothing and unshined walking boots. Her dark blond hair was now covered by an unkempt brown wig that showed patches of gray. She had used red lipstick to give her face a stern, yet appealing, expression. I, on the other hand, was dressed in a tweed suit and a finely woven wool cap which gave me a professional look. That was the impression I wished to show, for I was to be introduced, if necessary, as a lecturer in anatomy at a nearby college. My wig was heavily grayed, as were my thick mustache and pointed goatee. My father wore a constable’s uniform, complete with hat, for even in Whitechapel the sight of an approaching policeman elicited instant fear and immediate withdrawal.

  On our way out we tested the keen eye of Miss Hudson, who was taken aback by our unrecognized appearance. When told our disguises were for a hospital costume party, she smiled and shook her head good-naturedly and wished us a most happy time. It was of course the exact opposite of what we expected to encounter.

  A rented four-wheeler awaited us, for we felt it would fit best in the neighborhood surrounding the Black Lamb. It would also be the most likely mode of transportation used by the gentleman drifters who wished to visit the various downscale drinking establishments. There was a definite pecking order amongst the pubs, even in Whitechapel, where Emma Adams’s Prince Albert would be at the higher end, while the Black Lamb was at the lowest. It was in the latter that the guests would speak with the heaviest cockney accent.

  “Now, my dear John,” Joanna was instructing, “do not attempt to blend in with their dialect, for the working class will quickly see you as being an outsider, pretending to be one of them. Simply speak as a lecturer of anatomy would and they will accept you as such.”

  “I hope I do not have to utter a single word,” I said candidly.

  “That may be the case,” Joanna said, intentionally smearing her lipstick at the edges. “But if they learn you teach anatomy, someone might inquire about the position of a body part or the like. It is a mistake to believe that a lack of education denotes a lack of curiosity.”

  After giving those instructions, Joanna returned to rehearsing a cockney accent, which she did to near perfection. She adeptly dropped the letter h from the beginning of words with ease. Horse became ’orse and have sounded like ’ave. Next, she practiced removing the letters t and k from the middle of words. Scottish translated to Sco’ish and blackboard became blac’board. I was confident we would fit in nicely, but my father still had reservations.

  “The working-class pubs can be quite mean,” he warned. “Ruffians heavy into drink can actually seek out fights with those they consider outsiders. I have witnessed Joanna’s skill at jujitsu and I know of John’s experience as a boxer at Oxford, but an all-out brawl is totally different than a one-on-one match. Thus, I would suggest you position yourself near the exit, for a quick departure is at times the best defense.”

  Our carriage drew up a half a block down and on the opposite side of the street from the Black Lamb. The light on the overhead lamppost was dim, which was perfect concealment for the passengers within our four-wheeler. Although my father would be the only occupant, the very last thing we wanted was for a passerby to glance in and see an individual dressed in a constable’s uniform. As I opened the door for us to exit, Joanna made certain the police whistle around her neck was well hidden, while my father checked the rounds in his Webley revolver.

  Joanna and I crossed the street arm in arm and entered the Black Lamb. The noisy pub was larger than I anticipated, with a long wooden bar and a row of occupied stools pushed up against it. Behind the bar were impressive mirrors that contained advertisements, the foremost of which was for Guinness. Most of the crowd was standing about in the center area, drinks in hand and conversing loudly. The room was clouded with tobacco smoke which hung in the air and gave off a stale aroma. On the far side, a rough-appearing man was throwing darts at a board and cursing his bad luck.

  We found two seats at the end of the bar where we received quick glances but little else. A bearded barkeep hurried over attracted by my affluent attire and wiped his massive hands on a dirty bar towel. He was heavyset and broad shouldered, with scarred brows from countless fights.

  “What’ll you have?” he asked.

  “’Arf-and-’arf,” Joanna said, her cockney accent spot-on as she requested a half-and-half, which was a mixture of two beers, one of which was of lesser density than the other.

  “If you want the Guinness, it will be pricier.”

  “Bring it, dearie.”

  While waiting for our drinks, we surveyed the people crowded into the bar, with even more coming in through the entrance. Most were from the working class, but under a bulb-like li
ght we spotted a few gentleman drifters who were surrounded by Unfortunates offering their services. The gentlemen made no effort to hide their identities. A shoving match broke out near the dartboard but was quickly resolved by a barmaid who pushed them apart with a warning.

  The barkeep deposited our half-and-halfs on the bar and said, “That’ll be tenpence.”

  As I was paying, a rather attractive Unfortunate, with long dark hair, approached and, after giving me a careful eye, asked, “Are you taken, ducky?”

  “Move on,” Joanna threatened, “before I shove your arse along.”

  “Just inquiring,” the Unfortunate said with a shrug. “Pickings are quite slim tonight.”

  Joanna gestured to the gentleman drifters. “What about those?”

  “They are in the midst of bargaining,” the Unfortunate said in a disapproving tone. “Here they are, gentlemen of some stature, trying to obtain the lowest price.”

  “I think the blighters take some pleasure in that,” my wife remarked.

  The Unfortunate nodded in agreement. “They ride up in their fancy carriages to pee down on the poor and have a jolly good time before returning to their respectable homes.”

  “Maybe one will take a coppery rash back to Mayfair,” Joanna jested.

  The prostitute smiled and revealed a nearly toothless mouth. “Now wouldn’t that be a delightful present to bring home?”

  I chuckled humorlessly at the term coppery rash, which described the dermatitis that often accompanied the dreaded disease syphilis. There was no cure for the contagious disorder and its end result was often horrific and lethal.

  The door opened and a boisterous group of older men entered and immediately shouted their order to the barmaid who relayed the drink requests to the barkeep. Scratching at her armpit, the Unfortunate studied the newcomers briefly before declaring, “They are locals who wouldn’t buy you a round unless their life depended on it.”

  “Not worth rubbing against,” Joanna noted.

  “It is going to be a slow night,” the Unfortunate predicted unhappily.

  “Well, according to my friend Annie Yates, activity picks up during the later hours,” Joanna said, and sipped her beer.

  “You know Annie, do you?” the Unfortunate asked.

  “We are friends, but I haven’t seen much of her since her illness worsened.”

  “It is a terrible cough she has and it never seems to stop. I don’t know how she continues to work.”

  “She looked quite ill when I saw her last at a doss-house across from the Jewish cemetery,” Joanna mentioned. “She appeared to be wasting away to skin and bones.”

  “Annie wasn’t always that way, you know,” the Unfortunate said. “Back in Bristol she was the picture of health while working as a lady’s maid at a grand estate. But then she came down with a terrible cough which brought about her dismissal and forced her onto the streets without a roof over her head. That is when we both moved to Whitechapel, hoping for a better life.”

  “Did you, too, work at the estate?”

  The Unfortunate nodded. “As a poorly paid seamstress. I had no future there, and not much of one here, either.”

  “Perhaps a drink will lift your spirits,” Joanna said, wanting to ply as much information as possible from the prostitute.

  “I would dearly love three halfpenny worth of rum, if you’re offering.”

  The barkeep was waved over and served up the rum drink which the Unfortunate swallowed in a single gulp. She then stared at the empty glass and licked her lips hungrily, which prompted me to buy yet another round of rum, for she was our best and only clue to the whereabouts of Annie Yates.

  “I am concerned about Annie and her illness,” Joanna probed gently. “I have heard of a free clinic at St. Bartholomew’s, which looks after the poor. Perhaps Annie might enroll there.”

  “It is one thing to enroll and quite another to actually be admitted,” the Unfortunate informed us. “I know some girls who have been on the list for a year or more.”

  “But certainly someone as ill as Annie would merit more consideration.”

  “That is wishful thinking, dearie.” The prostitute licked at her empty glass and gave Joanna a most suspicious look. “You seem overly interested in Annie. Is it only because of her illness?”

  Joanna shook her head. “She had done me a favor and I wanted to return it.”

  “What kind of favor do you have for her?”

  “I have learned of a new pub where the pickings are quite good.”

  “Where?”

  “I will tell Annie, and if she wishes to share the information with you that will be her business.”

  “I will tell Annie you are looking for her.”

  The door to the Black Lamb opened and two more gentleman drifters entered, as evidenced by their top hats and frock coats, which could only be seen in profile. Upon noticing them, the Unfortunate licked her lips and hurried over to the prospective customers. They tipped their hats to her in a most cordial manner and beckoned the barkeep.

  Joanna turned away in haste and brought her half-and-half up to her face to cover it. “Look away from the door, John,” she urged, “and sip your beer while studying the mirror behind the bar.”

  I did as instructed and saw my reflection just below the red advertisement for Guinness. Studying it carefully, I saw nothing of undue interest. “Is there something I am overlooking?”

  “Did you observe the two gentleman drifters who just arrived?”

  “I saw their top hats which were being tipped.”

  “Now glance over to them as you sip your beer and tell me what you see.”

  My eyes must have widened at the unbelievable sight I was viewing. Standing in the midst of a flock of Unfortunates were Peter Willoughby and Thaddeus Rudd, attired in top hats and frock coats and obviously delighted to be showing their affluence. “Never in a million years” were the only words I could utter.

  “We must leave,” Joanna said in a whisper. “Although we are in disguise, their sharp eyes might recognize our telling features. I will depart first; you follow shortly after.”

  I watched Joanna keep her head down and mingle into the crowd, seeming to disappear. While waiting and despite my best efforts, I could not help but stare at the two physicians, for whom I had lost all respect. I immediately began to connect the two scoundrels to the two prostitutes who had been allowed entrance to the free clinic at St. Bartholomew’s. A few moments later I, too, keeping my head down, walked out of the Black Lamb to join Joanna on the deserted street. We remained silent as we hurried to the four-wheeler where my father awaited us.

  “Thank goodness you are safe,” he said, putting his Webley revolver to rest. “Was your visit productive?”

  “We are about to tell you a story which your ears will refuse to believe,” Joanna replied, as our carriage rode away.

  “I am afraid that I have been around too long to be surprised,” my father said frankly. “It happens to the elderly.”

  “Well then, prepare yourself for a sudden awakening,” Joanna went on. “You are no doubt aware of the term gentleman drifters.”

  “I am.”

  “Your son and I just saw two.”

  “That is not a rarity in this area.”

  “It is when their names are Peter Willoughby and Thaddeus Rudd.”

  My father’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Are—are you certain?” he stammered.

  “Beyond question.”

  My father quickly regained his composure and wrinkled his brow in thought. “So they, too, are now part of the mix.”

  Joanna nodded at the obvious conclusion. “Recall last evening at Alexander’s when I listed the reasons why Maxwell Anderson could not be excluded as Jack the Ripper. These two are also quite good actors who, like a chameleon, can transform themselves into a totally different individual, with a change of appearance, voice, and behavior. Moreover, they are skilled anatomists—Willoughby being a renowned pathologist and Rudd a sk
illed surgeon—which makes them experts at dissection. Finally, and unlike Anderson, their ages are such they could be the original Jack the Ripper.”

  “They fit so perfectly the Dr. Jekyll so aptly described by Robert Louis Stevenson,” I remarked.

  “And so the plot thickens,” my father noted.

  “As does the list of bona fide suspects,” Joanna said, and stared out at the dense fog descending onto the dark streets of Whitechapel.

  CHAPTER 12

  Annie Yates

  As a rule, early-morning phone messages bring dreadful news, and this day was no exception. Inspector Lestrade called to inform us that the body of Annie Yates had been discovered in a dark passageway just off Mitre Square. He advised us to omit breakfast before reaching the crime scene, for it was a view one did not wish to experience on a full stomach. So, after dressing and sipping only a hot cup of tea, we hailed a four-wheeler and hurried to the dour streets of Whitechapel.

  We could not help but feel a pang of sadness for the pleasant girl whose once happy life had taken such a terrible, downward spiral. Bad luck and even worse circumstances had brought her to the crime-infested area surrounding Mitre Square where she now lay dead, no doubt gutted like a fish. And what remained of her would be buried in an unmarked grave in a potter’s field, with no one present to mourn for her. It was the worst of all endings.

  On our arrival we noted that a small crowd had already formed across the square and was being kept at a distance by a uniformed constable. Lestrade greeted us with a tip of his derby and moved aside to reveal a corpse covered with a gray blanket. There was a faint, somewhat unpleasant aroma in the air which seemed familiar, but I could not place it.

  “We have another savage murder,” Lestrade reported. “But on this occasion, we have an eyewitness.”

  He gestured to a thin, hollow-cheeked woman, of undetermined age, who was bundled up in an oversized coat and shivering against the chilly morning air. She hesitantly stepped forward, but Lestrade held up a hand. “In a moment,” he instructed before giving us the details of Annie Yates’s encounter with Jack the Ripper, which began innocently enough.