Mrs. Adams raced for the back stairs which led to the rooms above the pub. Lurie watched her every step from near the bar before turning to us. His face was most inquisitive, but Joanna’s blank expression told him that he would not be included in the business at hand.
“Let us hope Emma Adams does not wear the same perfume,” my wife cautioned. “For if she does, Toby Two’s nose will continue to return to the pub, where the scent would be the strongest.”
“Perhaps you should have requested a jar of the hair pomade Pretty Penny uses in excess.”
“That would have proved useless, for countless women in Whitechapel no doubt apply the Widow Marley’s special blend on a frequent basis.”
Loud thunder roared close by and caused the fixtures in the pub to rattle. The men seated in the booths laughed at the sound, but I found nothing amusing about the promise of an approaching storm. Time was short enough as is and it was soon to become much shorter.
Mrs. Adams skipped down the stairs and sprinted over to us, with the small bottle of Pretty Penny’s perfume in hand. “There is only a little remaining, so you need not bother to return it.”
“Pray tell do you wear the same perfume?” Joanna asked.
Emma Adams shook her head. “I prefer the more expensive French variety.”
“Very good,” said my wife, snatching the bottle and dashing for the door, with me only a step behind.
In the taxi Joanna dampened her handkerchief with a dab of Pretty Penny’s perfume, and held it well outside the window. Once we had traveled a mile away, she placed the bottle alongside the shoe in the airtight container and had the driver deposit both in the boot of the taxi. Only then did she allow Toby Two to whiff the perfume-dampened handkerchief, with instructions to “go, girl!”
The hound eagerly responded and positioned her head and nose so far out of the taxi window that I held on to her for safety’s sake. Once again the taxi slowly circled the square blocks of Whitechapel, beginning at the major thoroughfare of Prescot Street. Toby Two continued to sample the air but showed little interest, as her tail remained flaccid and still. On reaching Back Church Lane, however, the hound suddenly came to life, with her tail straightening.
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “She is picking up the scent.”
“We are approaching the Widow Marley’s house and salon where Pretty Penny visited to have her hair cut and styled,” Joanna explained. “Let us see what occurs when we pass the house.”
Toby Two’s interest rapidly faded once we moved beyond the makeshift beauty salon. But a moment later her excitement returned, with her tail wagging vigorously. She let out a happy bark as we approached the Whitechapel Playhouse. Yet, as before, her interest subsided as we drove away from the playhouse where Pretty Penny had performed so often.
Suddenly lightning cracked and thunder boomed so loudly it caused our taxi to vibrate. Then the rain poured down in drenching torrents that quickly began to flood the streets. The wind also picked up and blew heavy droplets into the taxi, which necessitated us bringing Toby Two inside and closing the window.
“We can proceed no further,” said Joanna dispiritedly. “The storm will remove all traces of a scent.”
With heavy hearts we began our journey home, knowing full well that we had lost our best and perhaps only opportunity to rescue dear Johnny.
CHAPTER 25
Johnny
That evening we gathered around our fireplace in the saddest of all possible moods, with virtually all hope now gone. Unencouraging reports continued to flow in, the latest being from Scotland Yard, which despite its best efforts had not turned up even a hint regarding The Ripper’s secret dwelling. And to make matters worse, the storm from the North Sea had persisted, with heavy rain and strong gales that made further investigation impossible.
A powerful blast of wind noisily rattled our window overlooking Baker Street and drew Joanna’s attention. “The din of the storm also works in The Ripper’s favor, for any screams and cries for help will never be heard above it.”
“Perhaps the dreadful weather will force the monster to remain at home, at least for the immediate future,” my father opined.
“On the other hand, it provides him with perfect cover to move about as he wishes,” Joanna countered.
“It is unfortunate we could not convince Scotland Yard to place a tail on Willoughby,” I complained.
“Ha!” Joanna scoffed. “On the surface it seemed like a good idea, but in this weather Lestrade would have difficulty following a bus around Piccadilly Circus.”
“Come morning, the commissioner informed me, the Yard will begin a house-to-house search of the entire Whitechapel district, using every available officer,” my father noted. “He promised that no door will be left unopened.”
“A valiant effort no doubt, but one unlikely to bring results,” said my wife. “The Ripper conducts his horrific business in a well-hidden place, and simply opening a door will not reveal it.”
My father and I had to nod at the unpleasant conclusion.
A prolonged silence ensued before my father spoke again. “I am afraid we are reaching the last of our options, and so is Scotland Yard. With each tick of the clock the chances of a rescue grow dimmer and dimmer.”
“Then we must redouble our efforts,” Joanna said firmly. “And not sleep a wink until my son is safely home.”
“But what other recourses are available to us?”
“We shall repeat what we failed to accomplish today,” she replied. “In the morning, John and I shall again travel to Whitechapel, with Toby Two at our side, and allow her to track Johnny by the scent of his shoe. Perhaps the clearer air will make the scent more noticeable.”
“Let us pray so.”
As Big Ben struck the hour of ten, we collectively sank down in our overstuffed chairs to mull over the seemingly unsolvable dilemma facing us. Our return to Whitechapel with Toby Two was a long shot at best, I thought miserably, for Johnny was no doubt being held in an enclosed hidden space which would hide his scent as well. I kept this worrisome thought to myself, not wishing to add to my wife’s torment. If the lad does perish, poor Joanna would never— We abruptly stiffened in our seats as we heard Miss Hudson cry out from downstairs. My father raced to his room for his Webley revolver, while my wife and I positioned ourselves as far as possible from the entrance to our parlor. My father returned and assumed the firing position, with his weapon pointed directly at the door. We held our breath as footsteps approached, followed by a gentle rap on the door, which slowly opened.
To our joy and amazement, standing before us was a rain-drenched Johnny who was accompanied by an equally wet constable. Joanna rushed to her son and held him in the tightest of embraces, rocking back and forth, smiling and tearing up at the same time. “Oh, my sweet Johnny!”
“I am glad to be home,” he said in a neutral tone.
“Are you now?” Joanna laughed and, wiping away her tears, turned to the constable. “How did you find him?”
“It was the lad who found me, madam,” he replied. “I am simply the officer who has the honor of bringing your brave son home.”
“Then I must thank you from the very bottom of my heart,” said she. “Won’t you come in and dry off by the fire?”
“I must return to my post, madam, but again, it was my privilege to escort him back to you.” And with a half salute he departed.
Joanna again embraced her son and kissed him, which caused him to wince and withdraw. “I am afraid it is a bit tender there, Mother.”
Our attention went to the deep bruise on the lad’s jaw that extended up to his ear. It was black-and-blue, but fortunately the skin had not been broken.
My wife’s expression suddenly hardened. “Did he hurt you otherwise?”
“No, Mother, I have no further injuries.” Johnny walked over to the fireplace, where I assumed he would warm himself and gather his wits. But this was not the case, for he casually removed his jacket to dry and in the bright light se
emed remarkably well composed despite the terrifying ordeal he had just endured. I did notice a bit of a tremor in his hands, which might have been caused by the outside chill. In profile, the lad’s resemblance to Sherlock Holmes was as always startling. “I have quite a story to tell.”
My father hurried over to vigorously shake the boy’s hand. “We are so delighted to have you back with us, but I would think a comfortable bed is quite in order to allow for a complete recovery.”
“Thank you for your concern, Dr. Watson, but I am fine in every way.”
“Then perhaps a spot of dinner,” I suggested, patting the lad’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Surely you must be famished.”
“Miss Hudson made the very same comment and is currently heating her oven,” said Johnny, with a smile that quickly left his face. “Now you must listen to my story, for I was close enough to Jack the Ripper to feel his breath.”
We returned to our chairs and drew them in closer so as not to miss a word.
“You must start at the beginning, my dear son, with the last memory you have before being rendered unconscious,” Joanna instructed.
Johnny’s face remained impassive, not showing even a trace of fear or anxiety. He picked up a metal stoker to stir the fire and seemed to tell his tale to the flames. “I was near the hedge watching Dr. Watson pointing his Webley at the intruder when I heard a strange noise in the thick shrub. I looked in, wondering if an animal had become trapped, and suddenly everything went black. When I awakened, I was in a very dark room, tightly bound hand and foot to a wooden chair. As I regained consciousness, I heard a conversation between a man and a young woman. She was crying and begging to be released. He told her that she would soon be lifted up; then there was the sound of someone retching, followed by footsteps which appeared to be going upstairs. A moment later a door closed. It was then that my senses cleared and I realized I had been taken captive by Jack the Ripper.”
“You must have been terrified,” Joanna said in a near whisper.
“No, Mother, for what fright I had passed quickly as I concentrated on my predicament. My singular thought was to somehow free myself, for I knew what the madman had in store for me.”
If there was any fear in the lad’s voice, I could not detect it. It was Sherlock Holmes’s brain at work. If there was a problem, solve it. Emotions were of no benefit.
“I soon realized the ropes securing me were far too thick to break and the binding so tight I could barely move my arms and legs. It took me a while to think through the conundrum. The answer was quite simple: If you can’t break through the ropes, break through the structure they are attached to.”
“The chair!” Joanna exclaimed gleefully.
Johnny nodded. “It was wooden and rather rackety and squeaked when I attempted to move my body. With my fingers, I could feel the arms of the chair and determined they were somewhat thin. I next proceeded to rock the chair back and forth until it tilted over and crashed to the floor. The right arm of the seat broke off, which freed my right hand, and I was thus able to untie myself. I searched for the young woman who had been crying, but could not find her in the darkness. I felt my way until I found the stairs, which I quietly mounted to reach a closed but not locked door. I listened intently with my ear pressed to the door for a full five minutes, and when no sound was forthcoming I made my exit to the alleyway.” Johnny hesitated and took a deep breath, as if reliving the moment. “I then ran for my life, Mother, for how many blocks I do not know, but it was a great number. On approaching a major thoroughfare, I came upon the good constable Godwin, who called for a motor vehicle and was kind enough to accompany me home.”
“Good show!” my father bellowed out.
“Good show indeed,” said Joanna. “Now tell us, did you perceive any aspect of The Ripper?”
“Only his voice.”
“Not even a glimpse?”
“Not even that, for it was very dark in the room and he spoke from behind me.”
“Think back to the woman’s voice. Was there anything noteworthy about it?”
“Only that it seemed to originate from an enclosed space.”
“Did you notice the name of the street this dwelling was located on?”
“No, Mother, for it was pitch black with no lampposts until I reached an intersection a good many blocks away. There were no street signs and, if any were present, they would have been impossible to see through the drenching downpour. At that moment, I thought it best to continue running and distance myself from the dwelling.”
“I would like you to think back to your initial encounter with The Ripper,” Joanna probed gently. “Were there any features you happened to observe, such as a blemish on the hand that struck you?”
Johnny considered the question at length before responding. “He had a very thin neck, which I noticed just prior to the blow. It was as if it was surrounded by a collar three sizes too large.”
Peter Willoughby, I thought immediately, showing the evidence of his obvious weight loss.
“And there was one other feature I failed to mention, Mother.”
“Of the man?”
Johnny shook his head slowly. “Concerning the young woman in the enclosed space. She seemed to be wheezing badly, with each breath requiring considerable effort.”
“Pretty Penny and her asthma,” my father diagnosed quickly. “With her condition worsening by the hour in the absence of her much-needed medication.”
“Is her life in danger, Dr. Watson?” asked the lad.
“Quite so, I am afraid, for she cannot last long with her deteriorating lung function.”
Joanna arose from her chair and took her son’s hand. “Enough questions for now. I believe a short rest would be most welcomed by you as we await one of Miss Hudson’s sumptuous dinners.”
“Agreed,” Johnny said, and, as he turned for his bedroom, an expression of concern crossed his face. “Mother, do you think he will come after me again?”
“I do not believe so,” Joanna replied, but the tone of her voice told all of us she thought otherwise.
CHAPTER 26
Ruby
I returned to St. Bartholomew’s the following morning, for my brief sabbatical had ended and young Johnny was now safe and secure under the watchful eyes of Joanna and my father. In addition, Scotland Yard had placed a constable round the clock at the doorstep of 221b Baker Street. With that confident thought, I approached Peter Willoughby’s office and peered in, only to see him berating his meek secretary over no doubt some minor issue. He gave me the slightest of glances before turning his back to me. I wondered if his early-morning tirade was brought on by the loss of his prized catch last night. Perhaps I continued to stare too long, for the director hurried over to shut the door in my face.
The mutual dislike between Willoughby and myself seemed to be intensifying through no apparent fault of my own. Perhaps he had somehow learned of my plans to leave St. Bartholomew’s at the end of the academic year and was showing his displeasure at my decision. Whatever the reason, he continued to assign mundane tasks to me in the department of pathology, and one of those assignments was to choose appropriate corpses in the morgue to be used as cadavers in the medical school. I was able to bypass most of the tedious paperwork that accompanied the selection process, with the assistance of the head orderly, Benson, who was helpful in completing the forms required to transfer the corpse out of the morgue. Benson was totally illiterate and incapable of filling out the various papers, but he had a remarkable memory for the details given by the police when they delivered a body. Thus, in a strange fashion, he would dictate and I would transcribe.
It was nearly noon when I freed up enough time to attend to the selection process and found myself hurrying down the busy corridor to meet with Benson. As I passed Willoughby’s door, I again glanced in and briefly studied the director who no doubt was Jack the Ripper. He clearly met the profile of the Dr. Jekyll–Mr. Hyde character so ably portrayed by Robert Louis St
evenson, but it remained beyond me how a distinguished physician could be transformed into such a savage killer who had no conscience whatsoever. Of course Stevenson brought about the transformation with the use of a hallucinogenic agent. Such drugs, like opium and peyote, would be readily available to Willoughby without arousing suspicion. I docketed this possibility with the intent of mentioning it to Joanna, for she had a knack of making much from little. So many times in the past, she had demonstrated to us that the most trivial of clues can at times turn out to be the most important.
I reached the end of the corridor and entered Benson’s office, which resembled a large, windowless closet. There was barely enough room for two chairs and a small bookcase that was packed with papers and folders and various writing materials. Yet everything seemed neat and in place, just like the man who rose to greet me.
“There is a long history behind this one,” Benson said, handing me a stack of forms fastened to a clipboard.
“Oh?” I asked, mildly interested as I seated myself.
“Well known, she was.”
“In what capacity?”
“She was an Unfortunate who was known to roam the streets of Whitechapel.”
I tried my best to keep my expression even and professional. “Do we know the cause of death?”
“She was struck by a motor vehicle while crossing Prescot Street.”
My mind quickly went back to the vehicle which deliberately rammed us as we were returning from Paddington station. “Was the driver apprehended?”
“No, sir. According to the police, he fled the scene,” Benson reported.
“Were there witnesses?”
“There was one witness, sir. I was told that a shopkeeper cleaning his doorstep saw the Unfortunate stagger into the street a moment before the accident occurred. It was his opinion that she was the worse for drink.”
“Did he see the driver?”
“No, sir.”
I continued to wonder if the motorcar accidents outside Paddington and on Prescot Street were somehow related. And if so, how?
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