The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  “The police insisted they were most thorough in their search for other witnesses, but were unsuccessful,” Benson added.

  “I am certain they gave it their best,” said I, still thinking it could have been The Ripper at work in both instances. But why would he kill a wandering Unfortunate in broad daylight on a busy street where he could have been seen? But then again, the man’s madness seemed to serve no purpose. I decided to determine if Willoughby had an alibi for the time of the supposed accident. “Dr. Willoughby usually shows a keen interest in accidental deaths. Was this case presented to him?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Benson responded immediately. “The good doctor wants nothing to do with cadaver selection and has made that abundantly clear to me. Even the mention of the process can set him off on a tirade.”

  “This being a case of accidental death, I should notify him, in the event he’s not aware of it,” I lied easily. “Was he in his office when the corpse arrived?”

  Benson shrugged. “I assume so.”

  Assumptions were not good enough, I thought at once. “What time did the accident occur?”

  “Around ten, sir.”

  “Was she brought directly to St. Bart’s?”

  “Right away, for she was obviously dead at the scene,” Benson replied. “She was a bit smashed up, but only her legs were mangled.”

  “Were they maimed enough to disqualify her from being a cadaver for the medical school?”

  “No, sir. She will do just fine.”

  I quickly began filling out the forms with the information Benson had provided, but there remained a goodly number of blank spaces. “Do we have her name?”

  “She was called Ruby on the streets, but no one was aware of a last name.”

  “Relatives?”

  “None known.”

  “Friends?”

  “Probably a few Unfortunates, but they of course rapidly disappear when the police arrive.”

  I heard grumbling and heavy footsteps approaching in the corridor and sensed we were about to have a most unpleasant visitor who barked at everyone. I wondered what his current complaint might be.

  Peter Willoughby stopped abruptly in front of Benson’s small office and stared in. He appeared to be even thinner than before, with his white laboratory coat seeming to hang on his frame. I wondered if his severe peptic ulcer disease was taking its toll and causing him to be even more disagreeable to those around him. The head orderly hurried to his feet, while I remained seated to display my defiance to this mean-spirited man. “Ah, there you are,” he said curtly to me. “Hiding away, eh?”

  “We are in the process of selecting a cadaver for the medical school,” I explained.

  “That should not take all morning.”

  “It is somewhat complicated, for we are dealing with an Unfortunate who was struck by a motorcar in Whitechapel,” I recounted, and waited for his reaction.

  Willoughby waved his hand dismissively. “That should require only a minimum of your attention.”

  “That is true under ordinary circumstances, but here we have to carefully examine the body to determine if there are any clues regarding the driver and vehicle responsible for the woman’s death.”

  “You will not find any,” Willoughby predicted.

  “We shall see.”

  Willoughby made another dismissive gesture, indicating that particular topic of conversation was over. “Do not waste a great deal of time on it, for we have a most important matter to deal with. Do you recall the surgical specimen from Rudd’s patient that was lost and then found by Anderson?”

  I nodded. “It was deemed benign.”

  “That is now being brought into question. It seems the patient has developed similar lesions about the incision site and nearby muscle which may unhappily herald the spread of an aggressive cancer.”

  “Were the new lesions warm and tender to the touch?”

  “I did not ask.”

  “Does the patient have a fever?”

  “What difference does that make?” Willoughby snapped, losing patience.

  “Because it may be an infection which is spreading, and that would be accompanied by a fever,” I replied.

  “We are not here to be bedside physicians, but to be straightforward pathologists,” Willoughby said, obviously not interested in the patient’s well-being, but only her tissue diagnosis under the microscope. “Rudd, Anderson, and I will meet in Anderson’s laboratory at two sharp to reexamine the specimen and determine if it is malignant or not. Be there.”

  I watched Willoughby storm away, clearly upset and justifiably so. It was one matter to give a patient an unpleasant diagnosis, but quite another to render a favorable diagnosis, only to later return with a dreadful one. It was horrible for the patient and a dark stain on the department of pathology. Hoping our initial diagnosis would stand, I turned my attention back to the cadaver forms. “I take it we have no address for the victim.”

  “The Unfortunates never stay in one place, sir,” Benson said. “At best they will reside in a doss-house, but only for a night or two, and then they move on.”

  “But there are exceptions.”

  “Rarely.”

  “If such an address were to be had, it would be present in a purse, would it not?”

  “We have seen that on occasion, but unhappily no such purse accompanied the victim to St. Bart’s.”

  “Was the scene thoroughly searched?”

  “It was, but none was found. Either she did not carry one or it was snatched by a passerby.”

  The missing purse was of some relevance, for of all the apparel a woman wore, the purse was most likely to contain items of identification. “So we have no way of knowing her full name, address, or origin,” I noted, and drew a line through the blank spaces on the form.

  “Even the name Ruby may be false, for it is not uncommon for Unfortunates to use an alias out of shame.”

  “We shall list her as Ruby, nonetheless.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  I legibly wrote down the corpse as being one Ruby Smith from the Whitechapel district in London. And if the body was not claimed by family or friend within twenty-four hours, she would lose even that semblance of identity. For after that short period of time, the corpse would be delivered to the medical school where it would be dissected and what remained deposited in an unmarked grave in a potter’s field. A sad life, I thought, with an even sadder ending.

  We quickly went through the rest of the questions, many of which could not be answered. Incomplete forms were frequently seen in the selection process and proved to be no hindrance in having a given corpse transferred to the morgue. Pushing our chairs back, we left the closet-like office and walked down a silent corridor in which all the doors were closed except for the one to Maxwell Anderson’s laboratory. I glanced in and saw Willoughby and Anderson peering into microscopes, while the technicians stood well back, no doubt awaiting Willoughby’s next outburst. Thaddeus Rudd was not to be seen.

  At the end of the corridor we entered the morgue, which had a cement floor and uninterrupted plaster of Paris walls. The room was brightly lighted, which allowed for a thorough examination of the corpse that lay on a slab table. As was my custom, I began my investigation with her garments that were neatly stacked, with her well-worn, nondescript shoes atop. Her sweater, blouse, and petticoat were unremarkable, but the lower end of her skirt was heavily stained with dried blood. Her topcoat was badly soiled and ragged, with its hem torn in places. The pockets contained two shillings, a dirty handkerchief, and a folded slip of paper which I carefully opened. It was a prescription from St. Bart’s. On it was written the Unfortunate’s true name, Clara Collins, without an address. The doctor’s orders were to collect and strain her urine for stones, and it was signed by Thaddeus Rudd. For a moment, I could not help but have sympathy for the Unfortunate, for she had kidney stones, which could elicit one of the most excruciating pains known in medicine. I could not imagine a worse set of circumstances
than being caught on the dark streets of Whitechapel with the agony of a passing stone and no place to go and seek treatment.

  I handed the prescription slip to Benson, who could not read yet knew from its form what it represented. “No doubt a patient in the free clinic,” said he.

  “No doubt,” I agreed, and turned my attention to the corpse, with her mangled right leg. Her tibia had a compound fracture that caused the sharp, splintered end to penetrate the skin and produce a huge tear that was filled with blood. Beyond question, a large artery had been severed and that accounted for the massive hemorrhaging. The left leg was in reasonable condition, with only scrapes and bruises, and thus could be used for dissection and teaching purposes. The abdomen showed extensive ecchymoses and contusions which no doubt extended down into the organs. But it was her head that revealed the fatal injury. Just behind the frontal hairline was a wide gash that went so deep as to expose brain matter.

  Benson peered over my shoulder and remarked, “That is what did her in.”

  “Death was instantaneous,” said I.

  “So she felt little.”

  “If anything.”

  I swept her long blond hair away from the occipital region of her head, for that was where crush injuries often occur in victims of motorcar accidents. There were no apparent wounds and I was about to release her hair when her somewhat pointed ears came into view. Attached to them were shiny copper earrings! My expression must have changed, for Benson immediately moved in for a closer look.

  “I see no injuries there, sir,” said he.

  “It is her copper earrings,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Do you believe they caused harm?”

  Quickly collecting myself, I shook my head. “It was just surprising to see an Unfortunate wearing jewelry.”

  “Occasionally they do, sir, but it is usually of the cheap variety.”

  “Such as those made from copper?”

  Benson shrugged. “More often glass beads or the like.”

  “Well, let us proceed then,” I said, now examining the corpse’s eyes and eyebrows, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Clara Collins represented the fourth Unfortunate Jack the Ripper intended to butcher. But it was now clear that her death was not the work of The Ripper, for he killed to dissect the victim, which gave him the most pleasure. What would he do now when he learns that his Ruby is dead? Will he search for another Unfortunate or will he simply move on with the execution of Pretty Penny? After all, his supply of apple slice candy must be running low. The last consideration brought to mind a most gruesome thought, for the loss of a prospective victim might so anger The Ripper that he would make the butchery of Pretty Penny even more savage and prolonged to enhance his twisted pleasure.

  “Sir,” Benson interrupted my thoughts, “is there something about the eyes we should note?”

  “Nothing of importance,” I responded. “I was searching for any hidden infection that might prove contagious to the medical students.”

  “I have never seen such an affliction.”

  “It occurs,” said I, and left it at that.

  “So we are done here.”

  “All except for the copper earrings,” I replied, and rapidly thought back to what The Ripper might do once he learns that his fourth victim has been denied him. But suppose he is not made aware of Clara Collins’s death? It now seems most likely that her death was accidental and unrelated to The Ripper. If this was the case, I might be able to keep her demise a secret and buy us and Pretty Penny more time. “I want those earrings removed and kept in a safe place.”

  “May I ask why, sir?” Benson inquired. “They truly have little worth.”

  “Not to her,” I responded. “For they well may have been the sole possession of any value she had. And we should allow her to be buried with some dignity, and with her copper earrings on.”

  “A fine idea, sir,” Benson said, moved by my sympathy. “I shall keep them in my office.”

  “Very good,” I approved. “Now not a word to anyone about the Unfortunate and her copper earrings, for some stickler may come along and insist that such possessions, no matter how small, become the property of the Crown.”

  “In addition, sir, if the earrings were to accompany the corpse to the medical school, a student might decide to take them as a trinket or memento.”

  “Which is the very last thing we want.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  I tapped a finger against the slab table, thinking of how to phrase a question I needed an exact answer to. “How many people at St. Bart’s would be aware of the sad plight of Ruby, the Unfortunate?”

  “Only you and I, sir.”

  “Not even Professor Willoughby’s office?”

  “No, sir. I bypass him and his office on any and all matters relating to the selection process, for he becomes most upset when the subject is even mentioned.”

  “A wise decision, and with that in mind there is no reason to talk more of her,” said I. “But if by chance someone arrives and claims the body, I should like to be informed, for another corpse will have to be selected.”

  “I shall see to it.”

  I departed the morgue and hurried down the corridor, hoping that the head orderly would keep his word, but the tale of an Unfortunate, who a professor insisted be buried wearing her copper earrings, was so juicy, it was bound to leak out and become a popular subject of gossip at St. Bartholomew’s. Such talk was almost certain to reach the ear of Willoughby and could thus seal the final fate of Pretty Penny.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Resurrection

  Later that afternoon I returned to our rooms at 221b Baker Street and found Joanna alone, for following Johnny’s hieroglyphics lessons at the British Museum the young lad and my father retired to the firing range to begin instructions in the use of a Webley & Scott revolver. My wife glanced up at me briefly before sinking back down in her overstuffed chair and furrowing her brow in concentration.

  “Has something untoward occurred?” I asked.

  “It is something very much untoward which may occur,” she replied.

  “Concerning Johnny?”

  Joanna nodded, with a most serious expression. “Do you recall Sir David Shaw?”

  “I do indeed.”

  Sir David was a curator in charge of ancient Mesopotamian script and languages at the British Museum. He had been one of England’s most celebrated code breakers during the Second Afghan War and was knighted by Queen Victoria for his wartime skill deciphering top secret, coded messages, some of which were so sensitive they would never be allowed to see the light of day. My introduction to Sir David took place when he helped Joanna break an extremely difficult code in our first case together, which I entitled The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes.

  “I thought it a good idea to show Sir David the letter we received from Jack the Ripper and ask for his interpretation,” Joanna went on. “I was hoping the message could offer a clue as to the whereabouts of The Ripper’s dwelling. I thought the name Nemo might be of importance in this regard.”

  “And?”

  “I could not have been more wrong,” she said. “His explanation of the signature NEMO was interesting, but held no significance. Sir David was aware of The Ripper’s earlier letters and informed me they were often signed NEMO. I was told that nemo was a Latin word which meant ‘nobody.’ Thus, some believed The Ripper was simply saying that the murders were being committed by an ill-defined person, which conveyed the message that you think you see him, but you truly do not see him.”

  “As if he is one individual, but appears to be another,” I assumed.

  Joanna nodded. “Much like a chameleon who can disappear from sight, yet remain present.”

  “So he was referring to a Dr. Jekyll–Mr. Hyde character,” I reasoned.

  “Precisely,” Joanna agreed. “But Nemo could also represent a double entendre, in which the name also indicates that Jack the Ripper was at Eton, shadowing and following my son until the most o
pportune moment for capture arose.”

  “No promising news there,” I concluded.

  “Now comes the most disconcerting interpretation,” she said grimly. “Sir David believes the inclusion of John Gill in the letter portends the very worst. He recalled the case of the young lad, which was widely reported at the time. In Sir David’s view, The Ripper plans to not only recapture Johnny, but then he will perform the most gruesome of tasks.” She paused to swallow audibly, which told me that what was to come was most unnerving. “As you noted so well at autopsy, The Ripper often wishes to decapitate his victims. In the case of Johnny, he will take off my son’s head and have it mounted, as if it was some sort of trophy.”

  I shook my head in revulsion. “Like a hunter does with a lion he has killed, or a fisherman with a giant blue marlin.”

  Joanna nodded at my assessment. “They do it to remind themselves that they were more powerful and far smarter than the prey they tracked and killed. Likewise for Johnny, he will mount the head to document and confirm he had outwitted the famous daughter of Sherlock Holmes and brought upon her a lifetime of misery and grief from which she can never escape. And that by definition is the most supreme of powers.”

  “It is beyond insanity,” I noted.

  “Those were Sir David’s exact words,” Joanna continued on. “Furthermore, to make certain all England knows of The Ripper’s extraordinary feat, he might well take a photograph of the mounted head and send it to the newspapers for publication. You see, he wishes to be known as Attila The Hun of his time.”

  “What he truly desires is for his name to go down in history as a byword for cruelty,” I added darkly.

  “And thus far he is succeeding admirably at it,” said she. “With all these eventualities in mind, Sir David has strongly advised that we double the precautions we already have in place and never leave the boy unguarded.”

  “And so we shall,” I vowed.

  Joanna flicked her wrist at the notion. “We would only be fooling ourselves. There is no way we can hover over him twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. At some point in time, The Ripper will find an opening and use it.”