The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  “I take it no bodies were found?”

  “That is partially true, for on occasion arms and legs were put on display, which more than a few of us considered the work of The Ripper.” The commissioner gazed out at the crowd gathering across the square before adding in a grave voice, “You might be interested to learn that the body parts appeared within a day or two of the reported disappearances. Thus, madam, you may not have the five days you predicted to find the missing actress. I am afraid the clock is ticking faster than you anticipated.”

  “If your assumption is correct,” said Joanna. “Another equally plausible scenario is that the reemerging Ripper has invented a new game so he could amuse himself at length.”

  “Entirely possible.”

  “But not if the body in the passageway belongs to Pretty Penny.”

  “It does not,” said the commissioner. “We have tentatively identified her as one Carrie Nichols, a well-known local prostitute.”

  “Tentative, you say?”

  “Nearly certain, but we are awaiting further confirmation because her face has been so badly disfigured,” he clarified. “It is the same with the corpse that is currently being autopsied at St. Bartholomew’s. The latter is believed to be another prostitute named Evie Dawson, but she, too, awaits positive identification. This then is another characteristic of The Ripper in that he tends to prey on young prostitutes.”

  “Which are the most vulnerable.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I should now like to see his latest piece of work before the rain starts again.”

  “This way, then.”

  Sir Charles led us down the passageway at a brisk pace, but Joanna followed slowly, with her eyes fixed on the mud-covered pavement. I stepped aside to avoid walking into an upright badly weathered broom whose thick straw fibers were worn down to the stick. Beneath it was a small pile of trash.

  “We see the event as happening in this manner,” Sir Charles was saying. “Prostitutes usually stand at the entrance to the passageway where they offer their services to prospective customers walking by. If the customer agrees, he is taken into the dark passageway so that their business will be conducted out of view. She then positions herself with her back to him, for that is how the service is usually rendered. It is at this point we believe The Ripper slashed her throat and went about mutilating her. Whether or not she is alive at the time of mutilation is open to question.”

  “That may be the most likely chain of events, but the evidence shows that it occurred in a totally different fashion,” said Joanna, motioning to drag marks on the muddy pavement. “Allow me to draw your attention to the deep impressions left in the mud by the victim’s heels as she was dragged away. The marks begin at the entrance to the passageway where the woman was first accosted.”

  “How can you determine those lines were made by heels?” the commissioner asked.

  “Because the two are straight without variation and less than a foot apart, which is consistent with a body being dragged,” she elucidated. “There is no other explanation.”

  “But wouldn’t she put up a struggle, which would cause the lines to become disarrayed?”

  “Not if she was unconscious, which she undoubtedly was.”

  “But we have no proof in this regard.”

  “I believe examination of the corpse will prove my hypothesis,” said Joanna, and gestured to the upright battered broom. “Moreover, notice how close the drag marks are to the broom. Were the victim conscious and fighting for her life, she would have certainly seen and reached for it to use as a weapon, which she obviously did not.”

  Ahead lay the corpse beneath a woolen blanket, with a constable standing guard nearby. The body itself was completely covered except for the victim’s feet. Joanna leaned down to carefully examine them by gross inspection, before restudying them with her magnifying glass.

  “You will note, Commissioner, that the heels of the woman’s shoes are somewhat worn down, but are clean except for their rears, which are coated with caked mud. Since individuals do not walk on their heels, it is entirely logical to believe the mud was placed there when she was dragged away. In addition, the size of the drag marks is a quite good match for the woman’s heels. Putting all these signs together, I think it is fair to say the victim was dragged into the passageway while unconscious. Now let us determine how she was rendered so. Please have the corpse uncovered.”

  Sir Charles signaled to the constable, who pulled the blanket away. Even for those of us accustomed to gruesome sights, the disfigured face of the prostitute was difficult to view. There were deep cuts under both eyes which were caked with dried blood and gave the appearance of artistic accents. Her lips were sliced through and through and spread apart to expose the underlying gums. But it was the woman’s neck which was indeed revolting. It was so deeply slashed that she was nearly decapitated.

  “It is beyond depravity,” I uttered under my breath.

  If Joanna was moved by the sight, she showed no evidence of it. “Why did he bother so with her neck?”

  Pushing my revulsion aside, I knelt down on an unsoiled area of the blanket and inspected the work of a maniac. It was in every way diabolical, for the slashes were all delivered with deliberate intent. I could only hope that the victim was not awake as the horrific wounds were inflicted. Clearing my mind, I began to voice my findings. “I can discern two cuts to the anterior aspect of the neck, one shallow and the other wide and deep. I take it the initial stab was a failed attempt to enter the tissue below, while the second slice was far more violent and penetrated the trachea before severing the carotid arteries, which accounts for all the blood pooled and splattered about. The blade actually separated part of the cervical spine and nearly decapitated the victim. She was certainly alive during the moments she was being carved up and may have been conscious.”

  “What do you base the latter observation on?” my father asked.

  “The initial, superficial cut to the neck, which I believe was an unsuccessful attempt to decapitate, is somewhat irregular and varies in depth,” I answered. “This would occur as she was struggling and trying to pull away from the terrible pain.”

  “Would she not have cried out loudly?” Sir Charles inquired.

  “I am afraid she did not have time, for the second cut was immediately applied and sliced through the windpipe,” I explained. “Without the passage of air, the only sound she could have uttered was that of blood gurgling in her throat.”

  “Can you determine which direction the blade took?” Joanna queried.

  “It traveled right to left, which indicates the killer was left-handed.”

  “Which was a characteristic of The Ripper from yesteryear,” the commissioner informed. “As was the sentence in the note stating that he gave her a pretty necklace. In both letters it was referring to the wide slice that opened the victim’s neck.”

  Sir Charles stepped in a small puddle of blood unintentionally and wiped off his shoe on a clean area. “I have put out a notice asking for knowledge of anyone who appeared with blood splattered on his garments or face.”

  “You won’t find him,” Joanna said.

  “Why not?” asked he. “Certainly with all the blood spurting about, the perpetrator could not have completely avoided it.”

  “He is too clever for that,” Joanna apprised. “An experienced killer does his work while standing behind the victim, so as to be clear of the blood spurting out of a severed carotid artery, which can travel as far as twelve inches, according to a monograph I read.” She pointed to the blood splatter on the brick wall near the corpse. “The Ripper had her facing the wall for that very purpose.”

  “Well explained,” said the commissioner.

  Joanna paid little attention to the compliment as she leaned forward to examine the victim’s jawline. “The deep bruise mark at the bend of the mandible is most informative.”

  “I was about to comment on that,” said I. “Its position is consistent with a bl
ow from the left-handed assailant. It also tells us how she was rendered semiconscious before being dragged into the passageway and sliced up.”

  “And nobody saw or heard even the slightest disturbance,” Sir Charles remarked unhappily.

  “The Ripper is very good at what he does, which explains why he has never been caught,” said Joanna, and joined me to inspect the torso of the corpse.

  The woman’s clothing was pulled up above her waist and in total disarray. There was a huge slash that went from her pubis up to the rib cage, with its edges spread apart to allow curls of intestines to dangle out.

  “Are there any organs missing?” Joanna asked.

  “That determination will have to await the autopsy table,” I replied.

  My wife turned to the commissioner after giving the body a final look. “I trust, Sir Charles, that your cloak of secrecy will now be removed, for the corpse of this poor woman will have to be studied, not only by my husband, but by a number of experts at St. Bartholomew’s. The word will certainly leak out despite your best efforts.”

  “I am afraid it already has,” the commissioner said. “The crowd you witnessed across the square had gathered long before we arrived, and this assemblage attracted the news reporters, a few of whom are old enough to recall the horror of Jack the Ripper. I can assure you the gruesome details will appear in the evening newspapers.”

  “Let us hope they use some discretion,” my father wished.

  “They won’t,” Sir Charles went on. “The body was discovered by some of the locals, who invited others to view the ghastly scene, who invited yet others. We fortunately arrived before the newspaper photographers did.”

  “I shall do my best to prevent it from becoming a spectacle at St. Bart’s,” I promised.

  “That would be most appreciated,” the commissioner said sincerely. “I take it you will be performing the autopsy.”

  “Correct.”

  “Should Dr. Willoughby then continue to lead the hospital’s investigation?”

  “As director of pathology, he should of course remain in that position.”

  Sir Charles gave me a long, discerning look. “From your tone of voice, it would seem you think otherwise.”

  “I did not mean to convey that impression,” I said neutrally. “But I do believe it best I alone perform the autopsy so that my concentration is not interrupted.”

  “Then I will suggest to Dr. Willoughby that he—”

  “I would not suggest, Commissioner, but strongly recommend,” Joanna advised. “It is my husband who is the forensic expert, not Dr. Willoughby. If this case is to be solved, it will require the finest of our talents.”

  Sir Charles hesitated briefly before acquiescing. “I shall see to it, then. Are there other matters you deem important?”

  “Not at the moment,” Joanna replied. “But I should like the last-known address of Carrie Nichols.”

  “We are in the process of having it searched.”

  “Excellent, but I shall require the address.”

  “Do you not trust Scotland Yard?”

  “Not as much as I trust myself,” Joanna said, with a thin smile. “And now we shall be on our way and leave you to your investigation, which at this point seems quite formidable.”

  “But one I mean to bring to an end,” the commissioner vowed.

  We left Sir Charles and Lestrade with their mutilated corpse and strolled across Mitre Square to a waiting taxi. The crowd of observers had grown even larger and some appeared to be enjoying themselves, with frolics and laughter. A young lad was moving amongst the gathering and trying to sell small bags of chips. The people quieted as we approached, for Joanna’s face and skills were recognized by most of London.

  In a loud voice, someone called out, “Look! There is the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”

  A second voice belonging to a female shouted, “You’d better be careful, dearie, before Jack the Ripper comes after your pretty arse as well!”

  The crowd chuckled at the crude remark, but I suspect they would not have found it so amusing had they known what was truly in store for Joanna.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Copper Earrings

  The order that I alone perform the autopsy had been passed down from Scotland Yard and Peter Willoughby was obviously upset over it. He blamed Joanna, my father, and me for the apparent demotion, and the look in his eyes told me he would not soon forget it. To make us feel uncomfortable, he remained in the dissecting room at the beginning of the autopsy and immediately broke his word to stay silent.

  “This is entirely unacceptable, Watson,” said he.

  “I cannot argue with the commissioner,” I replied, disliking the man even more than usual. After careful deliberation, I had decided to tender my resignation at year’s end, for I could no longer tolerate Willoughby’s demeanor and pettiness. There were other hospitals where my services would be most welcome, although it would be painful for me to leave St. Bart’s, which was considered an academic center of international repute. But so be it. Pushing that thought aside, I slipped on rubber gloves and did my best not to return Willoughby’s unpleasant glare.

  “Well, let us get on with the autopsy,” he snapped.

  “First, the victim’s garments, which may hold important clues, should be examined,” said I. “I trust you will allow my wife to perform this part of the autopsy, for she would be most knowledgeable about female clothing.”

  Willoughby took my request as a signal that he remained in charge, which of course wasn’t the case. “I will permit it.”

  “Good. Then let us proceed.”

  Joanna placed on rubber gloves as well, for prostitutes were known to carry a number of diseases, some of which were communicable and easily transmitted through a scratch or abrasion in the skin. The victim’s clothing had been removed and laid out on a long table for display. Joanna began with the outermost garment, which was a tattered woolen jacket that had empty pockets. Next, she patted down a man’s white vest, with buttons down the front and two side pockets, one of which contained a half crown and two shillings. The latter may have been the woman’s fee for services rendered. In the second pocket was a totally unexpected finding. Joanna held up a doctor’s prescription from St. Bart’s for my father to read.

  “It is written for iodinated gauze, and signed by Thaddeus Rudd,” he stated.

  “There must be some mistake,” Willoughby disputed at once. “A distinguished surgeon, such as Rudd, would have nothing to do with this sort of individual.”

  “Unless she was a patient in the charity clinic where the poor are cared for free of charge,” my father explained. “I myself attended in that clinic periodically prior to my retirement. I suspect that is how she came to be seen by Rudd.”

  “And the purpose of the iodinated gauze?” Joanna inquired.

  My father again studied the prescription. “It is an antiseptic to be inserted twice daily.”

  “But into where?”

  “Into an infected cavity, I would surmise.”

  “Let us move along and stop wasting time on minor matters,” Willoughby demanded.

  “I work on my time, not yours,” Joanna responded sharply. “If you have a complaint regarding my methods, I suggest you take it up with the commissioner.”

  Willoughby gave my wife a harsh stare but was wise enough to remain silent. He came from a world in which women were subservient and forever yielding to masculine dictates. Poor Willoughby simply could not accept the fact that he was outmatched in every way by Joanna.

  “We should look for iodine stains on her inner garments,” my father advised.

  “And so we shall, Watson,” said Joanna, now searching and holding up a chintz shirt that was decorated with flowers. It showed no stains. With care, she next examined the victim’s blue skirt and found a single pound note sewn into its hem. “A life’s savings,” she presumed.

  The remainder of the prostitute’s clothing, including petticoat, stockings, lace-up boots,
and black straw hat, revealed no additional clues.

  There was a brief rap on the door and Robbie Connery, the hospital photographer, entered, carrying his equipment. He went about his business in a most professional manner, taking multiple photographs at various angles, but even he, despite his long experience, had to suppress a nauseous gag while viewing the victim’s disfigured face.

  “If you’d like, I can take additional photographs with her hat on,” Connery proposed. “At times a hat, if frequently worn, can bring back a remembrance.”

  “I do not believe it will matter much, with her marked facial disfigurement,” said I.

  “I am afraid you are correct,” Connery agreed, and, gathering up his equipment, departed the autopsy room.

  Adjusting the overhead light, I again noted how neat the facial cuts were. They were straight and obviously made with a very sharp knife, which allowed the laceration to go deep down to bone without resistance. Her lips were sliced apart, so as to give her a mocking grin. And beneath them was a badly lacerated tongue, which told a story in itself.

  “I am of the opinion the victim was awake while she was being mutilated,” I remarked. “In her agony she virtually chewed through her tongue. She could not scream because of her severed windpipe, and thus her only response was to bite down on her tongue in an effort to replace one pain with another.”

  “Perhaps she fought nonetheless and there will be defensive wounds on her hands and forearms,” Willoughby suggested, trying to be helpful and lend advice.