Johnny gave his mother a most puzzled look. “Please tell me why a train ride from Windsor merits such great concern.”
“Because we thought you might be in danger.”
“From what, pray tell?”
“An evil which you shall shortly learn of.”
“And this evil has me in mind?”
“So it would appear.”
Johnny’s face brightened. “Is he formidable?”
“Quite,” Joanna said candidly.
“On the order of Moriarty?” Johnny asked, mentioning the name of a mastermind criminal whom Sherlock Holmes referred to as the Napoleon of crime.
“Every bit as evil, but far more vicious.”
“Well then, we shall endeavor to catch this chap.”
It was most certainly not the response we had expected, but then again here was the grandson of Sherlock Holmes who had already demonstrated to us that he carried the Great Detective’s genes. Like his grandfather and mother, the young Sherlock would never dream of backing down, for deep within all three was the unquenchable desire to confront and defeat any criminal element which came their way.
After thanking Lestrade for his assistance, we departed Paddington and found a four-wheeler waiting for us at the entrance. The door to our carriage had barely closed before the ever-inquisitive Johnny began his questions.
“Pray tell who is this evil?” he asked.
“Jack the Ripper,” Joanna replied, and watched for her son’s reaction.
“I have read of him,” Johnny said, unmoved. “So he has returned, has he?”
“With you in mind, I am afraid,” Joanna cautioned.
“How so?”
Joanna hesitated, as if wondering how many of the gruesome features she should tell her son. She decided to hold back nothing and spoke in vivid detail of the letter and the significance of the name John Gill. I was somewhat surprised that she repeated, literally word for word, the commissioner’s ghastly description of the little boy’s butchered body. Perhaps she did it to reinforce that this was not simply a criminal investigation and merry chase but rather dealt with a conscienceless murderer whose savagery had no end. Joanna’s next sentence proved my assertion was correct.
“You must place the utmost gravity on this horrid case, for lives are very much at stake, including yours.”
“He is simply a killer, Mother, who is driven by some mad impulse, which will eventually lead to his downfall.”
“Does it not concern you that your life is in danger?”
“Of course, for that reason I have a plan to defend myself.”
“How will you accomplish this feat?”
“With a weapon.”
“With a revolver?” my father asked in astonishment.
“With jujitsu, Dr. Watson,” Johnny replied. “You see, I have followed in my mother’s footsteps and enrolled in such a school near Windsor.”
Joanna’s head spun around at the unexpected revelation. “How long have you been attending this school?”
“For seven months.”
“Have you earned a belt?”
“A solid gray one.”
“I am afraid that is at the lower end of the spectrum.”
“That is so, but I can break a man’s arm so that he will never use it again,” Johnny said confidently.
“The elbow lock,” Joanna described.
“Which I practice daily on one of my roommates.”
My father and I exchanged knowing glances, for here again was the indelible proof that physical talent can be genetically transmitted. Sherlock Holmes was a skilled boxer, Joanna a black belt in jujitsu, and now her son was climbing the ladder in that very same martial art. That trait had to run in the genes.
Joanna took a long, deep breath, which she tended to do while carefully choosing her words. “I must warn you that your experience in jujitsu is still somewhat limited and you may not be developed to the point of defending yourself against a sudden attack that comes out of nowhere. That requires a split-second, nearly involuntary, reaction to your opponent. And if he comes at you with a weapon, such as a bat or club, a simple jujitsu move will not protect you.”
“I am aware of that, Mother, and for that reason I plan to stay close to the three of you.”
“Well considered,” Joanna said, obviously relieved.
“Wherever you go, we shall go,” my father chimed in.
“Accompanied by your trusted Webley,” Johnny said in an even tone, but his face was now deadly serious.
“I shall sleep with it.”
Joanna nodded her approval at my father’s comments, for they reinforced the danger the lad was facing and the necessity that all precautions be taken. We rode on in silence, but our collective thoughts no doubt remained centered on Jack the Ripper. My mind drifted back to the letter he had sent to Joanna, for therein lay the clues to his next victim, presumably our Johnny. The mention of John Gill indicated that the victim would be a young lad nearing his birthday, which told us who and when. But it was the important where that seemed to elude us. The only other clues in the letter were the nickname The Ripper assigned to the commissioner and the mysterious Nemo at the end of the message. Was the latter a clue as to where the next murder would take place?
“We neglected to ask the commissioner about the name Nemo in the letter,” I mused aloud.
“I was too concerned with Johnny’s well-being to inquire,” said Joanna. “But I shall do so by phone when we reach home.”
A curious look came to Johnny’s face. “What would Jack the Ripper have to do with The Odyssey?”
“Are you referring to the ancient story in Greek mythology?” she asked at once.
“I am,” Johnny replied. “Nemo was the alias Odysseus used to overcome his opponent.”
Joanna was taken aback by her son’s knowledge of the Greek myth, as was I. “How did you come by this information?”
“Some weeks ago there was a play at Eton entitled The Odyssey, which was based on Homer’s work and performed by a group of traveling actors from London,” the lad replied. “We were encouraged by our tutors to attend.”
Traveling actors from London! The words reverberated in my brain and immediately brought to mind the St. Bart’s Players, who often performed in cities near London. Most important, three of the St. Bart’s Players were prime suspects in the Jack the Ripper murders. I quickly glanced over to Joanna and my father, and it was clear we all had the same thought.
“How did you learn of this play?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“There were posters placed all about,” Johnny replied. “That and the fact it was the talk of the town.”
“Did the posters happen to mention where these players originated from?”
“They were called the Hammersmith Players.”
My spirits sank at the lad’s answer. So much for connecting The Odyssey to our prime suspects, I thought unhappily. Although the Hammersmith district had a hospital, it was a military facility reserved for those wounded in the Great War and was in no way associated with St. Bartholomew’s. “And so goes a possible link to Jack the Ripper,” said I.
“Not necessarily,” Joanna countered, and turned to her son. “Please tell me about these posters which advertised the play. I would like a description.”
Johnny thought back briefly before answering. “There was nothing unusual about them other than they were quite colorful, with a figure of Homer taking up most of the poster.”
“Was the name Nemo mentioned?”
Johnny nodded slowly, as the memory returned. “It was indeed. A giant figure of a Greek warrior was holding out both hands, with the name Odysseus, who was the hero, printed on one, and Nemo, the alias, written on the other. Those of us unfamiliar with the myth wondered what their meaning was.”
“The poster caught your eye, did it?”
“It caught everyone’s eye, Mother.”
“Including Jack the Ripper’s,” Joanna said grimly.
>
“Pray tell how you reached that conclusion?” I queried.
“Because of the letter he sent us,” she elucidated. “All of the pieces of the puzzle now fit together. John Gill was mentioned to inform us that his next victim would be a young boy nearing his birthday. That indicated to us he was planning to bring harm to our Johnny, who had the same profile. NEMO was signed to tell us The Ripper has visited Eton and seen the colorful posters. He may well have been shadowing Johnny and waiting for the most opportune moment to strike.”
“And he was no doubt taunting us again, with a notice of what was yet to come,” I added.
“That, too.”
There was a sudden loud bang which caused our carriage to rock violently from side to side. We were thrown against one door, then the other, with nothing to hold on to other than each other. Joanna landed on my lap and Johnny on hers, while my father was tossed to the floor. As the carriage came to a rest, we could hear our horse make a frightful sound, followed by the noise of tires squealing on the asphalt pavement. We quickly checked ourselves for injuries and fortunately there were none, save for a nasty bruise on my father’s knee.
The door to our coach slowly opened and a bloodied hand reached into the cabin. I hurriedly leaned back and prepared myself to kick at the intruder, while Joanna removed a shoe to use as a weapon. Then the remainder of the body that belonged to the bloodied hand showed itself. It was our driver, with a profusely bleeding nose. We stared at him and tried to collect ourselves as our pulses continued to race from the adrenaline flowing through our veins.
“Anyone hurt?” he asked anxiously.
“We are fine,” I replied. “What caused our accident?”
“A bloody insane driver who of course sped away to avoid penalty and punishment.”
“Did he come directly at us?” Joanna asked.
“So it would appear, madam,” the driver responded. “My horse seemed to sense it and turned away just in time.”
The horse made another frightful sound, although less intense than the previous one. Then he snorted loudly as air was forced through his nostrils.
“I had better attend to him,” the driver said.
“One more question,” Joanna requested quickly. “Did you actually see the driver of the vehicle?”
“I did, madam, but only briefly and in passing, as he fled the scene.”
“Describe what you saw.”
“It was a man, in his middle years, I would guess, who was for the most part hunched over the wheel.”
“Could you make out his hair?”
“No, madam, for he was wearing a hat of some sort.”
“Like a fisherman’s hat?” Joanna asked promptly.
The driver hesitated before answering. “It could be, but then again he was driving away and I did not have a good look.”
“Thank you,” Joanna said. “You may now attend to your horse.”
Once the driver had withdrawn, I hurriedly asked, “Do you truly believe it was The Ripper?”
“It might well have been,” Joanna replied. “It would have been a variation of the smash-and-grab technique. With all of us dazed and perhaps seriously injured, he could have carried Johnny away.”
“But would there not be witnesses and onlookers who would stop him?” Johnny asked.
“Oh, there would be, but he could have explained that you were most badly injured and he was rushing you to nearby St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“Is he that clever, Mother?”
“There is a long list of dead people that can attest to that very fact,” Joanna said, and reached for the door to climb out of the battered carriage.
CHAPTER 20
Maxwell Anderson
“You do not fit the profile of a gentleman drifter,” Joanna remarked.
Maxwell Anderson’s brow went up a notch. “I believe you have been misinformed.”
“My sources do not misinform,” said she.
We were seated in the parlor of our rooms at 221b Baker Street, enjoying glasses of sherry as yet another storm blew in from the North Sea. Anderson had been invited on the premise that his knowledge of Pretty Penny might assist us in our investigation, but our prime purpose was to determine if he was in any way involved in the disappearance of the missing actress. He showed no hesitation in accepting our invitation.
“You were seen in the Black Lamb, well dressed indeed and cozying up to an Unfortunate,” Joanna went on. “Yet your age and manners are not in keeping with those of a gentleman drifter.”
“My intent was not to slum, but to find a trail that Penny may have left behind.”
“In the Black Lamb?”
Anderson nodded his answer. “For that was one of the places where she might have crossed paths with her abductor.”
Joanna, my father, and I looked at the handsome pathologist in total disbelief, with my wife asking the question on our collective minds. “Surely you are not telling us Pretty Penny worked part-time as an Unfortunate.”
“No, no,” Anderson said at once. “Never in a million years.”
He sighed sadly, then recounted the desperate plight Pretty Penny found herself in prior to being taken in by Emma Adams. The young girl was penniless on the mean streets of Whitechapel and barely managed to subsist by taking on the most menial of positions which paid only a pittance. These included cleaning floors at local shops and washing dishes at the Black Lamb. It was the latter work she valued so highly, because the pub owner allowed her to partake of leftover food. There were times when that was her only form of nourishment.
“What a dreadful experience,” my father noted.
“Dreadful indeed, sir,” Anderson continued on. “Made even worse by her seemingly endless attacks of asthma.”
“She confided in you, then.”
“She did, Dr. Watson, but only after she began wheezing noticeably after a late-evening performance. From her history, it was clear she had never been adequately treated, so I arranged for her to be seen by a specialist at St. Bart’s who was having some success with a combination therapy that included belladonna alkaloids and atropine. His stock of these agents was limited, but he was good enough to deliver a weekly supply to me, which of course I gave to Penny. The results were spectacular, with only an occasional wheeze to be heard now and then.”
“Until she decided to have a go without them,” Joanna interjected.
The handsome pathologist nodded again. “Like most patients with chronic disease who become asymptomatic, she assumed the drugs had cured her, which of course they had not.”
“You stated that you supplied Penny with her medications on a weekly basis. Correct?”
“Correct, for as I just mentioned, the stock of these agents was in short supply and a week’s worth was all the specialist could provide to me.”
“Which you promptly handed to Pretty Penny.”
“Every Tuesday following the performance.”
“But she went missing on a Tuesday.”
“Which continues to cause me even greater concern, for without her medications the severe life-threatening attacks of asthma are certain to return,” Anderson said worriedly. “That is why I set out on my own to find my dear Penny before such a terrible event occurs. But alas, my ventures into the Black Lamb were in vain. None of her coworkers were able to help in even the smallest way.”
“And the clock on Pretty Penny now ticks even faster,” Joanna said, more to herself than to the pathologist.
“So it would appear.”
My wife paused to light a Turkish cigarette which Anderson viewed with obvious disfavor. She ignored his look of disapproval and spent several moments assimilating the new information. “But a dishwasher would not come into contact with the unruly crowd that usually populated the pub, and that is where the abductor would have placed himself.”
“True enough, madam, but on weekends when the pub was busiest, Penny would also help out as a barmaid. She was always kind and considerate to the Unfortunates,
who adored her for it. Thus my interest in the Unfortunates, for they would have noticed any unsavory character who paid unwanted attention to Penny.”
“And one Unfortunate did,” Joanna reasoned. “Which is why you decided to meet her secretly in a carriage at Mitre Square.”
Anderson’s jaw dropped. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I have my sources,” she replied. “But pray tell why in such secrecy and why at Mitre Square?”
“At the square because she lived nearby, and in secrecy away from the pub for two reasons. First, when Unfortunates spend excessive time talking to an individual rather than performing a service, people become suspicious and ask questions. Secondly, pubs have ears that listen to the patrons talk. The Unfortunate did not want word reaching the abductor that she might be a witness.”
“Clever girl.”
“Clever enough to keep her distance from Jack the Ripper.”
Joanna abruptly moved in closer and asked, “Did she actually see The Ripper?”
“Not with any degree of certainty, but she recalled an older patron repeatedly offering to buy Penny a drink, which she of course refused.”
“Could she describe the man?” Joanna inquired quickly.
“Only that he was older, with long gray hair,” Anderson replied. “I informed her that should she obtain his name and address, a most generous reward awaited her.”
“I take it she has not responded.”
“Not as yet.”
“Nor will she, for Jack the Ripper will shortly bring his reign of terror to an end, and he will then again go into seclusion.”
The young pathologist gave my wife an odd look. “What allows you to be so certain this will occur?”
“Because his letters state that once he has done away with Pretty Penny, he will retire for good. She will be the last to die, you see.”
Anderson sank into his chair, crestfallen. “The thought of losing her forever is more than I can bear.”
“Which no doubt makes you deeply regret the fight you two had at Alexander’s.”
“More than you will ever know,” he said ruefully. “All she wanted was a commitment to marriage which I foolishly refused to give—all because of societal pressure which means so little now.”
The Abduction of Pretty Penny Page 22