Martin Greenberg - Sherlock Holmes In America

“That she was kidnapped and has been forced into a brothel.”

I’m afraid I could not conceal my surprise that a lady of Mrs. Brandt’s breeding would use such a word in polite company.

“I’m sorry if I shocked you, Dr. Watson, but Mr. Holmes was correct when he guessed that I have continued to make my own way in the world, as he so politely phrased it. I am a trained nurse and midwife, and I have seen far more of the world than my parents would have approved, I’m sure.”

By now I had recovered from my surprise, and of course Holmes had not even batted an eye at her candor. “I assume the police are searching for the young woman in the… the places where they might expect to find her,” I said.

“Yes, but without success. There are so many of those places in the city, and none of them are likely to admit to keeping an innocent young woman against her will. As you can imagine, her parents are distraught, as are the people in her father’s church. In fact, the sense of outrage by all decent people in the city is growing daily.”

“A serious matter, indeed,” Holmes agreed. “Is Miss Penny a friend of yours?”

“No, I don’t know her personally, but her plight has affected me deeply, as it must affect all who know of it. I have determined to help in any way I can, even to enlisting the assistance of the best detective in the world,” she added with her charming smile. “Do you think you could find her, Mr. Holmes? I know you aren’t familiar with the city, but-”

“I would be glad to be of assistance,” Holmes assured her, “if the police are agreeable to consulting with me.”

“I know one of them will be. Mr. Roosevelt has already said he would give his permission if you were willing. I’ll send word to Detective Sergeant Malloy first thing tomorrow to meet you at your hotel.”

Holmes’s expression never changed, but I knew he was thinking, as was I, that Mrs. Brandt had indeed given her affections to someone socially inferior if she had chosen a policeman.

Holmes and I had hardly finished our breakfast the next morning when the expected Detective Sergeant presented himself. From his expression, he either had a bad tooth or he deeply resented having to consult with Sherlock Holmes. He grudgingly accepted the offered chair and deigned to take a cup of coffee with us while he reviewed the details of Miss Penny’s disappearance. We learned nothing that Mrs. Brandt had not already told us.

“When Mrs. Brandt told me about the case, I did not want to offend her by insinuating that it would be easy to solve,” Holmes said, “but in my experience, when a young woman disappears, there is usually a young man or a theater troupe involved, often both. But surely you already know that.”

“Of course I do,” Malloy said impatiently. “But Harriet Penny is a minister’s daughter, so she wasn’t allowed to attend the theater. And usually, when a girl elopes, she climbs out of her window in the middle of the night and takes a carpetbag with her. Harriet Penny disappeared in broad daylight with nothing but the clothes on her back. Besides, from all accounts, she’s twenty-five years old and as plain as an old boot. So far as I’ve been able to find out, no man ever looked at her twice in her entire life.”

“Do the police believe she simply wandered off and found herself in the wrong section of town where she was taken in by a kindly madam?”

“No, they think she was tricked,” Malloy explained with more than a touch of annoyance. “The madams employ young men they call cadets to find lonely girls and charm or seduce them into eloping with them. Instead of getting married, the girls end up locked in a brothel and forced into a life of shame.”

“An innocent young woman like Miss Penny might easily be charmed by such a man,” I pointed out.

“Indeed. What else can you tell me about Miss Penny?” Holmes asked.

“Not much. Everyone in the church knew her, but nobody could tell me a thing about her except to say she was devoted to her parents and to doing good works.”

“Her friends?”

“She didn’t have any close friends, anybody she confided in. She spent all her time with her mother, keeping her company.”

“One wonders how any young woman could be lured away from such a delightful existence,” Holmes observed wryly. “May I meet her parents?”

“They don’t have any idea what happened to her, either,” Malloy warned him.

“I’m sure they don’t, but perhaps they can help us understand Miss Penny better.”

“I’ll ask her parents if they’ll see you,” Malloy said, although he didn’t sound as if he held out much hope that they would.

But Mr. Malloy returned that afternoon with an invitation to visit the Reverend Mr. Penny and his wife at their home.

“May we stop by the church on our way?” Holmes asked as we were crossing through the hotel lobby. “I should like to see where she was when she disappeared.”

“If you want to,” Malloy said. “It’s just a block from their house.”

Malloy procured a cab for us, and after a harrowing trip through the crowded city streets, we found ourselves in a quiet neighborhood shaded with stately trees. The church was made of gray stone and boasted many stained glass windows. Inside, the dark wood gleamed brightly, and the altar was richly appointed. The congregation had been generous in their support. Still the building lacked the character of English churches, being only a few decades old, but in several hundred years or so, it might be considered a handsome example of some architectural period yet to be celebrated as classic. Malloy led us down a staircase to the basement and into a room where several partially filled barrels had been placed. Bundles of clothing were piled along one wall, and a table that had apparently been salvaged from a trash heap sat in the center of the room. Although it was likely used for sorting, it was bare now.

“She was sorting through the used clothing that people had donated for the missionaries,” Malloy explained, indicating the stacked bundles of clothing. “They collect things and send them overseas in the barrels.”

Holmes examined several of the bundles of clothing, then peered into the barrels, almost as if he expected to find Miss Penny hiding in one of them. But the barrels were only partially full, and not even a tiny child could have concealed herself in one of them for any length of time. “Is this the way they found the room after she disappeared, or did someone straighten it up afterwards?” he asked when had completed his inspection.

Malloy frowned. “This is how it looked when I got here. I don’t think anybody would’ve had time to do anything to it.”

Holmes nodded as if his answer held some mysterious secret meaning. “Does the basement have an entrance directly to the outside?”

Malloy led us down a dreary hallway to a door. It opened into the alley behind the church. Back gardens of the houses on the next street abutted the alley and were cluttered with ash cans and other refuse. People were passing by but not paying any particular attention to the three gentlemen who had just exited the church. They all seemed preoccupied with their own business and in a hurry to get somewhere else.

“What time of day did she disappear?” Holmes asked.

“In the morning, between nine o’clock and noon.”

“No one missed her all that time?” Holmes asked in surprise.

“She was supposed to be working in the church,” Malloy reminded him.

“Alone?”

“Her mother had come with her, but she got sick and went home. Miss Penny decided to stay.”

“Then let’s ask her mother about that, shall we?” Holmes said.

Malloy sighed in resignation and guided us down the alley toward the next street.