Edition created by Anonymous MIT student
Table of contents
Textual Editing
Introduction
On a ship called “The Penelope,” a set of brilliant diamonds are stolen en route to a jeweler. One passenger draws suspicion, but when he is arrested, the police cannot find a single shred of evidence against him. Nine years later, the lead detective on the case, Inspector Herrick, details his investigation and its dramatic conclusion as repayment to the doctor who saves his daughter’s life. “The Penelope Robbery” details an unforgettable clash between criminals and police, spanning years, spanning continents—and it ends with a grand confrontation that readers of crime fiction won’t want to miss.
I found “The Penelope Robbery” in Household Words Vol. VIII, an English weekly magazine. On the cover page of the magazine, the publication date was listed as 1884. This wouldn’t have been a problem if other sources did not claim that Household Words ended in 1859—and if the editor of the magazine, Charles Dickens, didn’t pass away in 1870 (Lohrli, 26). I was dumbfounded, until I learned that Household Words was revived in the 1880s by none other than Charles Dickens Jr (UPenn). But I couldn’t verify this information until I found an online bookstore listing Vol. 1 and Vol. 2 of the “resurrected” Household Words, published in 1881 and 1882 respectively, for sale. The listing also confirmed the person who had taken over the magazine was “Charles Dickens II” (Biblio).
With the mystery of the story’s publication date solved, “The Penelope Robbery” could now be placed in the context of other detective short stories. Detective Dupin first appeared in the 1841 short story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” so “The Penelope Robbery” was published a little more than thirty years after the first modern detective story (Panek, 24). The timeline suggests that the author of “The Penelope Robbery” was likely to be familiar with Detective Dupin—and some elements of the story suggest the same. However, there is no way to know for sure. The author of “The Penelope Robbery” is not listed in the magazine, and I have not been able to find any other information about the story online.
Since detective literature originated in the nineteenth century, it is a fairly recent genre as compared to romantic literature or tragedies. A few decades after it was born, detective fiction underwent a “boom,” making the late nineteenth century the most productive era of British detective fiction (Veselská, 7). Since the themes of mystery and crime existed in ancient fiction, there is a question as to why it took so long for this genre to be established. One explanation is that before detective stories could be invented, there first had to be detectives (Panek, 8). One historian notes that in earlier societies, which were “agrarian” and “village-oriented,” there were few police officers. In the nineteenth century, we saw the first modern metropolis police forces. The French Sûreté was established in 1812, and in Britain, The Metropolitan Police were established in 1829—just twelve years before the first detective story (Veselská, 11). The timeline does suggest some correlation between the invention of detective fiction and overarching cultural shifts.
Editor’s Note
It’s important to mention that the author’s language reveals some of their biases and the biases of their era. The “lawlessness” of a neighborhood is compared to Central Africa. One of the villains is Jewish, and he is stereotyped in various ways. For the modern reader, these aspects of the story will be no doubt jarring, and the story itself will seem dated. Readers should strive to read this story as an artifact from its time, and take it for what it is, without disregarding any of its deficiencies. I have not attempted to sanitize the author’s language in this edition.
I have corrected two sorts of grammatical issues which ran throughout the story. The first issue was with punctuation. Before question marks, exclamation points, and semicolons, there was a space between the last word of a sentence (or clause) and the punctuation mark. The addition of those spaces didn’t affect my reading of the story, and I ascribed it to the mere preferences of the author. In this edition, I have removed those spaces, since I believed this editorial decision does not dilute the original story.
Second, the author’s placement of commas made certain sentences difficult to follow. For example, there is a sentence in the original text which begins, “Slight as this evidence was it pointed pretty direct to the fact that someone had gained possession of the captain’s keys…” A comma should be placed between “was” and “it,” and in this edition, I have added that comma, as well as in several other places.
In addition to these two changes, I have also swapped the order of words or replaced a word in a few sentences for clarity. For example, there is a sentence which begins, “I didn’t like to go too near for fear of exciting suspicion, so did not enter the court…” In my edition, I have placed a second “I” in front of “so.” Since these changes are a bit more significant than the ones I listed above, I tried to be conservative in making them—I ended up only editing sentences which may confuse a first-time reader or lead to misinterpretation.
Glossary
tittle (n) a very small part
mawley (n) the hand, a fist
byeway (n) a little traveled side road
life-preserver (n) a stout piece of cane about a foot long, with a ball of five or six ounces of lead attached firmly to one end; a self-defense weapon
billycock (n) a derby or a hat resembling it.
halloa (n) A loud exclamation; a call to invite attention to something or to incite; a shout
Genre Analysis
“The Penelope Robbery” begins by introducing readers to “one of the queerest cases” that the lead detective had ever investigated. From the get-go, readers are informed that there will be a crime, it is suggested that there will be a twist from the “queerness” of the case, and we gather that the story is a frame story since the detective is recounting the case to an unknown person. All of these facts indicate that the story is a straightforward detective story, perhaps a classic “whodunit,” which, one scholar notes, was the most common subgenre at the time of its publication (Veselská, 8). However, as the story progresses, “The Penelope Robbery” eschews several elements of early British detective literature, although it remains squarely within the genre of crime fiction.
First, let us consider the ways in which this story aligns with the traditions of detective literature. As one scholar argues, the early detective stories by Poe paid little attention to themes of justice or the “social and psychic” causes of crimes (Panek, 24). That is, they were not intended to be edifying. Instead, the emphasis is on how a particular crime “unravels.” In “The Penelope Robbery,” the author follows this tradition and spends little time on moral questions—it’s about the action instead. The scholar also notes that it is also a trope in detective stories to have an ordinary narrator, who is not a genius himself, but responds in “awe” and “adulation” to the story they are told (Panek, 29). The narrator makes several interjections as Inspector Herrick tells his story, and almost all of them are exclamations of disbelief.
Detective stories often also have an “unexpected denouement,” in which the facts of the case are revealed (Britannica). In “The Purloined Letter,” this denouement comes when we learn that the letter has been hiding in plain sight, and in “A Scandal in Bohemia,” it comes when we learn that Irene Adler was one step ahead of Sherlock. A similar kind of reveal comes in this story when we learn who was in on the crime, and later on, when we discover the full plan of the thieves.
However, there are several signs that “The Penelope Robbery” diverges from the mold of typical detective stories. According to one scholar’s research, Edgar Allan Poe, the inventor of the genre, considered his stories as “tales of ratiocination” (Veselská, 9). Ratiocination is the process of carefully observing the evidence at a crime scene, the people involved, and using “profound analysis” to determine the identity of a culprit. Sherlock Holmes follows a similar model: the power of the detective is observation and deduction. As another scholar puts it: it is a cornerstone of the genre for the detective to be a “divining rod amongst the superficial” (Bloch, 2). “The Penelope Robbery” does not follow this trend. Inspector Herrick is a competent detective, but he makes no great insights. Although he ultimately discovers the culprit, he is helped by various individuals along the way.
Herrick is different from great detectives in another way as well, in that he lacks any character traits which make him stand out. We learn very little about the way he lives, and through the story, we don’t learn of any eccentricities. Sherlock is a recluse and a bit of misanthrope, and he is sometimes reliant on drugs to cope. The trend continues with Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot, a detective with a “flamboyant black mustache,” and is often referred to as a strange or quaint “little man” (Csorba, 14). Even in modern detective stories, such as the 2019 movie Knives Out, the detective Benoit Blanc has a very particular manner of speaking and sense of humor, which distinguishes him from ordinary detectives. Herrick has no such defining traits, and thus, he is less memorable as a character.
It is best to view “The Penelope Robbery” as a twist on nineteenth century detective fiction, since it relies on certain tropes of the genre but disregards others. For readers of Sherlock who are drawn in by the personality and intelligence of the lead character, “The Penelope Robbery” wouldn’t quite scratch that itch. But it remains an exciting story in its own right, even when the suspense doesn’t stem from the detective alone.
Crime fiction, as opposed to detective fiction, is a much broader category which encompasses the latter. As one literary scholar puts it, the genre of crime fiction isn’t so much defined by particular character archetypes or the structure of the narrative, but with the themes it deals with, including “violence,” “sordid crimes,” and the “amorality” of the villains (Watson, 2). All of these themes are to be found in “The Penelope Robbery.” Insofar as readers of crime fiction are looking for an action-packed story with dramatic confrontations and plot twists, they will be entertained by the investigation of Inspector Herrick.
The Penelope Robbery
“Well, sir, perhaps one of the queerest cases I was ever connected with was the Penelope Robbery, as it was called at the time. I dare say you mayn’t recollect the particulars, for it occurred nearly ten years ago; so with your permission I’ll relate them to you.”
The speaker was a pleasant-faced, dapper little fellow, neat to a degree, with frank winning manners. He looked something between a banker’s clerk and a commercial traveller. But he was in reality neither of these. He was a detective-officer. Not one’s conventional idea of a criminal investigator I grant, yet, for all that, Inspector Herrick was one of the “cutest” men in the force.
How came we to be sitting together in my comfortable little study—I, a young and struggling doctor with appearance to keep up—that bugbear of young physicians—and this snapper-up of well-considered thieves and cut-throats. The explanation is not too far to seek. I had been recommended to the inspector for his little girl, who was suffering from simple catarrhal ophthalmia, and upon my declining payment—the case had given me very little trouble—the poor fellow had expressed himself so absurdly grateful that I believe there was nothing he would not have done for me.
“What could he do?” he asked.
“You shall relate to me one of your best professional adventures,” I answered. “I write occasionally for the periodicals, and your story shall serve as literary capital.”
To this proposition the detective readily assented, and thereupon began in the words I have quoted at the opening of this paper.
“You may remember that the Penelope was a ship, and that she sailed about nine years ago from the Cape of Good Hope. Among her consignments was a parcel of diamonds, sent out from firm at Capetown, and intended for Messrs. Shaw and Barker, diamond-merchants, of Hatton Garden. They were placed for safety in the care of the captain of the ship, a gentleman of the name of Bernard, and were estimated at the value of six thousand pounds.
“Towards the end of the voyage, one of the passengers—a Mr. Fenwick—expressed a wish to be put ashore as soon as they reached opposite Dover. The captain demurred at this, but the gentleman seemed so anxious about the matter—said he had urgent private affairs to attend to in London, and should save several hours by catching the train at Dover—that the captain at last consented, a boat was lowered, and the passenger landed.
“Now at Gravesend, one of the firm of Shaw and Barker—young Mr. Shaw, I think—boarded the ship to see if the diamonds were all right. Captain Bernard went down to his cabin to fetch them. But what do you think, sir—the diamonds were gone!”
“Good gracious! What, all of them?”
“Every man Jack of ‘em sir! Well, there was a to-do, and no mistake. The captain seemed to go demented, while the passengers looked uncomfortably at one another, each suspecting the other was the thief. First the safe in which the diamonds were kept was examined—this was found to be locked; but round the keyhole were discovered a few scratches and dents as though someone had used the key who was not used to it. And besides this, the smallest little bit of wax in the world was found sticking to one of the wards of the key. Slight as this evidence was, it pointed pretty direct to the fact that someone had gained possession of the captain’s keys, and had somehow had a rough facsimile of the safe-key made. But how this could have been done on board ship without exciting suspicion, or who the person was that had ’borrowed’ the keys, nobody could tell.
“Mr. Shaw now asked for all the particulars of the voyage; but there was very little to report, except that a passenger had landed at Dover, and had expressed a violent wish to reach London as soon as possible.
“‘That’s the man, then, you may depend upon it!’ exclaimed Mr. Shaw.
“‘Upon my word I believe you’re right,’ replied the captain. ‘But before we conclude it’s he, I would rather, for my own satisfaction, that the ship and everyone on her were thoroughly searched and in the meantime telegraph at once to London for detectives.’
“The telegrams were sent, and everyone, from the highest to the lowest, even including the captain himself, was searched by Mr. Shaw and the superior officers of the ship, but without success. Before the examination was quite completed the detectives—myself among the number—arrived, and upon hearing the facts of the case agreed that, without doubt, strong presumptive evidence rested against the person who had landed at Dover.
“I need not detain you, sir, with a full account of how we at last got upon this fellow’s track. I may say, however, that the captain had furnished me with a minute description of him; but none of the other passengers were able to give me much further information concerning him. It is true the captain had had a few words with him about his smoking in a prohibited part of the ship, and a slight coolness had in consequence sprung up between them; but otherwise, from all accounts, the man seemed a quiet and respectable member of society. At last, one day we ran him to earth in a street in Chelsea, and at once arrested him on suspicion. But you will be surprised when I tell you, sir, that not one tittle of evidence was forthcoming against him! Certainly, none of the witnesses he called knew very much about him lately, for he had been at the Cape for the last three years, carrying on his profession of solicitor, but had unfortunately failed in that capacity for lack of clients, and so had returned to England. His great anxiety to proceed at once to London arose from his desire to see his sweet-heart—a young lady (who was called in corroboration) who lived with her mother, on a small joint annuity, at Fulham.
“Not a trace of any of the diamonds was forthcoming. There was nothing in any way to connect him with the crime; and the man was accordingly discharged.
“There was one person, however, who still fancied that Fenwick was somehow mixed up in the robbery; and that person is the humble individual who sits before you. I had little or nothing to go on, I grant but nothing would drive the idea out of this obstinate head of mine. Whether his manager did not impress me favourably, or whether the account of his failure at the Cape made me think he was the sort of man likely to steal the stones, I cannot say. Anyhow, I determined to watch him like a lynx.
“Well, I did watch him, day after day, and discovered—absolutely nothing. I could at last almost have sat down and cried at the time I was wasting. I then made up my mind to give the affair one more chance on the following day, and, if I discovered nothing then—give it up as a bad job.
“On this particular occasion—the last I had resolved to devote to the case—Mr. Fenwick left his lodgings in Chelsea at 10:30 a.m., and took the Underground from Sloane Square. I was in the same train, watching each station to see what passengers got out. At Charing Cross our friend alighted, and I after him. He then leisurely walked up the Strand, turned up Wellington Street, and in the process of time emerged into Holborn. Here he looked about him for a little, and then entered a small court you may perhaps know, leading out of the main thoroughfare, and called Hand Court, and commenced walking up and down as if in expectation of someone joining him. Who this person was I don’t suppose you’d ever guess, so I may as well tell you at once. No other a man than Captain Bernard of the good ship Penelope!”
“Whew!” I whistled in astonishment.
“Upon seeing this my heart gave such a bound I thought they must have heard it where they stood. I didn’t like to go too near for fear of exciting suspicion, so I did not enter the court, but kept in Holborn, where I could still have an eye on the interesting couple. After an animated conversation, not a word of which I could, of course, catch, the two walked off together by the outlet farthest removed from Holborn, and, having threaded a variety of small streets, came out, in process of time, in Hatton Garden. Here they were joined by a third party, whom it was easy to see with half an eye belonged to one of the tribes of Israel. This fellow, apparently in response to a question from one of the others, tapped his breast-pocket with a significant look, and then led them down a number of byeways, the names of half of which I don’t remember, and at last, after a long and circuitous walk, set them down in front of a small ship.
“It was now near five o’clock, and getting dark, for we were in December, so I was able to creep up pretty close to them unobserved. In answer to a low knock, a side door was opened, and the trio entered. After a good half-hour they came out again, and as they did so I felt morally certain as that I stood there that the diamonds had during that time been disposed of by one of the party, probably the Jew. ‘I had better arrest my men at once,’ thinks I, ‘and then, after I have lodged them safely in the nearest police-station, return to the shop and demand to see the stones.’
“If any possible doubt existed in my mind that the men had had possession of the diamonds, it was now to be dispelled, for, coming up behind them as they stood by the side of a blind wall, I heard one of them say:
“‘Now for a big drink in honour of the sell!’
“‘Aye, the “Penelopes” must be drowned in “the boy.” I was never thought we’d——’
“I didn’t catch the remainder of the sentence, for before it was concluded they were again on the march.
“Now was my time. My palms itched to make the arrest, but I daren’t do so single-handed in such a neighbourhood; I must wait till I could enlist the services of a constable. It is true we should even then be two against three, but in measuring the forces I took into consideration that Fenwick was a spare, weakly-looking fellow, while the Jew, as far as I could judge, seemed fat and bloated, and could be soon knocked out of time. The captain appeared the only ugly customer. All this in case of resistance, which, after all, was not very likely. Still they walked on. Still I followed. Now the streets grew darker and darker, with never so much as even one constable in sight. At last, turning sharply round a corner, what should I behold but a member of the force advancing towards me from a side-street! I was not now more than twenty yards behind the men, but it was so dark I could scarcely make them out. I waited till the policeman came close up, and then said, in a low, quick whisper, ‘Constable, I am a detective officer—Inspector Herrick—you must aid me in arresting those men. They’re wanted on a diamond robbery.’
“‘Right, sir,’ replied the man, a big, powerfully-built fellow; and as I looked at him, I felt pretty confident on which side the betting ought to be in case of a tussle.
“I stepped briskly and fearlessly out, but had not gone more than seven yards when the men, hearing footsteps, turned round and—seeing the constable—took in the situation in a twinkling. They still kept on walking, however, and Fenwick, who, I suppose, supplied the brains of the party, appeared to be offering them some advice. Acting, apparently, on his counsel, they now stopped short on the pavement, as though they considered their game up. Resolutely I strode up, feeling master of the situation, and said:
“‘I arrest you on a charge of robbery from the steamship Penelope.’
“‘Do you, by——!’ cried one of the men; and before you could count one, they had turned on their heels and—bolted.
“‘Makes it all the easier for us,’ I whispered to my companion, and began running.
“Just then two or three men came along from an opposite direction, and I sang out to them: ‘Stop thief!’ But I had reckoned without my hosts; the neighbourhood was as lawless as any in Central Africa.
“‘Ain’t it likely!’ cried one.
“‘Not me!’ sneered another.
“‘Do it yourself!’ suggested a third.
“Still we were gaining on them. The constable sprang his rattle, but without response. We were now hard by a railway-arch, and within ten yards of the men.
“‘Step out, my man, and we shall have them!’ I said under my breath.
“The constable ran on manfully, with me by his side. We are within three yards of the arch. One long stride more, and the men are ours!
“Are they? At that moment something occurred, so totally unexpected as to alter the whole state of affairs. Directly it had taken place, I knew for certain that it was the result of plan, and that we had been ‘had.’ Suddenly, one of the fugitives—I think it was Fenwick—called out sharply, ‘Now!’ and, in a second, he and his pals had wheeled round, met us face to face, and simultaneously landed out with their ‘left.’ Their running away, then, was a dodge; they wished it thought they feared arrest, when all the time they were leading us to a secluded spot, where they meant to strike at their own chosen time. It was a cleverly conceived idea, and well calculated to take in at least as young a stager as myself.
“In a moment up went our ‘mawleys’ to the parry, and I was just in time to save a blow. Not so, however, the constable, who, not as quick as I, received from the Jew such a straight ’un from the shoulder that he reeled back a pace or two, and nearly fell. As he did this, I struck Fenwick fair between the eyes and sent him spinning into the road, stunned. It was now a fair stand-up fight between the captain and the Israelite on the one side, and the policeman and me on the other. Alas! I, too, soon found out we were over-matched. The affair had been so quick up to now that my companion had not even had time to draw his staff since the affray began.
“But the Jew was luckier. In a jiffy, while the constable was reeling back, he whipped out a life-preserver, and although my pal very quickly recovered himself, and thereupon laid the Hebrew’s lip right open with a blow from his stalwart fist, the other retaliated with a drive so furious from the life-preserver, that it clove right through the helmet, and descending on the poor fellow’s head, knocked him senseless on the curb. At the same instant I parried a blow from the captain, and landed him heavily on the chest; then, executing a well-known trick of the prize-ring, I got my foot round his ankle, and flung him, crash, to the ground. All at once a bright light flashed in my eyes, and when next I remember anything I was lying on a stretcher at the police-station.
“‘And the men?’ I asked languidly as I opened my eyes.
“‘Have got clean away,’ replied a gruff but kindly voice.
“‘And the constable who stood by me?’
“‘Poor Harris is laid up with severe concussion of the brain, and is hardly expected to recover.’
“‘The villains!’ I cried, then fell back and fainted.
“I am glad to say, though, as it turned out, I had not spent my time altogether fruitlessly. From a description I have of the house where the diamonds had been disposed of, two officers went there that same night. The property was identified before the buyers had time to send it abroad, and every one of the stones was recovered.
“Still, the culprits were at large, and I had set my heart on bringing them to justice.
“I was laid up for a couple of weeks. During my recovery my brother-detectives made out that I should be sure to be able to nab the thieves directly I got well. But I discovered they only told me this to please and humour me. I learned soon enough when I was better that the men had got but too good a start while Harris and I were lying insensible on the ground. Before almost the telegrams from Scotland Yard had had time to reach all the seaports, they must either have made good their escape across the sea, or were lying in such safe hiding in England or Scotland as to defy detection.
“At last I even gave up thoughts of the miscreants, and only mourned to think that I had been the cause of poor Harris’s sad affliction.
“Now, sir, I come to what I think is the best part of my story.”
As he spoke, the inspector altered his position in his chair and assumed a pleasanter tone.
“One evening, nearly two years after the events I have just related, I was lounging listlessly in the office at Scotland Yard, nothing particular happening to be on hand just then, when there came a knock at the door, and, in response to my ‘Come in!’ a slight, rather tall, dark lady entered the room. Where had I seen that face before? Somewhere, I was certain, but I could not for the life of me tell where. She came close to where I stood, and then spoke:
“‘You don’t remember me, Mr. Herrick?’
“‘No, ma’am, I can’t say I do, though I’m sure I’ve seen your face before.’
“‘You recollect Mr. Fenwick, I suppose?’ she now asked.
“‘Remember him?’ I replied with a start. ‘I should rather think I did!’
“‘Well,’ she said quietly, ‘I am the lady to whom he was engaged to be married.’
“‘You, madam!’ I exclaimed, and scrutinised her features carefully. ‘To be sure, I remember you now. You are the young lady he left the Penelope in such a hurry to see?’
“‘I am.’
“‘And-and may I ask what brings you here?’
“Her answer was contained in but one word, not at all melodramatically spoken, indeed almost under her breath, yet full of meaning and steady purpose:
“‘Revenge!’
“‘And how do you propose accomplishing it?’
“She still spoke quite quietly:
“‘By putting you on the track of Fenwick.’
“My eyes sparkled. To arrest Fenwick, the prime mover, I felt sure, of the great Penelope robbery, would be such a feather in my cap as would adorn the sorriest billycock ever worn.
“‘Explain yourself, I beg of you, Miss-Miss Harcourt, I think?’
“She nodded assent, and, getting out my note-book, I made copious entries of the following strange narration:
“‘Mr. Fenwick and I were engaged,’ she began. ‘It was an affair of long standing. While away at the Cape his letters to me were full of affection, and directly he arrived in English waters he landed, and made straight for our little home at Fulham, though subsequent events convince me that his doing was not the result of love for me, but was part of a dee-laid plot.’ As she said this she clenched the fingers of one hand within those of the other. ’Well, he still spoke of marriage, and our wedding-day was even fixed for an early date in spring. Yet each day, it appeared to me, his affection for me lessened. He seemed preoccupied, and although I questioned him I was unable to learn the cause of his abstraction. When the police arrested him in Chelsea, I, of course, thought I had solved the matter, but he informed me his mind was perfectly easy on that score, since he would triumphantly vindicate his character before the magistrate, and this, as you know, he succeeded in doing.
“’Now on the night of the 14th of December in that year, Hugh Fenwick left our house at eleven o’clock, and from that day to this I have never set eyes on him. You may imagine what my feelings were when I read of the conflict with the police, and that Fenwick was one of the party wanted in the diamond robbery case—imagine them if you can! You will not perhaps credit it, for you are not a woman, and know little of woman’s constancy, that even when I knew he was a thief, it made little difference in my feeling towards him. I was only sorry that he had not made me his confidante, and then perhaps I might have helped him out of his difficulties.
“’Where he had gone I had no more notion than you had. I did not expect to hear from him direct, knowing that a letter addressed to me would probably lead to his apprehension. Still, as time went on I began to think, if he loved so dearly as he professed, he could have found means to let me know of his safety. He showed ingenuity enough in escaping from the police, why not show a little in this? Yet no; week succeeded week, month—month, and at last, year—year, and still no sign. Even then I tried to cling to the belief that I had not been deserted; I tried to argue,”He may yet be true to me, and in time return to claim me for his wife.”
“‘At last my eyes were fully opened. I saw that his love for me had been a mere pretence.’
“‘And what was it,” I asked, ’that caused you to see the man’s faithlessness so clearly?’
“‘The news, on indisputable evidence, of his marriage.’
“‘How did you learn this?’
“’By the merest accident. An old friend of ours, whilst travelling in the States, happened to put up at a roadside inn not far from Louisville in Kentucky. Here to his surprise he discovered in the landlord no other man than Fenwick—whom he had known previously in England—who introduced him to his wife, the landlady of the establishment, whose name he had adopted. My friend told me of these circumstances in the course of a letter received only a few days ago, and from the tone of which it was evidence he neither knew of Fenwick’s engagement to me, nor of the diamond robbery.
“‘All my feelings underwent complete revolution—my love turned to hate, my constancy to a bitter thirst for revenge.’
“‘And you have Fenwick’s address?’ I asked eagerly.
“‘Yes.’ So saying Miss Harcourt produced a sheet of paper, on which were written the words, ‘Independence hotel, near Louisville, kept by Hugh Hanbury.’
“‘Then Hugh Hanbury and Hugh Fenwick are one and the same?’
“‘Precisely.’
“‘There is not a moment to be lost, Miss Harcourt,’ I said, rising from my chair. ‘An extradition-warrant will have to be obtained. I will, if possible, start for New York by the next boat, and will cable you the result as soon as known.’
“A few minutes more, and the lady had left the office.
“Well, sir, I need not take up your time with the details of my journey out; but come at once to my arrival at Kentucky, whither I was accompanied by three New York detectives—sharp fellows, I can tell you—who soon unravelled the whole matter. Surprise followed surprise. Not only were they able to identify Hugh Fenwick through a photo I furnished them with (for while they were prospecting around the inn, I kept in the background for fear of recognition), but to my astonishment they informed me that he had a Jew ith him, who, from their description, exactly corresponded with Mordecai Lewis—the name of the fellow, as I afterwards discovered, who had struck poor Harris so cruel a blow. Nor was this all. In a small landed proprietor, not more than five miles off, and doing the intensely respectable, who should they come across but the redoubtable, yet very shady Captain Bernard.
“Here was luck with a vengeance!”
“It was, indeed!” I cried, catching the inspector’s enthusiasm. “And how did you proceed to arrest them?”
“When all was ready, one fine morning, I and my three aids walked up to the Independence. Now, whether Fenwick had got an inkling that something was up, I don’t know; but as we neared the front entrance, we saw the landlord and Lewis on the threshold as if on the look-out.
“The moment they set eyes on us, they slammed the door in our faces, and slipped the bolts. We called on them to surrender to a warrant but a volley of oaths was the only reply. We now rushed round to the back door, yet here also were before us; we found that barred too. If they were determined to bar the doors, we were determined that none should escape, so posted ourselves, revolvers in hand, round the house—one at each corner. Suddenly we heard a noise and a scuffling towards the north-east corner, therefore prepared for an attempt to escape that way. But the noise was only meant to deceive. An upper window was now flung open, and ere one of us could reach the spot, I saw the Jew swing himself on to one of the branches of a tree growing close to the house, and with marvellous agility clamber from branch to branch. I halloaed out:
“‘If you don’t surrender I fire!’
“No response; and as the fellow with one bound came to the ground, I let fly but missed. With incredible swiftness Mordecai flew along the ground and made for a river that ran hard by—I and one of the detectives after him. In a very few seconds the man had cleared the intervening space and stood by the river bank. I was not long left in doubt as to his intention with an angry, defiant glare at me he threw up his arms up over his head—the next moment had plunged into the water.
“It took but a little time to bring us to the spot where he had just been standing, but the river was swift, and Lewis was already some distance down stream. Without a moment’s delay I whipped off my coat and boots and jumped in after him. I was only able to strike out with one arm, for the other held the revolver; yet aided by the steam I made my way diagonally across to the opposite side, and ran along the one bank while my mate took the other. We felt sure of our man; for a swimmer has no chance against a runner. All at once the Jew gave a scream, then another—non struggled convulsively in the water, then disappeared.
“When his body rose to the surface some five minutes later, he was dead. Whether his strange disappearance was the result of sudden cramp or heart-disease we were never to know.
“Leaving my companion to recover the body, I swam back to the other shore and was soon again at the inn. There I was greeted with cries of, ‘It’s right, surr; we’ve caught him. We banged in the door; at the same moment he made a rush through the lower window, but we collared him in the shrubbery. You should have heard his wife and maids go on at us!’
“Now for the captain. Directing a detective to remain with Fenwick, and keep him ‘covered’ with his revolver, we made for the farm. The owner was dumbfounded at our appearance, recognizing me at once. He received us civilly enough, however, and upon our reading the warrant said he would not detain us long. We accompanied him to his room where he wished to put up a few necessaries, and seeing it contained a barred window through which his body could not by any possibility squeeze, we waited outside, chatting. After waiting about ten minutes my mate called out: ‘Now then, captain, look alive.’ No answer. We tried the door. It was locked. Suspecting something was wrong we kicked it in and ran into the room. There, suspended from a beam by a long silk-handkerchief, we found Captain Bernard, yet warm, but stone-dead.
“The rest is soon told. Fenwick was brought back to England, and on the way over—partly, I think, because he had nothing else to do on board—made a full confession.
“It seems that just before he had taken passage for London from the Cape he got to know that the diamonds were to travel in the same ship and himself, and were to be placed under the special care of the captain. Well, he made up his mind to turn these stones to good account. Before long he discovered that they were kept in a safe in Captain Bernard’s own cabin. One night he managed to make his way as far as this room unobserved; but, just as he was cautiously opening the door, who should confront him from the other side but the captain himself! Now Fenwick knew something of Bernard’s past history—that he had been a blockade-runner, had been implicated in one or two shady transactions—was, in fact, a not over-scrupulous party and in addition to this he knew that he had lost a good deal of money lately, gambling at the Cape. All these things pointed to the conclusion that, with careful handling, the captain was not very unlikely to lend a willing ear to his scheme. First, he framed a good excuse for finding himself so near the captain’s cabin, and the next day, taking more careful measure of his man, he began his temptation. During each subsequent interview the wily lawyer gained a greater ascendency over the seaman, and at last the plan was concocted. Fenwick was to have a slight quarrel with the other, to make it appear that they were enemies rather than friends and it was further arranged that the former, who was not even to touch the diamonds, was to leave the ship suddenly at Dover, in order to have suspicion directed towards himself. After the captain had made a few dents and scratches round the lock of the safe, and placed a tiny piece of wax in one of the wards (both of which devices had their desired effect), he was to place the diamonds—where do you think? At the bottom of a small vase containing some dried Cape flowers. Nothing in the world could look more innocent, and no place in the world less likely to be the receptacle of stolen diamonds. It was a bold thing to do, but it succeeded. Just before the vessel touched the dock the captain was able to transfer the stones from the vase (into which the searchers had never once thought of looking) to his own pocket.
“Fenwick’s game was not to be in any hurry to meet his partner in guilt till he had been before the magistrate and discharged. In the meantime, Bernard had handed the jewels to a Jew, and ex-prize-fighter (this accounted for his pugilistic prowess), ex-publican, who, he knew, did something in the way of disposing of stolen property, and this fellow negotiated the sale. In accordance with a prearranged cypher message in one of the newspapers, Hugh Fenwick and Captain Bernard met in Hand Court by appointment, as we have seen—on which occasion I was there to receive them.
“In due course Fenwick was tried at the Central Criminal Court, and received a sentence of twelve years.
“As I left the court when all was over, I observed a lady with a handkerchief to her eyes. From her figure she seemed to me to bear a strange resemblance to Miss Harcourt. And as I watched her I could not help saying to myself, ’Just like ’em! Never stopped till she got the fellow convicted, and now she’s done it she cries over it.
Creative Response
Artist’s Statement Pt. 1
I chose “The Penelope Robbery” as my story because of its pace and intrigue. Like all good crime fiction, the scheming of the story’s villains, the twists along the way, and the looming threat of a misstep from either the criminals or the police make it easy for me to lose myself in the plot. In writing my own short story as a response, I knew my story had to revolve around a crime as well. And while “The Penelope Robbery” is ostensibly a detective story, it’s more about the crime and cover-up than it is about the deductive reasoning that was used to solve the case. I too wanted to focus my story more on the crime and its consequences than on how the criminals were discovered. There was also a second element of the original story I wanted to borrow. A love subplot between Fenwick and Miss Harcourt affected both how the crime and the investigation proceeded. I didn’t want to copy this formula down to its last details, but I wanted to include a romantic subplot within my own story which interacted with the main plot of the crime.
By borrowing these elements from “The Penelope Robbery,” I was confident that anyone reading my story after reading the original would see the influence. But I wanted to do more than just write a story that was influenced by “The Penelope Robbery”—the two stories had to interact with one another more than that.
I wanted people who read both stories to have a deeper understanding of each story by comparing it to the other. For instance, there is something of a plot twist in “The Penelope Robbery,” since we don’t expect the case to be solved by what initially appeared to be a minor character. On the other hand, this plot twist could be seen as detrimental to the story, since it removes some agency from the main character, Inspector Herrick. Would the story have been more successful if there was no plot twist at all, and instead, we get a deeper look at Herrick’s investigative process? I’m not sure. But there will be some sort of twist in my own story, so readers can consider for themselves the role of a plot twist in a story, and they can come to their own conclusions about when they improve a story, and when they don’t.
Next, to draw out and highlight some of the more outdated portions of the original text, I thought the romance in my story would have a different significance. Miss Harcourt had very little agency in the story until the moment of betrayal, and after that, revenge is all she wanted. She’s a bit one-dimensional, and in a modernized version of this story, I wanted to expand the love interest’s role. Further, it didn’t seem like Inspector Herrick actually cared about Miss Harcourt at all. He makes no apologies when he hears what has happened to her—nobody checks in on her during the entire story. All he cares about is the information she could provide, she is simply used as a tool by the characters in the story (and by the author to move the plot along). I hope that by revamping the romance in my short story, it will be more relevant to the crime at hand.
With these goals in mind, I set out to begin my story. I had no idea what exactly the crime would be or what the twist would be. I figured that if I developed the characters correctly, then throughout my writing process, they would guide me step by step, until there was a complete plot.
The Cellmate
I was released on parole for good behavior three weeks ago, and the transition has not been easy. A friend told me that it would take some time to adjust, that the world is different today than how I had known it thirty-six years ago, but that I must try, otherwise I would waste my life away. It is difficult enough to wake up each morning and bring myself to go through ordinary routines, to cook, to go out and look for a job. But on most days, I can manage that. It is much harder to control my mind—everybody I love is dead or somewhere far away, and my thoughts are my only company.
It is more painful to dwell on my life as it was before prison because it was happier, no matter how imperfect it may have been. My thoughts return to prison—it is often all I can think about, and I am reminded of an inmate who I knew for a few years before he got the chair, who told me that even if the guards unlocked the gates just for him, he wouldn’t walk through them, he would rather spend the rest of his life in prison because it was all he knew. I didn’t understand him at the time, but I do now. But I’ve gotten distracted, this story is not about me or about that old man. It’s about Declan, a man I shared a cell with eight years ago. Over the course of my sentence, I shared a cell with dozens of men of various types. Some of them ignited my innermost sentiments, which I no longer knew I was capable of feeling, while others I would have beaten to death with my bare hands if I thought myself capable. But none of them lingered in my mind quite like Declan.
In time, you learn to size up your cellmates when you meet them, and after almost two decades of the same routine, I took myself to be rather perceptive. When I saw Declan, I thought I knew exactly what I was in for. He was a tall middle-aged man, around six-three, with a clean-shaven face and moppy brown hair, and thin, branch-like arms which waved around like ribbons as he walked. His back was slouched over, and he drew his shoulders in; he looked defeated. When the guard slammed the cell-door shut behind him, he flinched. He was, in all likelihood, terrified of me, and I figured he would keep to himself, and the next few months would be fairly quiet. The one thing I did not have a guess about is what he was in for. Someone like him could have been in for anything ranging from a white-collar crime to a sex offense—I’ve even known people like him who had killed their spouse in a moment of passion. I didn’t care very much about why he was sentenced—my interest in my cellmates was limited to their character within those four walls; it made no difference to me how they carried themselves outside of prison, somehow what existed out there existed in a lesser capacity than what was inside.
But even in its limited capacity, my judgment was wrong. Moments after the guard walked away, he climbed up to the top bunk and said to me, “Do you have trouble taking a life?”
Amongst people who have never been in prison, there may be a misconception floating around that when two cellmates meet, they stare each other down like two cowboys in the old west, vying for supremacy. That doesn’t happen. You shake hands, you exchange names, and you shut up. There are those who have watched too many movies, and try to scare or intimidate the other person, and there are genuine monsters who will do everything in their power to make your life hell, but those are exceptions. Declan didn’t strike me as either of those two things. I didn’t know what he was playing at, but it didn’t impress me.
I scoffed.
“My name is Chris,” I said, reaching out my hand.
“Mine’s Declan,” he said. “But answer my question. Do you have trouble taking a life?”
“Shut up. And the top bunk is mine, you mind getting down from there?”
“Sorry.”
He climbed down the ladder, laid down in his bed and folded his hands over his chest. I could tell that he wanted to say more, but I had heard enough, so I climbed up to the top and laid down myself.
“It is important to me to know what you are in for,” he said.
“I said, ‘shut up.’”
“My last cellmate had no problem telling me. Problem was, he wasn’t a killer. He was involved in drugs and sorts of things, but not a killer,” he continued. “I don’t mean to be abrasive. But customarily, we share these kinds of things. There’s not a lot else to talk about. Or is that not your experience?”
“Usually, we greet each other first.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’m Declan, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Declan.”
“So why are you here?”
“Armed robbery. And murder.”
“So you are a killer.”
He was trying to rile me up or perhaps taunt me. But for what reason? I was at least eighty pounds heavier than him—even an idiot could see that I would have been able to toss him around like a ragdoll. It would have been a grave mistake to taunt me in my earlier years, back when my temper had not yet cooled, and I was too sensitive to take any perceived disrespect, regardless of the intent behind what was said. And in my later years, nothing would have gotten to me, I had made my peace. But at the time that I met Declan, I was not sure of who I was. I was beginning to forgive myself in some distorted fashion, but the guilt lingered inside of me. Was it not wrong to separate myself from my crimes? Wasn’t it, in some sense, an unearned gesture that I was granting myself? Another force inside of me said the opposite. That to cling onto my guilt was, in its own way, nothing more than to escape the present, to give up on myself, view myself as an irredeemable object, and to forgo the work it required to become a better man. I was undergoing a crisis of identity, but it was my own crisis, and I would resolve it on my own terms. The last thing I needed was for a stranger to criticize me.
“I am not that. Just shut the hell up man—whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not working.”
“I don’t mean to offend you. I’m jumping into things too quickly… it would be better if I first told you why I’m in here,” he said. I remained silent. “I promise it will be worth your time. And if you ask me to stop, I will.”
“I’ll take the silence as permission,” he said.
He stood up and leaned against the sink.
“To understand my story, you have to understand where I have been working for the past eight years. I was promoted to the head curator at the MFA—the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. We have our core pieces, but we’re always in search of more, either as loans from other museums, or from our donors—who, by the way, are awful to work with as you can imagine, they seem to think that just because they donated, they have the right to—”
“Get to the point.”
“Right, sorry. My job was to secure pieces for our collections, as well as to coordinate special exhibitions. These exhibitions are temporary, but they’re important to the success of the museum, since they give people a reason to keep coming back. They also allow us to give exposure to lesser known artists and pieces, since there is less pressure for the art in those exhibitions to conform to the rigid styles of each historical era. One of my favorites was an exhibition on the evolution of lithography, the highlight of which was a collection by Ellsworth Kelly, who made the subject of her work ordinary plants, such as the leaves of a camellia, or—I’ll get to the point. Not all of our special exhibitions highlight unknown artists. The one that’s important, the reason I’m here, is a collection by Hokusai. Are you familiar with him?”
“I’ve been in prison for almost thirty years.”
“It’s not like Hokusai became popular in the last thirty years—he was born in the nineteenth century! His famous wave painting? Does that ring a bell? Well, in either case, he was a painter and printmaker. The beauty of what he did lies in the fact that woodblock prints were not intended to be high art at all. The pieces created from this technique are transferred from a carved woodblock to a sheet of paper, which means they’re reproducible. But the Japanese turned it into high art, and Hokusai’s prints, in particular, are still popular today. I mean, people will put them on anything: t-shirts, mugs, you name it.”
“My boyfriend loved them,” Declan paused. “Noah’s mother was Japanese, and he was an artist. A painter. And he had some talent, at least I thought so, but he couldn’t make a living off of it. Not off of his original pieces. But what he had more talent for, really, was imitating the styles of other artists. You show him a piece from an artist he had never seen before, and it would take him just days to replicate it. Down to the last detail. In the beginning, a cursory inspection with modern techniques would have revealed that the chemical composition of his paint was that of the twenty-first century, but with the naked eye, even someone with my experience would have a hard time telling his forgeries apart from the originals. And later, when he started selling to more experienced clients, he was sourcing old paints and canvases from god knows where, and his forgeries became nearly impossible to detect.”
“Are you in for forgery? No, you can’t be. You wouldn’t be here for art forgery.”
“No, I’m not. I didn’t even know that he was creating forgeries when we started dating. I thought he made a living off of his originals. It must have been at least a few years into our relationship when he told me his secret. By then, I was already working at the MFA—if it had come out that I was dating an art forger, that would have been the end of my career. But Noah… I couldn’t leave him. On some level, I thought I understood him. If I could have made a living with my own art, I wouldn’t have become a curator, but even when that dream dies, a part of you just wants to be near it. I had my path, and he had his. It tormented me that he was selling forgeries, that innocent people were getting duped. On the other hand, and I see now that this is just me rationalizing, you would have to be an irresponsible collector to not verify the authenticity of a painting you’re buying. It doesn’t matter—I stuck with him. Even with my job on the line.
“Noah’s favorite artist was Hokusai. Every once in a while, when I was under pressure to create a novel exhibition, he would suggest I put on a collection from Hokusai. But it was implausible. His pieces are scattered around the world, in museums over Europe and Japan, some of the original woodblocks belonged to private collectors that were notoriously difficult to get in touch with. It’s not to say that it would have been impossible, we’ve pulled off more ambitious exhibitions in the past, but it wasn’t easy. And to me, it wasn’t worth it.
“Until something happened. Noah was caught. He found a buyer willing to purchase some unknown works by Camilo Egas—he wasn’t as famous as his contemporaries, which is to say that there was not a complete catalogue raisonné, a list of all his works. So Noah was able to convince his buyer that he owned a yet undiscovered original. He came up with a detailed backstory—it helped that he had some relatives from Ecuador, which boosted his credibility. But after the sale, his buyer contacted an auction house to verify the authenticity of the painting—no idea where she got the inkling that it might be fake—but she discovered it to be a forgery. Noah was convicted and sentenced to three years in prison.”
I was used to sharing a cell with petty criminals and even serious killers, but nothing of this sort. I was drawn into Declan’s story, and forgot all about his initial transgression.
“So did you lose your job then? After everything was discovered?”
“No. There were rumors, but when I first found out that Noah was forging paintings, I made sure to separate him from my professional life. None of my colleagues knew that I was still with him, although a few had suspicions. I was able to quash the accusations, and I remained at my post at the MFA. But what that also meant was that once he was convicted, visiting him was out of the question, too many people were poking their nose into our business. Even making phone calls was dangerous, but I still called him once in a while.
“He begged me to come visit him. He said he missed me, that he was abused by the inmates and guards alike. But I told him I couldn’t come. It was true. If I lost my job, there was nothing for me to fall back on, and once he got out, we would have had no way of supporting ourselves. So I told him to be patient, that once he was out, I would be able to help him. But only if I kept my distance, only if I kept my job. The truth was… Once he got out, it would be very difficult to associate with him. Living with him would have been impossible. I figured there would be some compromises we would have to make, but that we wouldn’t be out of each other’s lives. He didn’t see it that way. He saw it as me abandoning him, me choosing my life over his. And it only got worse. Once, my assistant overheard me on the phone with him—I tried to play it off, but she was aware of the rumors. And some of the things I was saying, well, they were incriminating. A week later, I was called to the director’s office, and he spoke as if he knew. He told me to be careful.
“I decided it was best if I stopped calling Noah altogether. I told him, and I promised that I would be there to pick him up as soon as his sentence was over. He didn’t say a word and hung up. We never called again. I thought I lost him—I mean, should I have done more? To this day, I don’t know. But at the time, I really thought I tried.”
Declan paused. I sat up in my bed, and saw him wiping tears from his eyes. His face had turned to a pure expression of grief. The same body, which earlier had conveyed the nature of a degenerate criminal, now radiated an aura of profundity that I had never been in the presence of before. For the first time in my life, my feelings were almost paternal. A part of me, long dormant, wanted to go up to him and hug him. But my hardened nature wouldn’t allow me to. All I could muster up was a weak apology, then I asked him to continue.
“I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I knew the date of his release, and a few months later, I hatched a plan. I would put together the exhibition of Hokusai that he had always wanted. I would be there to pick up him from the prison, and I would bring him to the exhibition. We would walk through it together. He would see the original woodblocks that Hokusai himself carved. My feelings had undergone a revolution—my position at the MFA be damned, there was nothing more important than him. For months, I exhausted all of my connections and cashed in every possible favor to secure as many pieces by Hokusai I could find. There was enough for an exhibition. We scheduled the date.
“When the day came, I drove down to the prison where Noah was held, and I waited. I drove down so damn early in the morning so that it was impossible to miss him. I waited until the sun set and all that lit up the sky were the ribbons of light streaming down from the guard towers, but he never came. I later learned that he was released on parole two months earlier. In those two months when he was free, he never contacted me.
“I was stupid. I still believed that once he found out what I had done for him, he would change his mind. That he would forgive me. And I figured that, wherever he was, our fates were so intertwined that he would find out about the exhibition even without my telling him, for I had no way of reaching him. So for two weeks, during the duration of the Hokusai exhibition, I waited. I stood at the entrance, I neglected my meetings, my work, I could not miss him again. And for two weeks, he didn’t come. That is, until the very last day, in the afternoon. By then, I had given up all hope. And then I saw him. Ha! He had a smile on his face. A kind of smile that said, ‘I’m sorry, but here I am!’ We embraced—I don’t even remember what I said, I must have begged for his forgiveness, and he begged for mine, but there was nothing for me to forgive. I loved him, and he was there. We walked through the exhibition together, and it was… everything.
“We stayed until the museum closed. I asked him where he was staying, or if he wanted to go back to my place. ‘I don’t know if I can ask that of you. Wouldn’t you get in trouble?’ he asked. I told him that I didn’t care anymore—that if keeping my job meant that our love would always be a secret, I didn’t care about my job. I figured we would have a way to scrape by—oh, if only I could have realized that sooner. His face lit up when I said that, and he gave me a kiss. ‘Well if you’re not going to be working here much longer, let’s make the most of it. Show me where you work!’ So I took him back to my office, where I had a bottle of whiskey, and we drank and we talked and we cried. Everyone else had left, the lights were turned off, it was just us in that office. We made plans for our future, we were going to move out to Michigan, by the lakes, where we would find jobs, and come home everyday to paint in each other’s company.
“It must have been past midnight when his face grew stern and asked me where the bathroom was. I was already drunk beyond belief by this point. I pointed him in the right direction and closed my eyes, and immediately, I could feel my head spinning.
“Fifteen minutes passed, and he hadn’t come back. I figured that he must have been drunk too, and he might have been throwing up in the bathroom. I stumbled down the hall and into the bathroom, but it was empty. Suddenly, all the lights lit up in the building. I was startled by a gruff voice yelling”Freeze” as the alarms in the building began to blare. Then there were two gunshots. Silence. Then loud, pounding footsteps—I made my way over to the railing where I saw three men running through the lobby. I squinted, and I could see they were carrying pieces by Monet, Renoir, and Van Gogh, and the man in the back… he held a gun, and in his other hand, was a woodblock by Hokusai.
“I ran down the stairs, yelling Noah’s name, telling him to wait for me. I was acting off of pure instinct. After three long years, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him again. Then he raised his pistol and shot a bullet into the ground not five feet in front of me. I froze. I watched him get into a black SUV, and they sped away.
“He didn’t even say goodbye! He didn’t say anything!”
“I know,” I said.
He sat down on the bunk and buried his head in his hands. I sat down next to him and put an arm over his shoulder. Between sobs, he finished his story.
“The police arrived. They secured the area and checked on the security guard who had been shot, who luckily survived. I knew what was coming, I knew they would be asking me questions, but I just—I couldn’t think of what to say. They asked me what had happened, and I couldn’t tell them the truth, but I couldn’t think of any lies. One of the officers went up to the security control room, and retrieved a copy of the footage. When they saw that I had led one of the robbers into my office, and had allowed him to stay after-hours, they arrested me on the spot. Later, an eyewitness at the exhibition identified Declan as the man I was with, the old rumors resurfaced, and the story spread. I was to be charged with aggravated robbery. The police went through my phone records, found all the calls between me and Declan when he was in prison, they uncovered evidence that we had lived together, and it was over. The prosecutors argued that Declan and I had masterminded the robbery together, and the jury bought it. I was sentenced to twenty years in prison.
I stood up.
“How long ago was this?”
“The robbery was a year ago. I was sentenced three months ago.”
“So it’s not too late—when I was convicted, my lawyers tried to appeal my case to a higher court.”
Declan shook his head. “You don’t understand. When I was sentenced… I didn’t see it as a punishment from the police, or the judge. In a way, I accepted it. As a punishment from Noah.”
“Declan, you have to be reasonable here. What the two of you did are in different leagues!”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters! Look, I’ve almost done twenty years myself. So even if your appeal doesn’t go through, it is doable. Besides, you have a solid case. I mean, I imagine you didn’t get any of the stolen artwork, you didn’t plan any of it, you shouldn’t have been convicted in the first place!”
“Chris. I have made up my mind,” he said. “And now that you’ve heard my story, I’ll ask you again. Do you have trouble taking a life?”
It clicked.
He continued, “Chris, Chris, I know what you’re thinking. But I’ve made my peace with it. Look at me. I can’t do twenty years of prison, I’m not like you. I’m not cut out for this. But it’s not even that. I’ve lost my career, I’ve lost Noah—I shouldn’t speak of him like that. Everything I had with Noah, it turned out to be nothing at all! But it was all I had. I tried to hang myself, but I failed, which is why I was transferred here.”
“You’re confused Declan! Three months—it’s not nothing, but that’s a damned short time. I’ve been here twenty years, with nothing to do but THINK! Jesus, romantic types, I’ll never understand you. But I know this: you are confused. You will not feel like this in six months. You won’t.”
“So you’re not going to help me?”
“Help you? You mean kill you? No,” I said. “Don’t bring this up again.”
I climbed up to the top bunk, and Declan started speaking again.
“But you have killed a man. This, I cannot understand. You killed a man as you were robbing him, correct? And you can’t do this. You say you can’t understand me—as if it were me who didn’t understand the value of a human life! But I understand it, I understand it well. I understand what it means to have a life worth living. Do you? Did you, when you killed a man? How did you kill him anyway?”
I was torn in two. My mind, already so frantic, could not determine if he wanted me to hate him, or if he really believed what he was saying. Each of his words carried within them such a weight that they could not all at once fit in my head. My worst impulses were getting the better of me, and it took all I had to distance myself from them.
I climbed back down and said, “I killed a woman. Shot her down in her apartment. I learned later she had grandkids. And no, at the time I did not understand the value of a human life. I do now.”
In the next few days, I watched Declan closely. He didn’t speak of suicide again, and I figured that, like the rest of us, he would come to terms with his situation. Perhaps he would see reason and appeal his case. I was determined to persuade him, but I wasn’t good at that sort of thing, and so I thought hard about what to say. But three days after I met Declan, there was a riot at the prison. I had been inside long enough to know to stay in my cell and let the dust settle. But as the voices rose and the pitter-patter of feet became a clamoring, and as violent screams echoed through the halls, my heart suddenly sank. I peered through the bars of my cell. Declan was lying in a pool of blood, and a shiv was lodged inside his throat.
Artist’s Statement Part 2
When I began the story and introduced Declan, I characterized him as meek, and I had in mind a plot twist where he would turn out to be far more nefarious than readers might initially think. But as I began the frame story and introduced Noah, I quickly lost interest in this kind of twist. I thought it would be a far more compelling twist if Declan was betrayed by Noah. It would alter the dynamic from two killers to one killer and an innocent civilian who was caught up in a situation beyond their control. By having Declan be sympathetic, we get to perceive the sympathetic side of Chris as well, even though he is a murderer.
The notion of an art heist is something I had in the back of mind from the movies and documentaries I watched, and it would be the perfect crime for this story to center around. I wanted to be able to show off Declan’s intelligence, and his interest in a world that was completely foreign to Chris. I hoped to create a sense of distance between the two characters, so that they could never relate to each other in a fundamental way. Once I made this choice, I needed to do a bit of research on the MFA. At the center of my story, I chose an exhibit which I myself enjoyed when I visited. I learned a bit of history of that style of art, woodblock prints, but I ended up using a fraction of that history in the story itself. It would have been too unnatural to dive deeply into the history of woodblock prints, when the story is told through a dialogue between two inmates meeting for the first time.
Overall, I was happy with the story I ended up writing, but there were some difficulties that I couldn’t resolve by the end. In “The Penelope Robbery,” there were two major confrontations between the criminals and the police, and when I read the story, I didn’t know how things would play out. I was surprised when Fenwick got away the first time, and I was surprised again when the captain hung himself in his final encounter with the police. I couldn’t capture this kind of suspense in my own story—reading it back, I thought it might be obvious to readers how the confrontation at the MFA would play out. Readers knew, of course, that Declan was in prison, and while he speaks, enough hints are dropped that Noah could not be trusted. Further, the scene I ended up writing wasn’t as vivid as the one in “The Penelope Robbery”—I tried to keep the dialogue between the two prisoners somewhat realistic, which also meant it had to be shortened.
Still, the story stands alone, and I believe that if it is read back to back with “The Penelope Robbery,” I believe readers would see the influence. I hope it would also challenge readers to think about the way that different parts of a story’s plot interact with one another. Miss Harcourt and Noah are very different characters, and Noah is granted much more agency. Hopefully someone who reads both stories would take time to consider the role of secondary characters. How much should they be developed without taking away from the central characters? Is the story more compelling if the emotional stakes are developed through multiple points of view, rather than just one?
The twists in the two stories also operate differently—Declan, the one divulging the narrative of the crime, suffers from the twist in my story, whereas Inspector Herrick does not. This poses another set of questions for readers of both stories. What is the impact that a plot twist should play on the characters within the story? Is it more important for a plot twist to change how we, as readers, understand the story, or is it more important for there to be an emotional reveal to the characters as well? How do successful plot twists further the themes of a story, in addition to just the plot itself?
While my story ended up very different from “The Penelope Robbery,” I believe the elements they share challenge readers to think more deeply about why authors make the choices they make and come to their own conclusions as to whether or not those choices are successful.
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License
The text of “The Penelope Robbery” is in the public domain.
All editorial material by Anonymous MIT student is licensed under CC BY-NC 4.0