Toby Jugs
Once Michael Whitby passed the Steer Swamp Conservation Area, he turned onto Crowninshield Road and headed toward the exclusive Peach's Point neighborhood of Marblehead. Moments later, he arrived at the Pennington mansion, a twelve-thousand-square-foot oceanfront estate, currently owned by billionaire Milton Pennington.
So, this is how the one percent lives, he thought as he drove up the long, circular driveway.
He parked his Subaru in front of the four-car garage, got out and walked to the impressive entryway. Just seconds after he reached out his hand to ring the bell, a butler opened the door and greeted him.
"You must be Mr. Whitby," declared Aloysius McInerney, the gray-haired servant, with a slight Irish brogue.
"Yes, I am."
"Mr. Pennington is expecting you. Won't you come in?"
Aloysius led the way through an immense foyer to his employer's first-floor study.
"Whitby," Milton greeted him, rising from behind his desk. "Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?"
"I could use a cup of coffee," Michael replied.
"How do you take it?" the butler inquired.
"Milk and two sugars."
"And you, sir?" Aloysius asked, turning his attention to the master of the house. "The usual?"
"Yes."
Once the butler returned with the drinks—coffee for the guest and whiskey for the host—the two men got down to the business at hand.
"You're interested in my collection of fillpots," Milton announced after downing half his glass of Pappy Van Winkle in one swallow.
"Yes, I am. I'd like to include a chapter about it in my next book."
"From what I've been told, you tend to write about unusual collections. I visited your website and you had articles on people who collected bowling balls, toothbrushes, erasers, beer cans and candy wrappers. I can't imagine why you would want to devote book space to fillpots since they are a fairly common collectible."
"True," Michael explained. "But your collection is multigenerational. It's been passed down from father to son for more than two hundred years. According to my research, the first Toby jug in your extensive collection was brought to the New World by your ancestor back in 1770. Is that right?"
"Yes," Milton answered proudly. "Jasper Pennington was a young sailor from Southampton. When he settled here in Massachusetts, he brought with him a pottery beer mug from Staffordshire. Whenever his voyages took him to England, he would buy another one. By the time he died, he had amassed about three dozen Toby jugs that he passed on to his son."
"Your family members were all seamen, weren't they?"
"Most but not all. It was my father who broke the chain. He never cared much for ships. He went into banking instead as did I. But we still carry on the family tradition of adding to the fillpot collection. Over the years, we accumulated a wide range of both the full-body Toby jugs and the character jugs, which, as I'm sure you know, consist of just the heads of famous people."
"I assume many of the pieces, particularly the newer ones, were manufactured by Royal Doulton."
"Quite so. But I do have some that were made by Fitz and Floyd, Staffordshire, Beswick and less popular companies."
Michael finished his coffee, reached into his briefcase and took out a copy of his standard questionnaire.
"If you wouldn't mind answering a few routine questions about your collection before you show it to me, I'd be most grateful," he declared.
"Written questions?" Milton groaned as though he were a schoolboy handed a homework assignment.
"They won't take up much of your time. I ask these same questions of everyone I interview, thus giving the book a sense of continuity."
"Let me see them. When did you begin collecting?" he read from the printed form. "We already covered that, didn't we? I, personally, became the conservator of the collection upon my father's death, which was eighteen years ago."
Pennington returned to the list of questions.
"How many items are in the collection? I don't have an exact count, but I estimate there are between six and seven thousand. What is your favorite piece? If I had to pick one, I'd say the double-sided character jug that has Punch on one side and Judy on the other. Which piece is worth the most money? What is the estimated value of the entire collection? I'm not sure I want this sort of information to go into your book. I don't want to attract would-be burglars."
"I understand completely. We can skip those questions if you prefer."
"Why don't I take you up to the fourth floor where the collection is on display?" Milton suggested after answering most of the questions on the questionnaire. "Then you can take a few photos, and we can wrap things up."
"Fine," Michael agreed, feeling as though he had overstayed his welcome and was being dismissed.
* * *
"I didn't expect you back so soon," Douglas Pemberly said when Michael walked through the front door of Treasure Hunt Antiques.
"My host seemed eager to get me out of his house," his husband explained.
"Billionaires are a breed unto themselves."
"Billionaires?" echoed Rebecca Coffin who was shopping for vintage Halloween decorations to display in her mystery-themed bookstore, The Quill and Dagger.
"Yeah. Milton Pennington, the Wall Street banker. I went to Marblehead to interview him about his collection of fillpots."
"I've heard of him," Rebecca declared. "Frankly, I'm surprised he agreed to see you. He's not the friendliest person from what I hear. He's got the reputation of being a real SOB."
"He has an amazing collection, though," Michael said and showed Douglas and Rebecca several of the photographs he had taken. "It consists of more than six thousand pieces. He obviously takes great pride in it and was pleased to show it off. Funny, though. He refused to discuss the value of either individual jugs or the collection as a whole."
"Is that so unusual?" Rebecca asked.
"Yes. The collectors I've interviewed in the past brag about how much they spend on individual pieces. And they love to point out any incredible bargains they may have gotten. For instance, one woman told me she bought a Steiff teddy bear at a garage sale for two dollars and it was worth over five thousand."
"Maybe Pennington thinks it's vulgar to talk about the cost of things," Douglas theorized. "After all, he comes from 'old money'—as the rich say."
"I admit he was a snob, but he claims the reason he didn't want the value of his jugs printed in the book was that he was afraid it might attract burglars."
"Sounds reasonable," the bookstore owner opined.
"Yes, but the man has a huge mansion full of valuables. He even has a Picasso on the wall of his living room. A burglar is much more likely to walk off with the painting than a few hundred or so breakable beer mugs."
The bell above the front door jingled as Martha Prescott entered the antique store.
"I was in town, so I figured I'd stop by and pick up that Twilight Zone comic book you got in," she told the antique dealer.
"I got it right here," Douglas said and reached beneath the counter. "Issue Number 1 from May 1961."
"It's in good shape, too."
"You ought to include Martha's collection in your book," Rebecca suggested.
"Remarkable as it is," Michael answered, "it's not specific. She collects all things horror or science fiction: books, posters, action figures, models, videocassettes, photographs—you name it. Whereas someone like Milton Pennington is more specific in his collecting."
"Milton Pennington?" Martha echoed. "What does he have to do with anything?"
"Michael just got back from Marblehead where he interviewed the man about his collection of Toby jugs," Douglas explained.
"Really? And you lived to tell about it?" Martha teased.
"He's a banker, not a serial killer," Michael laughed.
"I wouldn't be so sure of that. The entire Pennington family, going back to Jasper Pennington, lived under a dark cloud of scandal."
"What sort of scandal?" Douglas wondered.
"Well, let's just say that Jasper Pennington didn't make his fortune by transporting tea and spices to the Colonies."
"No?"
"No. He was involved in the slave trade as were his sons up until it was outlawed. Far worse, it has been suggested that during the Civil War, the family supplied guns not only to the Yankees but to the Confederates as well."
"And what have they been up to for the past hundred and sixty years?" Rebecca asked.
"Among other things, their ships brought in alcohol from Canada and Europe during Prohibition. And when the 21st Amendment was passed, it's rumored they began smuggling narcotics into the country."
"How do you know so much about the Penningtons?" Michael asked.
"Their family inspired Darren Wexford to write his novel, The Family Curse. This fact is not common knowledge, but Darren confided in me when he appeared as a guest on my show."
Martha Prescott made her claim to fame as Belladonna Nightshade, host of Thriller TV's Classic Horror Movies series. It was in this capacity that she met the bestselling horror author.
"Even once the Penningtons' business shifted from shipping to banking," she continued, "the rumors of shady deals continued. In fact, Milton Pennington is currently being investigated for bank fraud. And then there's his son, Andrew! Ugh!"
"What about him?" Douglas asked, eager to hear more gossip.
"He's in prison for killing his wife."
"I'm surprised the Pennington money didn't get him off."
"It did get the charges reduced from first-degree murder to voluntary manslaughter. Andrew might have gotten off scot-free if didn't have a history of domestic violence. His wife had a restraining order against him, but he showed up at her home. One thing led to another, and he strangled her with his bare hands."
"He doesn't exactly sound like the type of person who would appreciate owning Toby jugs," Rebecca said.
"Well, the family may not be squeaky clean," Michael reasoned, "but their misdeeds don't affect the magnificence of their collection. And that's all that really matters to me."
Later that evening, after enjoying a cup of hot cocoa with some of Victoria Broadbent's buttery shortbread, Michael sat in front of the fireplace with his laptop while Douglas reclined on the couch and read Darren Wexford's The Family Curse on his Kindle. Before beginning to write his article, Michael uploaded the photographs he had taken that morning in Marblehead. The first picture was of one of the many cabinets that contained character jugs. Nearly every famous face was immediately recognizable: Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, Charlie Chaplin, Elizabeth II, Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare and more than a dozen others. There were even several different sets of Beatles character jugs.
"Martha should see these," he said.
"See what?" his husband asked, looking up from his Kindle.
"Royal Doulton made both a Dracula and a Frankenstein's Monster character jug."
"Really? We ought to see if we can find one or both of them on eBay. If they're not too expensive, they would make a great Christmas present for her."
Douglas then went back to his novel, and Michael continued looking through his photographs. One of the last pictures he had taken before leaving the mansion was of a smaller glass case that held eight full-body Toby jugs. From the style of clothing each wore, it appeared as though they spanned a time period from the late eighteenth century to the present. However, it was the faces rather than the clothes that caught his attention. Although the sculpted features clearly represented different people, they had distinct similarities. It was as though they were all members of the same family. The latest one, judging by his modern suit, bore a strong resemblance to Milton Pennington.
Could these be Toby jugs of members of the Pennington family? he wondered.
Although wealthy and socially prominent, they were hardly famous enough to inspire a pottery company to produce them for the collectibles market. No, if these Toby jugs represented members of the Pennington family, then they were most likely custom-made. Given the family's vast fortune, they could no doubt afford the expense of commissioning a sculptor to create them.
For the next three hours, Michael wrote the chapter on the Pennington family fillpot collection, stopping only long enough to put fresh logs on the fire. Since Milton Pennington had not given him any information as to the value of the items, he toggled back and forth between his Word file and various online appraisal guides. It was almost midnight when he shut down the computer.
"Doug," he called to his husband who had fallen asleep while reading. "Wake up. It's time to go to bed."
Although he had no problem falling asleep, Michael's slumber was not a restful one. It was disturbed by a nightmare in which Milton Pennington had locked him in a room with more than six thousand fillpots. As he pounded on the door and called out for help, the animated faces of the jugs laughed at his distress.
* * *
Three weeks later, Michael woke to the strident call of his alarm clock. However, it was the smell of freshly brewed coffee that got him out of bed. When he walked into the kitchen, he saw Douglas at the table, eating a waffle smothered with peanut butter and Nutella.
"Mmm! That looks tasty!" Michael exclaimed. "Fattening but tasty."
Although he was the health-conscious partner in their marriage, every once in a while, he surrendered to the desire for comfort food such as the one Douglas was enjoying.
"There are more Eggos in the freezer," his husband said. "And there's raspberry jam in the fridge."
"I think I'll have the same as you. I've got a busy day today and can use the protein in the peanut butter."
"And what do you have planned?"
"I'm driving down to Bridgeport, Connecticut, to interview a woman who collects perfume bottles and atomizers. I hope I won't be gone too long. I hate to leave you alone in the shop all day."
"I don't mind, and if things get too busy, I can always call Martha to help out."
Four hours later, as Michael Whitby was interviewing a Connecticut pharmacist about a vintage Chanel No. 5 bottle, Milton Pennington was opening a package delivered to his Marblehead home by FedEx. Beneath the abundance of Styrofoam peanuts were four Royal Doulton character jugs, all wrapped carefully in bubble wrap. The first one was of author Lewis Carroll, the second was of Prince William, the third was of Merlin the Magician and the fourth was of an Old Salt with a mermaid figure handle. The newest additions to his collection brought a smile to the billionaire's face.
It's odd, he mused in a rare moment of introspection. I own some of the world's most expensive automobiles and several yachts. I have artwork by Picasso, Pollock, Cézanne, Klimt, Warhol, van Gogh and Monet, and yet it is these silly mugs that I am drawn to. I wonder why.
The fact that the collection was passed down from generation to generation may have played a large part in his fascination, but it was more than that. He recalled one of the few times Hugh Pennington, his father, allowed the young Milton to see the display.
"Look! There's Santa Claus!" the child cried with excitement upon seeing a character jug of Jolly Old Saint Nick. "Can I play with it?"
"No. These are not toys," Hugh explained. "They are part of our family's legacy. We have to be very careful with them since they are extremely fragile."
"I'll be careful. I promise."
"No. When I die, all of them will become yours. You can do whatever you want with them. You can sell them or fill them up with beer or ale and drink from them. But while I'm still alive, they'll remain in these cabinets under lock and key."
Eighteen years ago, Hugh Pennington went to meet his maker. His son and heir neither sold nor drank from any of the mugs. Instead, he not only kept them safe but, like every Pennington male from Jasper down, he increased the size of the collection.
"But what will become of all of these fillpots after I'm gone?" he asked, his voice echoing in the empty room. "Andrew never showed any interest in them, and now that's he's incarcerated ...."
Although Andrew managed to avoid a life behind bars, he was still sentenced to twenty years. Even with good behavior, it would be at least a decade before he was released.
"I suppose I could donate them to a museum or, better yet, establish one myself."
As Milton slowly walked past the glass cabinets and gazed at the ceramic faces that looked back at him as though they were old friends, he considered calling his lawyer and amending his will. He would make provision for the care of the family's collection. He would even set money aside to purchase additional mugs as they become available. Of course, a reliable person would need to be chosen to curate the museum.
"I could ask that Whitby fellow for advice. Maybe he knows an experienced person."
He stopped in front of a character jug of Sir Francis Drake. It was the first one he had purchased after his father died and he inherited the lot. Over the years, he had added more than twelve hundred—both new ones and rare antiques. A sense of pride came over him as he surveyed the collection, an emotion he did not feel for his son. On the contrary, he was disappointed in his only child and had been since Andrew was a boy. Naturally, he blamed his wife for the son's shortcomings. That was one of the reasons he divorced her—that and the fact that she was getting older and losing her cover-girl looks.
"Ah! Here we are!" Milton exclaimed as he stood in front of the Toby jugs featuring the Pennington family. "My forebears. From Jasper Pennington down through the years to my father."
He suddenly remembered his surprise when he entered the room after his parent's passing and found a new fillpot made with Hugh's likeness. His father had never mentioned having the jug created.
"Or maybe he did tell me about it, but it slipped my mind. It's not surprising. A lot was going on in my life during that time."
The billionaire gazed at the faces of his ancestors for several minutes and then turned and walked away. As he locked the door to the display room, he wondered at what age he should have his own likeness made into a Toby jug. Since he was already in his sixties, he supposed it ought to be soon.
"But who do I get to create it? I assume the most likely place to start looking for such an artist would be Royal Doulton in England. Maybe one of their sculptors would be willing to do the work for a generous commission."
* * *
One month after his interview with Michael Whitby, Milton Pennington received word that his son was killed, stabbed to death during a prison riot. Naturally, the tragic news upset him. It was not that he lost a beloved child that bothered him since he felt no great affection for his son. Rather, it was the realization that he was the last of his line. There were no more Penningtons to take over the family fortune.
Then it occurred to him that men his age were still capable of fathering children.
"All I need to do is find a young woman to marry, preferably one of good breeding. It would also be helpful if she were easy on the eyes."
Although he had not engaged in any serious romantic relationships since divorcing his wife, he foresaw no trouble in finding a suitable mate. True, he was far from handsome, but he had more than enough money to compensate for his appearance.
Hoping to dispense with tiresome dating rituals, Milton delegated the task to his personal attorney and long-time friend.
"Sid, I need you to do me a favor," he told him over the phone.
"Did you want me to handle the arrangements for your son's funeral?"
"No. I want you to find me a wife."
"What?"
"A wife. Someone young and fertile who can provide me with another heir, preferably male. You and Emily socialize with all the right people. Surely, you know of a woman who would jump at the opportunity of becoming Mrs. Pennington."
Sid Kantor thought for several minutes before replying.
"I do know a few young ladies who might be open to a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"Good. I'll leave the matter in your hands then."
Once he ended the call, Milton went upstairs and unlocked the door to the fourth-floor display room.
There's not much free space up here, he thought. I really ought to hire an architect to begin drawing up plans for a museum to house this collection.
He passed by Royal Doulton's Henry VIII and his six wives, Ludwig Van Beethoven, the Duke of Wellington, Wyatt Earp, Don Quixote and Captain Ahab, all of which he purchased in the last six months.
"Maybe my future child will be as delighted with this collection as I am. Maybe he or she ...."
Milton fell silent as he neared the cabinet that displayed the Pennington family Toby jugs.
"How the devil ...?"
He knitted his brows in confusion. Rather than eight full-body jugs there were nine. The last one, placed to the right of Hugh Pennington, was cast in the likeness of Andrew, his recently deceased son.
"How did that get here? I'm the only one who has a key to this room."
Always a pragmatist, Milton did not attribute the incident to any supernatural cause. Obviously, someone found a way past his security system, got inside his house, entered the locked cabinet and added the Andrew Toby jug to the collection. He did not waste his valuable time attempting to solve the mystery; he would delegate that chore to the chief of his security. There were far more urgent matters to dwell on, the foremost being fathering an heir to the Pennington dynasty.
As expected, Sid Kantor found a refined, educated young woman—whose father lost his money through a series of disastrous investments—who was willing to enter into an arranged marriage.
The prenup was straightforward. Margaret, his intended bride, would receive ten million dollars upon the birth of a healthy son or five million if she gave birth to a daughter.
"And what about after the child is born?" she wondered.
"You can do whatever you want," Milton nonchalantly replied. "You can go or stay here. I don't really give a damn. But let me make one thing clear. I, and I alone, will raise the child. I won't stop you from seeing him or her, but I will make all the decisions as to how he or she is raised. Is that clear?"
Since bankruptcy hung over her father's head like the Sword of Damocles, Margaret acceded to his demands.
On the day of the wedding, as he awaited the arrival of the governor, who was to perform the ceremony, Milton Pennington strolled through his fourth-floor display room, admiring his latest acquisitions: Sir John Falstaff, Oscar Wilde, Robinson Crusoe and Dick Turpin. Suddenly, the church-like quiet of the room was disturbed by the sound of footsteps.
"Who's there?" he demanded to know. "Is that you, Aloysius?"
There was no reply, but the footsteps drew nearer.
Can it be the same intruder who added Andrew to the set of Pennington Toby jugs? If so, how had he managed to elude my security system once again?
"I'm calling the police," he threatened, taking his cell phone out of his pocket.
Just as his finger pressed the number 9 on the iPhone's keypad, a beautiful African-American woman rounded the corner and headed in his direction.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I am Zendaya."
"What are you doing here? What do you want?"
"I have come to make sure you do not marry, for you must not have any more children."
"Just you try and stop me," he cried and completed dialing the 911 operator.
"Your phone will not work."
The iPhone suddenly went dead even though only moments before it had been fully charged.
"I have waited more than two hundred and fifty years for my curse to claim its final victim," Zendaya declared, enjoying her moment of triumph.
"What curse?"
"The curse I placed on Jasper Pennington back in 1774 when he kidnapped my entire family from our home in Africa."
"You're insane!"
Zendaya's eyes flashed with anger, and one entire shelf full of character mugs, including Bacchus, the Beefeater, the Falconer and Napoleon, shattered into pieces.
"My collection!" he screamed, mourning the loss of several of his treasured collectibles. "You'll pay for this! I'll have someone take a straight razor to your face. Or perhaps a bottle of acid will do the trick."
"You are as evil as your father and his father. All of you Pennington men have been as merciless and wicked as Jasper Pennington, the patriarch of your vile family."
Another shelf, upon which the Mad Hatter, the Viking, Neptune, the London Bobby and John Kennedy stood, crashed.
"STOP IT!"
"Why do you care so much for these ... things?" she asked, seeing the tears fall down the billionaire's cheeks. "You did not cry when your only child was killed."
"Why should I cry over him? He was nothing but a thorn in my side."
"You have no heart. None of the Pennington men did. Captain Jasper certainly did not show mercy to the people he crammed into his ships and then sold into slavery."
"Oh? Am I to pay for the sins of my ancestor? Is that what this is all about?"
"He was the one who drew the curse down upon your heads when he tore apart my family, but all of those who followed him were wicked as well. Your son was a murderer, and you ...." Zendaya laughed. "... have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. You are deceitful, greedy, vicious, cruel, vindictive ...."
With each insult she uttered, another shelf self-destructed in an explosion of broken Toby jugs. As Zendaya vented her anger upon the hated billionaire, the extensive collection that had been passed down from generation to generation was destroyed. Eventually, all that remained was the cabinet that housed the nine full-body jugs of Jasper Pennington and his descendants.
"My collection!" Milton wept. "It took several lifetimes to amass, and yet you have destroyed it in a matter of minutes!"
Heartbroken, he fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Once his tears stopped flowing, he opened his eyes and saw that he was alone in the display room. Zendaya had vanished as mysteriously as she had arrived. He whimpered with despair as he saw all around him the remains of more than six thousand Toby jugs.
Pondering the hopelessness of his existence, he reached into one of the cabinets and took out a fillpot handle shaped like a parrot, all that remained of the Long John Silver mug. In a moment of complete anguish, he sliced both his wrists with the jagged edge of the broken handle. Leaving a trail of blood behind him, he walked to the case that held the nine jugs that represented his family. As he felt his life fade away, he noticed that now a tenth jug stood between that of his father and his son.
"It's ... me," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
A moment later, he took his last breath. Upon his death, Zendaya's curse was fulfilled.
* * *
The following day, approximately seven miles away in Puritan Falls, the UPS driver delivered a box to Douglas Pemberly at Treasure Hunt Antiques. After signing for the delivery, the shopkeeper removed a box-cutter from a drawer beneath the counter and sliced open the packing tape.
"I bet I know what that is," Michael Whitby called from the office where he was busy typing on his computer.
Douglas freed two Royal Doulton character jugs from the bubble wrap that surrounded them.
"Just what I thought!" Michael said. "Dracula and Frankenstein's Monster."
"They cost more than I planned on spending," Douglas admitted. "But I bought them anyway. We can give Martha one for Christmas and the other for her birthday."
"She's gonna love them!"
"Speaking of character jugs, did you read today's Boston Globe?"
"No," Michael replied. "I haven't had the time. I'm writing an article for my blog about a man in Bangor who collects adhesive bandages."
"You mean Band-Aids?"
"Yeah. Like the ones pediatricians hand out to little kids. He's got quite a collection. Everything from Peanuts, Disney's Frozen and Pixar's Toy Story to Monsters, Edgar Allan Poe and Crime Scene Tape bandages."
"Weird," Douglas said, shaking his head. "Anway, that man you interviewed not long ago, Milton Pennington, was found dead in his family home in Marblehead."
"Seriously?"
"I wouldn't kid about a thing like that. They found his body on the fourth floor of his mansion. He must have gone crazy or something because he destroyed his entire collection of fillpots before slitting his wrists. All but ten of them, that is."
"What a shame! However, if what Martha told us about the Pennington family is true, I suspect the loss of the collection is a far greater tragedy than the death of its owner."
For Christmas one year, Salem gave me this coffee cup and tried to pass it off as a rare antique Toby jug. (Nice try, but I didn't fall for it!)
