Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure)

by Misri, Angela

  Mrs. Jones sighed loudly, drawing my attention back to her face. “See, this is exactly what I was talking about — this obsession with dwelling on people who are dead and gone, and whose actions are now irrelevant…”

  She trailed off and I started to feel a little foolish. Maybe I was dwelling in the past. Maybe my new guardian was right.

  “I would hate for this obsession to become a driving force in your life, Portia,” she continued, adjusting herself more comfortably in her chair. “Is it the study of law that is reminding you so much of Watson? Or is it these rooms? Because the college has a very convenient dormitory if you prefer. It is very early in your education, you know. We have plenty of time to reconsider your focus. There is, I believe, a program in literature — you do so love to read. Or botany?”

  My head snapped up at that. “Oh, no, ma’am, that is entirely unnecessary. Honestly, I am so thankful that you are providing me the financial ability to attend the college, and I am perfectly happy to be living here. Really I am.”

  She waved her hands in that way she had, the palms soft and wrinkly even in the firelight. “Don’t be silly, my girl, I only seek to provide you with options, not directives. If this is what you want to do, to be a lawyer, to work in the legal field, I am with you. But I suggest that you focus your attention on that present situation lest it be distracted by ghosts from the past. We have both, after all, been witness to your dips into depression…”

  She was right in that, of course, and I colored at her observation, made after only knowing me for a few months. Once in a while I would find myself distracted from whatever was capturing my attention, and it was at those moments that memories of my mother would overtake me, like milk simmering on the stove that goes from a light bubble to spilling over the sides at a fast boil. In the same way the sadness would overflow out of me and I fought hard against it, as did Mrs. Jones in her own way.

  I looked up at her beautiful face in the flickering firelight. She was incredibly intelligent, evidenced both by her perfect memory and her own keen sense of deduction. More often than not, when I would speak excitedly about a crime currently in the newspapers, she would quickly shred my solution with a few well-thought-out arguments. Far from discouraging me, her intelligent debates drove me to work harder. I should be cognizant of her encouragement toward my education and more thankful of her efforts.

  “You are right, of course, Mrs. Jones,” I said, taking a deep breath at her answering smile of approval. “I will focus on the future you have secured for me.”

  In my head, I swore to prove myself worthy of my mother’s faith in me, of my lost father’s memory, and of the ghost of my grandfather in this very room.

  I didn’t yet allow myself to put a name to this destiny; the very act of thinking of myself as an aspiring ‘detective’ felt arrogant at this point. But I promised myself at that moment to focus my learning, my actions and my very thoughts toward this unspoken goal.

  Brian’s time was taken up with a rash of local burglaries, so, naturally, my attention swung that way in terms of research. I separated out some of Holmes and Watson’s cases that were specifically about thievery and made copious notes on them, also referencing my legal books and changes to laws since my grandfather’s time.

  The constabulary’s continued frustration with the unsolved cases kept my interest high, and I spent hours on the streets of London, walking from one crime scene to another. The smoke from the exhaust of the cars combined with the breath of the people walking the sidewalks in this winter season, but the traffic and the types of traffic varied, and I noted it all. Unlike Toronto, which was a very new city when compared to the one I now lived in, London had distinct populations, smells, activities and yes, even tastes when you traveled from one borough to another. The smells of detergent and cleaning solvents assailed me as I walked around Acton as surely as the smell of fish heralded my arrival in Barking. I took the tube to most of my destinations, but walked home for hours once I had my fill of the sights, often stopping to stare up at stately buildings or to peer into the dusty windows of closed-down shops. Surely I must have looked mad to the Londoners who passed, but I cared not; it made me feel even closer to Watson and Holmes as I tried to imagine what they would have done were they on the case.

  Determined to learn more than could be gleaned from textbook and diary, I once again made a visit to the dusty old attic above my apartment. Finding a ratty old suit and beard, I disguised myself as an old man with a huge nose. Consulting some of Holmes’s notes, I reduced the size of the nose (“the key to anonymity is to have no distinguishing features by which you might be remembered”).

  Turning this way and that in the mirror, I found something was missing. I grabbed one of my simple frocks and stowed it under my shirt so that I looked as though I had a slight belly. Perfect!

  I carefully left 221 Baker Street, trying to disguise my exit, and hailed a horse-drawn hackney. My notes indicated that although the burglaries seemed to occur at random spots in the city, two had resulted in a chase, and the chases had both ended down near the river. The robberies were starting to form a pattern: four in the last thirty-four days, and there hadn’t been one yet this week, so this seemed a good night to test out my theories.

  I intended to stake out a spot on Westminster Bridge, just south of Scotland Yard, where both of those chases had taken place. From there I would be able to hear if an alarm was raised, and pursue my theory of a water-bound escape.

  The driver let me off with barely a glance. I walked up and onto the bridge from the north side. Westminster sat on the north side of this bridge, with the borough of Lambeth to the south. I passed two alcoves that were already occupied, averting my eyes from a couple giggling and fondling each other in public. Finding a deserted alcove on the east side, I sat down, noting its dark gothic structure and feeling a tingle of foreboding that I quickly shook off.

  “More likely than not, nothing will happen tonight,” I whispered to myself as I shivered, half hopeful and half worried. “I could come back here every night for the next week, and the thief could run down Waterloo Bridge instead.”

  People walked by, vehicles, horses, the usual traffic in a busy city. More than a few people looked at me and then quickly averted their eyes, enough of them staring to feed my insecurity that I had failed at my disguise, and I reddened under my makeup, holding the nose in place when the glue gave way. Fortunately, though I continued to elicit stares, no one stopped and actually spoke to me or demanded to know what I was about.

  Hours passed, and my feet went numb. I began to lose my enthusiasm for this stakeout. It was after three in the morning by now, and no one had passed my pathetic vigil for an hour or so. I chided myself that this was a colossal waste of time, even as I encouraged myself to see out the bloody thing despite my increasingly failing disguise. The glue from my fake nose and eyebrows had betrayed me and there was nothing I could do about that, having only two hands. I chose to focus on holding on to my nose, allowing the furry eyebrows to drop into the snow in front of where I sat, like two lost caterpillars that had somehow stayed alive past their summer lifetime.

  I must have fallen asleep. I awoke to a splash and sprang up, despite my numbed limbs, my fake stomach falling at my feet in a tumbled heap. I cursed under my breath, scooped my rumpled clothing off the filthy cobblestones and squinted in the flickering lamplight. A figure was just exiting the west end of the bridge — he must have run right past me. What was that splash, though? A boat where his partner awaited the pass-off of the loot?

  Excited, I leaned over the side of the bridge — nothing. I ran to the north side: again, nothing. I could see from here all the way to the Waterloo Bridge in the clear moonlight and nothing was on the water, not even a bird … just the usual rubbish and floating debris that always seemed to litter the Thames. I returned to the south side of the bridge, still seeing nothing moving in the water, certainly no boats, and slapped the stone railing in frustration, causing my rolle
d up clothing to fall out of my shirt again.

  Just then I heard voices coming in my direction from the far west end of the bridge. Quickly, I shoved my extra clothes under me and sat back down in my original spot, trying to feign a drunken slouch, just in time to watch two constables with a roughly dressed man between them, carrying on an animated discussion. The man was shackled at the wrists and had a determined smirk on his face as the constables heaped insults on him and cuffed him behind the ear.

  “Finally slipped up, didn’tcha, old boy?” one officer said, elbowing the shackled man as they passed me without a second look.

  He’d been caught! My shoulders slumped, dismayed that I had been so wrong. He was not using a boat for his escape at all; he was simply running across the bridge to get from wherever he had committed his crime to wherever his hideout was. Some detective I was!

  They had barely left the bridge when a half-dozen other officers appeared, carrying whistles and yelling at each other to spread out.

  I yawned, throwing the cursed fake nose over the side of the bridge and trudging toward home in defeat, leaving the police to their obviously successful work.

  Chapter Eight

  It had taken more than an hour to walk home, so the next day I woke late thankful it was a Saturday with nothing scheduled but a day of leisurely reading. By the time I had dressed it was past eleven o’clock in the morning, and the family downstairs had left on their various errands for the day. With one hand I spooned a tiny amount of Mrs. Dawes’ cold, congealed porridge I found in a pot on the stove into a bowl, and with the other flipped through today’s paper. Landing on the story I had been seeking, I transferred food and paper to the table that I might more comfortably consume both.

  My eyes widened as I read the details: “Suspect apprehended fleeing police, accomplice suspected,” and most interesting of all, “stolen tiara still missing.”

  So they had caught someone, but was it the right someone? If it was, where was the stolen tiara? If it was the man from last night, he had run across the bridge and been caught on the other side. When did he have the chance to pass the necklace to an accomplice? I lowered the paper, deciding that I needed more data.

  I was out the door and headed toward Scotland Yard within a half hour. My journey was marked by a churning brain as I mentally riffled through all available case notes I had memorized from my grandfather’s collection. Without a confession or the stolen item they would have to release the suspect, and according to the papers, he was denying any involvement in the crimes.

  The Yard, as it was colloquially known, had its rear entrance called Great Scotland Yard, an entrance I had been introduced to by one of my professors at the college who was also a well-respected chief inspector. I looked up at the building as I approached, its striped red bricks, Portland stone and elegant turrets reminding one of a modernized castle. It was designed by Norman Shaw and overlooking the Thames. I had read that it was a vast improvement over the original offices at Whitehall. I had visited them on one of my many forays into the city and agreed heartily with the improvement of space and architecture “New” Scotland Yard afforded its occupants.

  “Good morning, Detective Chief Inspector,” I said, recognizing Professor Archer speaking to a sergeant I did not know on the steps that led up from the street. The man he was speaking to made to step forward as I approached, and I nodded at him. I glanced back down at the street thoughtfully as my professor answered my greeting.

  “Why, good morning, Miss Adams,” he replied, tipping his hat genially, his freshly waxed moustache glistening in the sunlight. “What brings you to our offices so early on a Saturday? Surely not more follow-up questions on the case study I assigned?”

  “Research, sir. I read in the paper that the alleged jewel thief had been apprehended,” I admitted, stopping to his side.

  “Oh, no ‘alleged’ about it, ma’am,” answered the sergeant, raising his chin at me.

  “He has confessed, then?” I asked.

  The sergeant’s chin dropped back down, as did his eyes from my direct stare. “No, not yet, but we are confident that we will have a positive identification from the owner of the jewelry very soon. He was seen as he climbed out the bedroom window with his stolen goods!”

  “Ah, that is damning indeed,” I agreed. “And that is whose arrival you are awaiting, then, the owner of the stolen tiara?”

  The sergeant started slightly and his mouth gaped. “How did you know that we were waiting for the witness to arrive?”

  “I didn’t, until you told me that there was a witness,” I admitted, and then turned to point to the street. “But if I were to bring in a witness to the Yard, a witness that perhaps did not want her name in the paper, I would bring her in the rear doors. I would also avoid attention by sending two higher-ranking officers out to wait for her, because it would seem far below their station to be on lookout duty. I would position those officers on the west side of the staircase, perhaps feigning enjoying a cigarette since you do not smoke, Professor, so that a hackney could quickly pull up, dislodge the patron and turn around without waiting for traffic, as there is so little on this side.”

  The sergeant looked incredulously from his still-smoking cigarette to my professor and back at me.

  “Also, when I first approached, you tensed on the balls of your feet, as if my appearance excited you,” I continued. “Since we had never met, I surmised that you were waiting for a woman of my age and description, and until the chief inspector identified me, you remained ‘at the ready’.”

  My professor was by now grinning broadly and patted his stunned peer on the back. “She has some skills, our Miss Adams does. Granddaughter of the estimable Dr. Watson, did you know?”

  “The late Dr. Watson of the detective offices of Sherlock Holmes?” the sergeant asked as I blushed.

  “None other!” my professor boasted, and then turning to me, asked, “Though are you entirely sure of your parentage, Miss Adams? I knew Dr. Watson well, and as amiable and intelligent a man he was, your instincts are positively Holmesian!”

  I preened under his compliment even as the sergeant seemed to be annoyed by it. “Harrumph. Holmes was brilliant, truly, but impossible to work with from what I hear. Not someone to emulate, young lady, if that is your plan.”

  I had opened my mouth to respond when the lady they had been waiting for pulled up in a cab. I stepped out of the way as they rushed down to escort the woman into the building. As she passed, I noted her expensive navy blue wool dress with its fashionable cap sleeves and her wide-set eyes under a remarkable bonnet with a familiar triangle-shaped clasp. I pegged her at about twenty-five years old and nodded at her as she was escorted past me and into the building.

  Chapter Nine

  Two days later, while we were helping his mother set the table, Brian admitted that the woman had been unable to make a positive ID of the suspect they had brought in, and that the man, a Mr. Ben Fawkes, had been released despite the police’s continued belief in his guilt.

  I took to walking home over that same bridge every day, noting that on Tuesdays and Sundays it was almost abandoned, as opposed to Fridays when traffic was at its highest as food and liquor made their way back and forth over its bricked surface. Traffic under the bridge seemed to be regular as well, with fishing boats and skiffs gliding under it with regularity, except on Sundays when the water was almost still with inactivity.

  I tried to stay positive during those weeks, filling my time as best I could, but if I had any close friends, which I did not, I would have admitted to them that I felt very small in that huge city. Insignificant, an outsider and just … small. Except when I was pursuing a clue or immersed in my grandfather’s diaries — that was when I felt connected and part of a bigger legacy, and it was an addictive feeling. Brian and I were becoming closer, but I felt like he couldn’t possibly understand my loneliness, living with both his parents, able to visit his grandparents in Surrey whenever he wanted to, and having a full so
cial life with the friends he had made at Scotland Yard. A few times I had to swallow past my jealous feelings — like when watching his mother give him a kiss on the top of his head as she walked by his chair at the dinner table. How could I tell anyone, even Brian, just how alone I was? I might have told Mrs. Jones, since she was the closest thing I had to family these days, but she was showing up less and less at Baker Street — a pattern I was too proud to question when she did actually stop by. After all, if she thought me mature enough to live on my own, perhaps it was a weakness in me to feel this isolated. I wouldn’t allow for it.

  Another week went by, punctuated by another robbery. Again jewelry was stolen, and again, according to the papers, the foot chase led down toward the river.

  Brian confessed over dinner with his family that the police were at a loss. The items stolen and the times of day varied, as did the location of the robberies. The police believed that there were as many as five thieves working together to commit these crimes, based on the information they would require to both locate the items and to escape time after time.

  “According to Mr. Holmes, though,” I broke in over the roast, “a conspiracy of more than three is rare, and five would be totally unmanageable because of the basic tenets of criminals: greed and violence.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree, Miss Adams, and yet the sergeant in charge of the case insists that only a band of criminals could successfully continue to steal and evade capture,” Dawes replied, reaching for the roasted potatoes.

  We all chewed in silence over this. Two I could perhaps see, but four or five? It did not seem likely.

  “One point has not been released to the papers yet,” Brian whispered conspiratorially so that his parents wouldn’t overhear. “At least one of the items, the tiara, has reappeared on the black market — we believe it was sold to a Turkish millionaire. We are talking to the local authorities about it.”