We both looked at his parents to see if they were listening, but their ears were attuned to the radio playing behind Mr. Dawes senior.
“Well, that is something, is it not?” I whispered back, turning this new fact over in my head for possible links.
“Yes and no. The sergeant had claimed the night that this Fawkes fellow was captured, he had thrown the tiara aside, which is why we found nothing on him. But we had a good six officers down there searching the whole route, even the river, within minutes of his capture, and nothing…”
I remembered seeing the squad of officers spread out on the bridge and beyond that night, so I nodded. “The question is, if Fawkes is the thief, then how did the tiara he stole that night get from him to a Turkish millionaire—”
“—without an accomplice?” finished Brian. “There’s the rub. If it wasn’t on him, and he didn’t ditch it, he handed it off. That’s Sergeant Michaels’ theory.
* * *
Later that March week I was reminded again of the case when my guardian stopped by with her arms full of fabric.
“Gorgeous, are they not?” she exclaimed happily, laying out roll after roll on my paper-covered desk. “Pick one. I will have a fabulous new dress made for you for your birthday in July.”
I flipped through them. “They are lovely, Mrs. Jones, thank you for thinking of me. But wherever did you get them? I have not seen their like in London or in the States.”
“Oh, I have my suppliers,” she answered mischievously. “Oh! This blue one matches your eyes, hold this one up.”
Obliging, I stood in front of the full-length mirror as she draped an azure silk over my shoulder and brushed my dark hair out over it. The silk was well suited to my tall frame and slim build, draping and hanging over me like a waterfall. With her standing behind me in the mirror I could imagine how she had looked at my age and remembered her words about how often she had remarried. She was not as tall as me and had a more womanly figure even at her age, but remarkably her skin was still her most beautiful feature.
“Have you been following the recent run of jewel heists in London?” I asked, eyeing a new turquoise ring she was sporting. It was striking, a gold band with a flower blossom of four turquoise stone petals all inlaid with silver. Another purchase from her suppliers? Where had I seen that style? My eyes wandered to one of the textbooks on Persian antiquities on the shelf.
“Hmm?” was her only answer as she refolded the blue and pulled out a vibrant pink shot with silver threads. I wrinkled my nose at it. “The stolen jewelry — the press has been calling those responsible the Gang of Thieves.”
“Indeed?” she remarked, putting the pink over her own shoulder and turning this way and that in the mirror. I recognized her disinterest and changed the subject, though my mind stayed on the case. But when she left, I did pull out a few of those books on antiquity and tried to place where I had seen the design of that ring. I was heeding one of Mr. Holmes’s tenets, to follow my instincts, and there was something about that ring that tickled some part of my brain.
* * *
The Sunday following her visit I was once again wandering the bridges, starting on Waterloo Bridge, with my dog-eared copy of the Chronicles of Avonlea in my hand. Having now walked across each bridge that crossed the river Thames in downtown London, I could attest that the view from this bridge were the most pleasing. The bridge runs from The Strand on the north side, above Victoria Embankment, over to the South Bank. I wandered there reading about Anne Shirley and the community of Avonlea for almost an hour in the failing light, the granite of the bridge fading from sunlit white to dark gray. Finally, when it was too dark to read or make observations on the locals and traffic, I headed toward Westminster Bridge. Just as I placed my foot on the bridge, I was surprised to recognize a familiar face coming my way — Ben Fawkes.
Familiar to me, of course, because I had seen him that cold night on the bridge when I was so badly disguised as a vagrant. He took no notice of me as he crossed in the opposite direction in a great hurry, but before I could even begin to take in the details of his appearance, the most noxious smell assailed me.
Despite wanting to remain unnoticed, I had to cover my mouth and nose as he passed me, the odor was so pungent. As soon as he was a few feet behind me the smell thankfully receded. I hadn’t remembered a smell that night on the bridge. Where had the man been lately to smell so horrible?
He gained the street I had just exited. I turned to casually hang over the bridge. He passed only one other person, but I could tell by the way the passerby turned slightly from his path that he too was affected by the stench.
I returned home and set to bathe immediately, wondering if I should add this detail to my notes on the case. I finished toweling my hair dry (even with a bit of lavender, I swore I could still smell that noxious stench), and throwing the towel over a chair to dry in front of the fireplace, I pulled out one of the many notebooks on the shelf. According to my grandfather, Mr. Holmes had insisted time and again that no detail was too small to overlook. He had documented instances where the famous detective had solved a case and then returned to clarify it when he made connection with a forgotten fact years later.
I therefore followed his lead. Inspired, I pulled open one of my grandfather’s dog-eared medical books. Surely that horrible smell could be identified.
Chapter Ten
By the end of April another two robberies had been committed, with no further progress made by the investigating authorities to either regain the stolen objects or apprehend those involved. Brian confided in me that out of desperation the sergeant in charge of the case had hauled Fawkes in again for further questioning.
“Did you notice a smell when they brought him in?” I asked.
“A smell?” he repeated, looking understandably confused. “No, not that I recall. He was one cool customer, though. Smiled at us as he was brought into the station, even winked at the inspector.”
That was interesting in itself. Surely an innocent man would be annoyed at being brought in twice for questioning for a crime he didn’t commit. Then again, a guilty man should look scared or defensive at being brought in again. What did it say about a man who found the exercise amusing?
By now, the press had renamed the story to highlight the police’s inability to catch the perpetrators, calling them the “Invisible Hand” and the “Unstoppable Gang.” This was of course still based on Sergeant Michaels’ own continued postulation that these crimes were being carried out by an organized group of thieves, something I still couldn’t quite buy into.
I had a two-week break between classes, and since I had no homework and no more interesting cases, I decided to pursue a new angle rather than give in to the lingering feeling of isolation.
The name of the only eyewitness in the case was a highly guarded secret at the Yard, so much so that all my persuasive skills could not convince my professor to divulge it, for fear that the witness would be in danger from the gang. Nor could Brian glean the information on my behalf, so I looked back at my notes from the day. As we had passed each other on those stairs, I had noted that the flustered woman frequented the same hatmaker as my guardian. The clasp on the side of her hat bore the same triangular stamp of a well-known London milliner.
I headed downtown. In the millinery, I made some small talk with one of the ladies behind the counter before describing the hat I had seen.
“Oh yes, that was a special order for Madame LaPointe of Archer Hall. I remember it well,” she assured me. “Green velvet with a hawk-feather bouquet. Really a one-of-a-kind creation.”
I thanked her kindly and took the next cab to Archer Hall in Hampstead Village. The grounds included an orchard that had been winterized by the staff, the trees wrapped in burlap and rope to ward off the worst of the winter chill.
After ringing the doorbell, I was ushered into the stately home by the butler. I looked around in awe at the combination of oriental and English décor, the rugs from some Eastern count
ry — either Afghanistan or Pakistan, by the pattern, though I could not be positive in my identification. Moments later he delivered me to a fine sitting room, and the very lady I sought entered to greet me. She was dressed this time in a long pink wool skirt with a small jacket that complimented it perfectly, her walk graceful and silent on her thick rugs.
“Madame LaPointe, I presume,” I said, offering my hand, forcing my eyes to meet hers instead of cataloguing the furniture and accessories.
“Yes,” she answered in a lilting French accent. “Do I know you?”
“Not really,” I admitted, and explained our brief encounter on the steps to Scotland Yard, and the actions I had taken to find her.
She took a seat, crossing her slippered feet, looking only marginally less confused. “Alors, you came all this way seulement to see if my jewelry had returned?” Her brow furrowed.
“Not exactly, though if you tell me it had, I should be most pleased for you,” I answered.
She sadly shook her head.
I continued. “I was hoping to hear more about the theft, Madame LaPointe. You see, I am studying law — in my first year, at Somerville College, and this case has fascinated me.”
“Ah, I see. Dommage, there is not much for me to say,” she replied, settling back on her golden-flowered settee. “But what I told the police, I can also tell you: I was at the church. It is very close to here. I was helping to … um, to organize for the choir practice, when one of the friends of mine, Madame Polk, arrived. I was reminded I had borrowed a shawl from her the week before. I asked her to stay there while I ran back to the house to bring it back for her. I left, ran back into my house and straight up the stairs and to my bedroom where the shawl, I knew it was there.
“I passed none on my way in the door or up the stairs. Later I found out that James, my butler, he was out walking with the dogs. And that Mary, my maid, she was at the kitchen. Alors, I ran straight into my room and had my hand on my shawl when quel que … something made me to look towards my window. There I saw a man almost out on the sill, half out and half in, with a sack in his hand.”
I was taking notes as she spoke and wrote for a few seconds after she stopped speaking to catch up.
“Well?” she asked as soon as I lifted pen from paper, her brown eyes on mine.
“How did you realize what had been stolen?”
“Mon dieu, I screamed, and he, the man, he leapt the rest of the way out of the window and he was gone from my sight,” she answered. “I must have frozen in the shock for a moment because the next thing, Mary was beside where I was, asking me what was wrong.”
“And then?”
“And then we both of us ran to my jewelry cabinet and to discover that my mother’s tiara was taken.”
I looked up from my notes. “Only one piece was stolen?”
“Mais oui,” she answered, nodding, “the very most precious piece of jewelry I own.”
“But surely the rest of your jewelry is worth quite a lot of money as well,” I mused. “And how could the thief had known that the tiara was the most valuable thing in your cabinet? Why not take it all?”
“Sergeant Michaels, he believes that I … interrupted? Interrupted the man in the middle of his burglary, which is why he got away with so little,” she offered. “The sergeant, he said that if I had returned even a half hour later, comme the choir practice would end, I would have lost everything.”
“But he was already halfway out your window when you entered the room,” I answered, dismissing the theory. “Were you wearing the same type of shoes you are wearing now?” I pointed with the end of my pencil at her fine little slippers.
She nodded.
“I doubt he even heard you coming with those light slippers,” I continued. “I would guess that you surprised him as he was trying to leave, not as he was picking through your valuables, meaning he got what he came for and the rest of your jewelry for some reason didn’t interest him.”
She didn’t answer, perhaps digesting my words.
“Did you wear the tiara out recently?” I asked, tapping that same pencil against my lips. “Perhaps to an event that got press coverage? Exposing it to the public?”
She shook her head. “Non, not for over a year have I worn that piece, it is quite large, after all.”
“But then why just for the tiara? And if that was all he wanted, why was he carrying a sack?” I asked. “How big was the sack, do you think?”
“Grand. Bigger than my purse, and it looked full already,” she answered after a moment’s thought.
“Full?” I repeated. “Full of what? Surely he wasn’t going from house to house collecting jewelry? Was anything else of yours missing? Perhaps something other than jewelry?”
“I think it is not, we did a very good check through my things and police then did as well.”
I nodded, my mind whirling. “Thank you so much for your time, madame. I do appreciate it.”
She stood. “Pas de problème, Miss Adams.”
I followed her out of the room, but as I made to pull on my gloves, I found I had one last question: “Madame LaPointe, what made you turn towards the window? Did you hear a sound?”
She paused thoughtfully. “Non, and I confess, when I tell to the police about my finding that man in my rooms, they really didn’t think it important...”
I raised my eyebrows.
“It was this mauvais smell, Miss. Adams,” she whispered. “This horrible, rotten smell!”
Chapter Eleven
The following week Mrs. Jones found me sitting on the floor in front of my fireplace surrounded by notes and books. She had thrown out the threadbare rug that had sat there for decades the week before, with promises to replace it with a “more suitable one.” So I had folded up one of the blankets from my bed and sat on that instead.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed as she took in the spectacle.
I couldn’t blame her, really. I must have looked a sight — and the room looked like a tornado had swept through it with photos of my mother, my grandfather’s old papers, and half-eaten meals and empty mugs and glasses scattered all over.
She marched straight to the window and yanked open the heavy drapes, surprising me with the brightness of the sun.
“When did you last leave this room?” she demanded, struggling to open the window a crack, succeeding only when she put down her cane and used both hands.
“Yesterday morning.” I yawned. She turned toward me with a raised eyebrow, so I gave in. “Maybe it has been a few days. I actually don’t recall, exactly. What day is this?”
“Monday, and we are going out, so get dressed,” she announced, shaking her head.
Something I had almost immediately discovered about my guardian was that she could be very bossy, and within a half hour she had bullied me into a bath and then into the new clothes she had brought for me. They consisted of a dark wool skirt that I knew even before touching it would itch, a pair of annoying stockings that were destined to slowly slouch down my legs, plus a cream blouse with shoulder pads that made me look like an American football player. The only redeeming item was a pair of brown leather gloves that were so soft they felt like I was wearing velvet rather than animal skin. Regardless of my discomfort, another half hour later found us walking toward the market to find some fruit and to take some air.
“Your professors tell me that you show amazing promise,” she said as we shared a bag of roasted chestnuts.
“I appreciate their kind regard,” I murmured, my sleepy brain still gnawing at the case spread all over my sitting room floor.
“Yes indeed, their letters speak of excelling in writing, leading the class in debates and having a remarkable memory for detail and law,” she continued as we strolled amongst the various stalls.
She stopped at a grocer’s cart, picking delicately through some old-looking apples before waving away the hopeful merchant.
“They seem to be drawing interesting linkages between your skills and your
ancestry,” she offered, eyes slanted.
“For which I am flattered,” I answered, following my guardian to another stall, this one with various kinds of animals laid out on butcher blocks and hanging from wooden struts.
“An interesting leap, in my view,” she snorted. “Your intelligence is your own and, I believe, independent of who your mother and father were, don’t you think? Surely we are our own individuals, destined to make our own mistakes and create our own successes.”
Unfortunately for Mrs. Jones, I was no longer able to answer. I had halted, almost mid-step, seized mentally and physically by something clicking into place.
“Good heavens, Portia!” she exclaimed when I didn’t answer and she turned to see why not.
I don’t know what she saw at that moment, but I felt as though my hair were standing on end. Like I had touched an electric wire and was frozen in place by the current still running through me.
“Portia!” she said again, now shaking my arm.
“That smell…” I finally managed to gasp.
“The smell?” she answered, surprised. “Come over here, then.” She guided me by the elbow toward a small garden within sight, away from the stalls.
“Now, take a few deep breaths, get your—” she was saying reassuringly when I interrupted.
“That’s the smell, Mrs. Jones. That’s what he smelled like — rotten meat!”
“What? Who?” she replied, confused.
“And I bet if I ask Madame LaPointe, she’d recognize it as well,” I blathered on, barely hearing her in my excitement.
“Madame LaPointe? What has she to do with any of this?” Mrs. Jones asked, her tone exasperated.
I could not explain without revealing my evening visits to the bridge, so I made my apologies to my poor guardian, who by now was looking quite confused, and we continued on our walk as best we could, my mind focused on my case.
Smithfield Market was only two miles from St. Guy’s Hospital, where I knew the department of forensics was located as part of the University of London. Coercing my guardian south across London Bridge towards Southwark, I managed to escape with promises of attending a charity ball in a few weeks. I had to agree to a fitting for a new dress, and finally, with a kiss and a self-satisfied smile, Mrs. Jones hailed a cab and left me to walk the rest of the way to the hospital on my own.
Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) Page 7