Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure)

by Misri, Angela

  “Not positively, until just now when you claimed to be taking the baths at Lyon,” I admitted. “If you were spending all your time in the baths, either your rings would be spotless and shiny or the skin on your fingers would be chafed from taking them on and off. They are neither — therefore you were not at the baths. You were avoiding me in London because you knew I was close to solving the case.”

  She sighed again but didn’t disagree.

  “You sent Bruiser Jenkins to me because you are old friends,” I said, daring her to disagree. “Because you too have walked on the wrong side of the law. It is the only way you would trust me, whom you purport to love, into the care of a muscle-bound criminal.”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it abruptly.

  “You sold Madame LaPointe’s tiara to a Turkish millionaire and returned with a Turkish ring and Turkish silks,” I listed. “Turkish jewelry often has combinations of two metals, a local trait, and the stones — turquoise — are well known to the region.”

  “What do you intend to do with this idea, Portia?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, neither denying nor admitting anything.

  I didn’t tell her how close I had come to turning her in. How the looks of appreciation from Brian Dawes and his contemporaries had been as addictive an idea as my pursuance of my grandfather’s work. What if I could also give them the ringleader? What a coup that would be! Professionally, at least.

  My guardian lived on the wrong side of the law. I would guess that she had for decades before my existence. But to lose her to the penal system, as surely could have been arranged, would have taken away one of my last connections to my mother, small as it was. This was a woman who had known my grandmother and my grandfather. Who had agreed to support me and had so far done exactly as she had promised. And I had to admit that she had become important to me, not as a replacement for my mother, but as a member of my new, less formalized family here in London. I did love this woman. I did need her.

  And to lose her would have taken away my first connection to this, my new life.

  I could only hope that if the truth ever came out about her real involvement in this case, she would be far away from London, and that I could continue to look Brian Dawes in the eye.

  “I won’t even bother to ask if you still have any of the items you conspired to steal. You would have rid yourself of them as soon as you could, probably in another country like you did with the tiara,” I said, getting no reaction from her, but expecting none.

  “You knew which jewelry to take, and you told Fawkes of it, and of the most opportune times to steal the items. You knew when the owners would be out of the house because you ran in the same circles,” I said. “So my question is this: why has Fawkes not named you as his client?”

  She shrugged, but I could tell she had an answer, and I was determined to have it.

  “Oh, very well then. We never actually spoke, we corresponded through telegram only,” she finally admitted. “He has no idea who gave him the information or paid him for his work. Are you content now?”

  “I cannot condone your actions, Mrs. Jones,” I replied, caressing my teacup with my forefinger as I spoke, “but if you can promise me, here and now, that you will halt all criminal activity, then I am willing to move past this.”

  She looked down at her lap before answering. “And if I cannot make that promise?”

  I leaned forward to project my determination better. “Then we are finished. I will thank you for your support, and I will ask for your last act as guardian to be to remove yourself legally from my life, even as I ask you to remove yourself physically from my flat.”

  Her lower lip trembled and I fought down my own emotional reaction. The words were not easy to say, but actually doing what I had harshly laid out was even worse to imagine.

  “Will you take the help from Jenkins?” she asked softly. “He is a teddy bear, I swear to you, Portia. He is a sweet man who happens to have the skills to train you to take care of yourself. You don’t know how much you frightened me. I don’t want to be frightened like that again. Please.”

  I could see just how much this meant to her and felt any residual anger seep away, to be replaced by an appreciation that someone cared so much about me. “If you trust him so much, then yes, I suppose I could compromise with you on training with him. If only to alleviate your worry.”

  She nodded, and her voice rough with sorrow, she said, “Then I promise.” She reached her hand across to mine. “I promise, Portia. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes,” I said, sitting back and closing my eyes with a satisfied sigh.

  “That I remember,” she remarked, smiling again finally. I opened my eyes.

  “The end of a case in this apartment was marked by the solution of the puzzle, not the arrest of the perpetrator. By and large that fell to the rather obtuse Inspector Lestrade,” she explained.

  “And for my grandfather?” I asked, curious.

  “Watson was always of two minds. Part of him thrilled at his friend’s success once again, and another part worried about the interim between cases,” she said, tilting her head. “Is that something I should worry about with you?”

  I thought about it for a minute, and then a sparkle came into my eye, thinking of a way that we could together repay the victims in this case for their losses.

  I leaned forward. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Jones, there is always another case.”

  She laughed, wiping the last of her tears from her eyes. “Tell me about it, then, my dear Portia. I am all ears.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “We should pick a regular night, don’t you think?” Brian said, calling my attention back to him.

  We were shelling peas in his mother’s kitchen later that same day, and I had fallen into the repetitive rhythm of the work. “I’m sorry, what, Mr. Dawes?” Leek soup simmered on the stove behind us as we sat at the small wooden table, the smell thick and inviting.

  Mrs. Dawes popped her head into the kitchen. “I’m stepping over to the O’Reilly’s to borrow an egg,” she said, pulling on her jacket, “an’ your father is still out walkin’ the dogs.”

  We nodded to her and she left us alone again.

  “I mean for you to come to dinner, here, with us,” Brian explained as soon as his mother was gone. “You know, make it a regular night.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “That would be nice, Mr. Dawes, and probably more efficient for your mother than dropping in randomly so that she doesn’t know if she’s cooking for three or four. I’m sure that’s annoying.”

  He snorted, his dimples making a brief appearance. “My mother is far too intimidated by your Mrs. Jones to worry about efficiencies — I think she’d be fine with you coming down every night if it meant Mrs. Jones would show her rare approval.”

  I glanced up at him from my hands, dying to ask how he’d feel about that, but too cowardly to actually do it.

  “She hasn’t been around for a few weeks. Your guardian, I mean,” Brian continued, picking up his bowl to fish out a pea that was slightly off-color. “Until I saw her today, I thought maybe she had decided to leave you to your own devices. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To not have a guardian at all?”

  I cocked my head. “You don’t like Mrs. Jones much, do you Mr. Dawes?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t like her. She doesn’t much seem to like me,” he said, raising his brown eyes to meet mine. “As soon as she sees me her shoulders come up an’ so, might I say, does her nose…”

  I laughed but inwardly agreed with his astute observations, though I now knew her reaction to be one of a decades-old adversary.

  “I have to admit, I have come to care for and even admire Mrs. Jones,” I said instead, the peas in my hands falling agreeably into my bowl, “though she has her foibles, as we all do.”

  “I like how she treats you,” he replied, pausing in his shelling to speak. “She cares for you very much, and I like that you have that in your life.”r />
  I didn’t know what to say about that, but I felt warmth in my belly at his concern for me.

  “Well, also, she's the only connection I have to Dr. Watson and my grandmother. Even if she weren’t my guardian, I’d still want a relationship with her,” I stammered, forcing my words to slow. “She is, after all, the only person who can tell me about that entire side of my family. Though getting information out of her is not an easy task.”

  I popped out three peas at the same time, two of them flying in opposite directions, and only one actually landing in my bowl.

  “Well … not the only person,” Brian said with a frown, his head coming up, eyebrows furrowed.

  I looked at him quizzically, locating one of the peas that had rolled under my chair and straightening with it in hand.

  “There is, after all, Sherlock Holmes,” he said with a smile.

  Casebook Two

  A Case of Darkness

  Chapter One

  London, Fall 1930

  The ever-deepening financial woes of the world continued as summer turned to fall at 221 Baker Street. The class sizes for this semester at Somerville College dropped by two thirds as the less affluent ladies were unable to find the required tuition to continue studying. So far, Britain had fared better than the colonies as the economic depression took hold, but that only meant that the breadlines on this side of the ocean were shorter, not that they didn’t exist. This also meant that the financial support for the education of women, only starting to build momentum, suffered more than the education of their male peers. Less funding for the college meant less scholarships and grants, which all led to fewer students.

  With smaller class sizes came more scrutiny and, very quickly, the suggestion was made to cancel some classes and combine others. One of the more contentious suggestions was that a few of our classes be combined with that of the corresponding men’s college so both schools could save some money in the worrying financial climate.

  There were of course protests on both sides, but eventually a deal was struck whereby our lecture on tort law was relocated to the boy’s college.

  Suffice to say that of the already small classes of girls left to study law at Somerville College that fall, even fewer were willing to brave the heckling and general awkwardness found in a mixed classroom. But despite this (or rather because of it, according to Brian Dawes) I relished that class above all others.

  It gave me insight into a breed of men I seldom had access to. I would never complain about my life before London, but I had grown up in a working-class family in Canada. My mother worked constantly, sometimes as a librarian, other times supplementing that meager salary by caring for neighborhood children. I hadn’t known at the time, but the various tutors I had had over the years had been paid for not by my mother, but now suspected they were paid for by Dr. Watson. The few men I had known in that time were the drunken friends of my ex-stepfather, the type of man I felt I had a depressingly clear sense of.

  The men in my tort class were literally a different stock of human. I took careful notes on all, knowing that one of the keys of investigative work was observation and gathering of data. Someday, this knowledge could very well help me solve a crime. I had no idea that I would get the opportunity to use that information so soon.

  “So, how goes the battle, little miss?” Mrs. Dawes huffed at me one night as I struggled in the front door with an unaccommodating umbrella.

  “Oh,” I replied, finally bringing the misshapen device under control, “not too badly, Mrs. Dawes, thank you.”

  Since this was usually the extent of our parley, I was surprised to see her still standing there after I had worked off my soaked overcoat. She was shifting from foot to foot nervously, so I enquired if anything were amiss.

  “I may have,” she stammered out, “that is … I did … perhaps … let a young man into your rooms a few minutes ago.”

  “I’m sorry?” I answered, eyebrows raised as I glanced up the stairs to my flat. “What man?”

  “He seemed quite nice, most attractive indeed,” she hedged, now adding wringing of her hands to the movement of her feet. “But after he convinced me to let him wait upstairs for you, it occurred to me that it, well, it might not be quite proper…”

  I considered my words carefully despite my growing annoyance. “Indeed, and perhaps even dangerous, Mrs. Dawes?” I said, picking up my umbrella and for the first time wishing I hadn’t delayed my first training session with Jenkins. “Tell me, is your son home?”

  “Brian? Oh, yes, he is. Shall I get him?” she replied, confused.

  “Could you, please?” I asked, maintaining my calm with effort. I looked around the area for a coat that might give me a clue as to who was sitting in my apartment, but saw nothing I didn’t recognize. No strange footsteps scuffed my stairs, but Mrs. Dawes was meticulous in her cleaning habits, so I rarely found a clue there anyway.

  Constable Dawes was duly fetched, and after being apprised of the situation he took a moment to reprimand his mother for allowing strangers into the apartment. He had his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and suds still clung to the hair on his arms, indicating that he had been washing dishes when called out.

  “Miss Adams is, after all, a single woman,” he said to his mother, his hand on her shoulder to soften his remonstration. He glanced up at me, his eyes running over me appreciatively. “Though an entirely capable woman, of course…”

  I tried to speak and found that I could still feel the heat of his gaze upon me, so instead I pointed up the stairs with my umbrella. He nodded, patted his mother on the arm, and then led the way up the stairs.

  Opening the door wide, we took a good look inside. The room looked as it always did — papers everywhere, plates and cups stacked neatly near the door — but with a new addition: a man sitting comfortably in one of my wingback chairs. A man I instantly recognized.

  “Mr. Barclay, isn’t it?” I asked, stepping into my home and lowering my umbrella.

  “Yes!” he replied, springing to his feet and bowing slightly. He extended his hand to Brian. “And you are, sir?”

  The fashionable suit Barclay wore was finely tailored and freshly pressed, showing only one line of demarcation over his left leg. His shoes were polished and black, his hair fashionably styled, and cologne wafted out of his collar as he stepped closer to us. He was handsome in a way that I knew pleased many of the girls, with wide-set green eyes, long, dark eyelashes, high cheekbones and a perfect smile you could have easily found on a film set.

  “Constable Brian Dawes,” said my companion with a curt nod, and then looking at me with an uneasy glance. “Do you know this man, then, Miss Adams?”

  “I do,” I affirmed. “Mr. Barclay is a classmate of mine, possibly stopping here on his way home from rehearsals.” I laid my hand on Brian’s arm, feeling it tense and then relax slowly under my fingers. “Thank you so much for making sure all was well, Constable.”

  Brian took his cue, giving Barclay another once-over before giving me a furtive glance and retreating down the stairs, leaving the door pointedly open.

  “However did you know I was on my way home from rehearsals, Miss Adams?” Mr. Barclay said wonderingly as I took a better look around my apartment.

  “The cross-wise mark across your left trouser leg. A sword recently hung there, though not a heavy one by the look of how lightly it pressed against you,” I answered automatically. “As I know, you are studying law and are not in the military, and since it was lighter than a real sword, I suspect that it was a prop. And where else would you need a prop but in a play?”

  He gaped at that, so I continued. “As delighted as I am to see you, sir, I confess I do not recall that we had made an appointment to meet, let alone that I had invited you into my home.”

  He blushed at the frost in my tone and held out his hands apologetically. “My dear Miss Adams, I am terribly embarrassed by my own lack of manners. If you wish for me to leave, you have but to say the word and I will do s
o immediately.”

  He picked up his hat and gloves as he spoke to prove the truth of his words, but my curiosity overcame my annoyance, so I said, “As long as it does not happen again, sir, we can consider how you arrived here of no consequence, and proceed to the why.”

  Mr. Barclay’s face broke into a charming grin, and he turned toward my fireplace. I took a seat. We heard Mrs. Dawes struggling up the stairs with a tray. Barclay gallantly took the platter of biscuits and tea in china cups with small blue flowers decorating their stems from her with many thanks that left her blushing and giggling her way back down the stairs. I poured each of us a generous helping of tea as he took a seat across from me, waving off my offer of sugar or milk.

  “It is most imposing to actually be in this room, don’t you think?” he said finally, picking up his cup. “I wonder that you manage to live here surrounded by so much history.”

  I shrugged, having spent months becoming acclimatized to my remarkable circumstances. “It becomes easier as time passes, I assure you.”

  He took a gulp of tea. “And the stories being told about you at the college are true, then? That you helped the police capture the thief, Fawkes?”

  He said the last with such a hopeful turn that I took pity on him and started the conversation he so obviously did not want to. “I did, and if it is help you need, I would be more than happy to bring Constable Dawes back upstairs to take on your case. I am sure he would—”

  But Barclay was shaking his head, so I stopped mid-sentence. “No, no, that will not do, Miss Adams. This sort of case … it is so very sensitive.” He stood up and began pacing in agitation, cup in hand.

  “Involving the police would bring too much attention to it, and if it were mishandled, or if the press were to find out, the damage to my family would be…”

  “Then I am not sure what I can do for you, sir,” I said, spreading my hands. “Despite the history of this room and my actions this summer, I am not a private detective, and investigation is at present a hobby to me, not a profession.”