“Yes, but that is exactly what I need,” he said excitedly, “a secret detective! Someone who does not seek fame and glory but has the skills to get the job done, and who, at the resolution of the investigation, will not air our private issues to the public, all of which you have proven to be very capable of.”
I considered his words, hiding my excitement. It was true that I had followed more than a few crimes in the papers since the summer, but nothing dramatic — no unsolved mysteries to really sink my teeth into. And I missed the thrill of that chase; there really was no feeling like it.
“At least let me tell you my tale,” he begged, handsome features turning into a most earnest plea, “and then make your decision? I will abide no matter what you decide.”
I nodded and settled back to listen as he took a deep breath.
“My father is the Right Honourable Judge Marcus Barclay of the Superior Courts. A remarkable man, Miss Adams. I only wish you could have met him at the height of his judicial career. He was a force to be reckoned with, inside and outside the courtroom, I must admit. He has been forced to retire this past spring due to an illness that forbids him from stressful work, as of course trying criminal cases at his level must be.
“He was struck ill quite suddenly, and has, over the past months, lost many of his basic abilities. We fear the worst, but doctor after doctor has been consulted, all giving us the same maddening answer: nothing can be found to be physically wrong with the man.”
My mother’s own misdiagnosis and fatal illness were still very much in my mind, so I felt this man’s pain keenly.
“Understandably, the whole family has been affected,” he continued after a sip, “and by whole family, I actually exaggerate, since there are only the two of us left: my elder sister and myself, our good mother having passed when we were but small children.”
I poured us each another cup of tea and he took the refilled cup with thanks. “My sister has … changed, Miss Adams,” he said hesitantly, searching for the right words, “and it is more than worry over my father. She has changed so drastically from the girl I knew that I know there is something more behind it. That is why I am here. I want you to discover the true cause of my sister’s woes and help me to remove them.”
“I don’t think I understand, Mr. Barclay,” I said.
“Up until my father’s illness, my sister was the most agreeable lady you could ever meet,” Barclay said. “She was the finest of young women, engaged to a gentleman of the highest standard. But when my father sickened, something changed in her. She became withdrawn and suspicious, she stopped going out socially, she stopped attending college, and then she abruptly ended her engagement to Mr. Ridley. She seems obsessed with our father’s illness to the point that she rarely leaves his side.”
I nodded sympathetically. “It sounds to me like she is understandably depressed by the prospect of losing her parent, Mr. Barclay, more so than is healthy, I admit, but certainly not surprising. Is she especially close to your father?”
“Elaine and my father have always been very, very close,” Barclay admitted, “more so than Elaine and I or my father and I, that I will acknowledge. But I have considered that, and I truly believe that is not all there is to her passion.”
“Having lost my own dear mother recently, I understand that single-minded focus of trying to help save the ones you love,” I said. “Have the doctors talked to her about your father?”
He shook his head. “At first, but her questions turned to harassment when nothing could be discovered. It has progressed to the point that she has barred anyone, doctors, friends, servants, even myself, from entering his rooms. She sleeps in his anteroom — she moved her bed in there two months ago — and the only times I am permitted to see him is while in her presence.”
“What does your father think of this?” I asked.
“Initially, he thought the same as we did, and as you do, that she was distraught at how quickly his health was declining,” Barclay said. “But before he lost the power of speech a few months ago, he confided in me that he thought someone,” he hesitated again, “someone might be threatening my sister. It would explain her paranoid turn.”
I sat back. “That is a serious accusation, sir, and I again remind you of the constable living downstairs who would be most interested in this case. Has aught been done to ascertain if there is any evidence of that?”
“No, no!” he said miserably. “My sister refuses to talk about it, and as to my father’s theories, I cannot confirm them and he can no longer explain. I have asked my sister again and again but have had no luck, and she refuses to speak to anyone, friend or family.”
I steepled my fingers. “And what is it you think I could do, sir?”
“I believe that she would confide in you as a woman of her age and intelligence, and that you, with your skills for deduction, could take what little information she would be willing to give you and decipher it!” he said, leaning forward. “Please, Miss Adams, I am desperate. Help me while I have time to reverse this situation and regain my beloved sister!”
“Induction,” I corrected automatically, considering the situation. Despite my misgivings, his entreaties did not fall upon deaf ears, and I found myself saying, “But if your sister has closed herself off socially and barely leaves your father’s rooms, how do you propose I gain her confidence?”
“I had thought…” he offered, not meeting my eyes, “that you might pose as my fiancée, and thereby gain access to our home and to my sister.”
I raised my eyebrows, color flooding my cheeks. “Oh, I think not, sir.”
“I believe I could carry it off, though, Miss Adams,” he said excitedly, the passion for the craft increasing the man’s charm and making me blush even more. “As you so astutely surmised, I flatter myself as to my abilities as an actor, a true passion of mine. You might have heard that I have secured the lead in our college production of the Scottish play.”
I did not know and admitted to it freely. “I’m surprised you find time for acting amongst our studies, Mr. Barclay, but I—”
“I make the time, Miss Adams. It is a personal passion of mine,” he interrupted. “Only my mother understood and shared my love for the stage, but I am determined to use the talent that God gave me!”
For one brief second I allowed myself to imagine walking around on Charles Barclay’s arm, being the envy of the women in our classes, impressing Mrs. Jones … but shook it off with effort.
“Be that as it may, Mr. Barclay, for such a scheme to work we would need to lie to your family, and possibly mine, since questions will arise. Therefore, I cannot agree to this approach,” I said firmly.
He blushed for a second time in our interview. “I thought you might not take to that. I do have another idea: my sister has recently taken an ad out in the newspaper, without consulting with me, for a part-time caregiver to come by and read to my father in the evenings.”
I nodded. “Much more agreeable, Mr. Barclay, and more believable that a student would seek part-time employment to supplement the costs of college. I shall answer the ad tomorrow.”
“Perfect!” he exclaimed, rising to shake my hand energetically. “I need only ask for your fee, and your utmost silence on this subject.”
We quickly negotiated a reasonable sum for the next two weeks of investigative work and said our goodbyes.
Chapter Two
Two days later I received word from Miss Elaine Barclay that I would be granted an interview, with directions to their address in Hackney. Arriving promptly at five p.m., I was ushered into the red-brick Tudor-style house by a smartly dressed butler with a most disagreeable frowning countenance, possibly due to the gout he was likely suffering from, as evidenced by his leaning heavily on his left foot. After relieving me of my outerwear, he asked that I follow him up a wide, painted staircase past wood-paneled walls and Jacobean paintings to one of the many bedroom doors on the second floor, where he knocked thrice.
“Come in,�
� said a voice from inside, and the butler opened the door inward for me. I stepped into the darkened interior, my eyes adjusting to the simple candlelight.
The door closed behind me as the same voice said, “Please come in, have a seat to your right.”
I could make out the shadowy form of the speaker seated on a chaise lounge and did as she bade, taking the seat in front of her. My curiosity at her appearance must have been obvious, because she said, “Do forgive the drama of this interview, Miss Adams, or may I call you Portia?”
“Portia will be fine, Miss Barclay,” I replied cordially. “And I hope it is not too impertinent to ask, but it is a beautiful sunny day outside. Why do you sit in here with the drapes closed and these few candles to provide a trifling of light?”
“Is it a beautiful day?” she asked wistfully, her eyes turned toward the heavy closed drapes over the window. “Indeed, I have almost forgotten what a sunny day looks like.”
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I was able to take in her entirely black gown with full-length gloves and black scarf wound around her head, making it easy to believe her statement. I was tempted to ask then and there what drove her into hiding so thoroughly but sensed that the time was not right.
“You are a student at Somerville College?” she asked, refocusing on me with effort.
“Yes, ma’am, studying law,” I answered.
“As was I before…” she said, again looking toward the window. She recovered more quickly this time, though, and continued. “This is a high-paying position, Portia, because I am paying for your discretion as much as for your work reading to my father.”
I glanced toward the large doors that must lead to her father’s master bedroom.
She followed my glance, brow furrowed. “My father is very ill and requires my constant care. But I need relief as well, and that is where you come in.” She pulled out a sheet of paper. “These rules must be adhered to, to the letter. Once you have read them all, please initial next to each line, and sign at the bottom.”
I took the paper from her. “This will be the contract between us,” she added, “and should you in any way, at any time, diverge from these rules, your employment with me will be immediately terminated.”
I nodded. “May I take this home and examine it first, Miss Barclay?”
“I expect no less,” she agreed, rising. “Will you let me know by tomorrow, Portia?”
“I will,” I said, extending my hand.
She looked blankly down at my hand for a moment, as I guessed she would, then smiled wanly and bowed. I withdrew my hand thoughtfully and did the same, then left with a head full of questions.
* * *
The next day I copied word-for-word Miss Barclay’s list of rules into my new notebook on the case. I had initialed beside each line as I went, fully intending to agree to her demands in toto.
I signed the document and then folded it up, replacing it in my purse.
Only then did I allow myself full study of her demands:
1. Never turn on any lights or open the drapes. A candle will always be provided, and should it go out, matches sit beside it.
2. The reading chair should never be moved.
3. Please restrict your own movements to the reading chair. Do not walk around the rooms.
4. Do not touch my father or interact with him in any way other than reading to him.
5. Do not touch me.
6. Do not speak of me or my father to anyone outside this household.
7. Do not touch any of the articles in this room.
8. Do not bring anything into the room with you, save a book, which can be of your own choosing.
I read over these very strange, very exacting instructions a few times. The main requirements seemed to revolve around proximity — to herself and to her father. Walking over to my bookcase, I picked through some of my grandfather’s medical journals, seeking the one that spoke of psychological illnesses. Perhaps her phobias could be diagnosed. But after looking through several case studies, though I found some supporting documentation of a fear of darkness, I could find nothing to explain a fear of touching, only a paragraph about the fear of crowds, so I closed the book with a sigh. I would have to consult in person with a doctor to pursue the theory.
I decided to head out on my morning walk, mulling over the problem as I made my way toward the Barclays’ home. Did Miss Barclay fear for her father’s safety or my own? I did not think Mr. Barclay would risk my exposure to an illness if he thought his father was contagious, but what did I really know about the man? It seemed passing strange to allow me into the room alone, but worry about my distance from the patient. Was there something I was not to see up close? Some sign of abuse? Perhaps his weakness made him more susceptible to illness I might be carrying? Miss Barclay might have refused to shake hands with me for the same reason — worry that I might unknowingly infect her and then she pass on that disease to her father.
By now I had arrived at the house and was greeted by the same taciturn butler, who silently took my signed papers.
“Sir, not to intrude, but your foot,” I spoke up, surprising him, “don’t you think it is time to have it looked at?”
“I beg your pardon?” he replied, not even glancing down at where I pointed, his tone icy to the point of Antarctic temperatures.
“Untreated, gout can lead to even more serious health issues,” I said, pursing my lips at the ugly look that appeared very briefly on the man’s face at the word ‘gout’.
Obviously, he did not like that I had noticed his limp, but he said nothing and simply nodded with glittering, angry eyes. I had made it back down the front stairs and onto the sidewalk when he called out to me by name.
“Miss Adams, Miss Barclay wonders if you could perchance start your service right now,” he said in a sonorous voice, his face expressionless once more.
I agreed with surprise and re-entered the house, following him up the stairs as he purposely put full weight on his right foot despite the pain it must have caused him. But instead of taking me to the rooms I had visited the day before, he directed me to the library, explaining that Miss Barclay expected me to pick out a book to read to his master. I went in and was only slightly surprised to see Mr. Barclay sitting comfortably in the room.
He, however, did not seem taken aback at all, and rose to say, “Ah, you must be my father’s new caregiver … miss?”
“Adams,” I said, playing along.
“Ah, Miss Adams,” he said, with a nod to the butler who stood waiting in the doorway.
“I am looking for a suitable book to read your father today,” I explained.
He smiled, reaching for the book he had just now been reading. “This is one of my favorites, Miss Adams, please read this one to him. The whole story, if you please, he does so enjoy it.”
And so saying, with a bow he handed me a thick, hardbound cover.
I took it, once again charmed by his manners, and followed the butler out of the library and all the way to the room where I had met Miss Barclay the day before. Again, she sat in the shadows, and again she was swathed head to toe in black.
“Miss Barclay,” I said in greeting, taking note of her pale skin and tired eyes and comparing this to her brother’s vibrant eyes and strong jaw. I suspected her to be within five years of my own age, but worry had added dark circles under her eyes and tensed her mouth beyond her years.
“Ah, Portia, then you are clear on our agreement?” she asked, brandishing the signed paper I had just dropped off.
I noticed her fingernails before I answered: very pale, with only the slightest hint of pink, though it was hard to tell for sure in the limited candlelight.
“I am clear, Miss Barclay, and eager to help,” I answered honestly.
She nodded, lips pursed thoughtfully, as she silently considered me.
“Very well. You have a book, splendid, let us go in.” She stood, slightly unsteady. I reached out to steady her and then remembered rule num
ber five and withdrew my aid. She watched my entire action with narrowed eyes, and only when my hand was back at my side did she move again.
With her candle in hand, she led me to the door, past an oak wardrobe and a matching screen and desk that, I was startled to notice, had chains and a lock around the elegant brass handles. They had been all but invisible in the darkness of the antechamber, and I watched as she fished a key from a necklace around her neck. She applied the key to the door’s lock with care, her hands trembling slightly.
Inside were, thankfully, more candles than were in the outer room, though in such a large bedroom their light was hard-pressed to change the somber mood. The drapes were, like their peers just outside, firmly closed against the daylight, and only by squinting could I make out the features of the figure in the bed.
He shared his daughter’s sickly pallor, though much more so, and his features seemed stretched over the bones of his narrow face. His eyes were open, but he didn’t seem to see us, mumbling instead to himself in a low undertone.
She took a few steps into the room and then pointed me to the high-backed chair near the door, beside which sat a large, fat candle.
“Father, we have a visitor. This is Miss Portia Adams, and she has kindly come to read to you today,” she said as she continued past me to the bed.
If he heard her words, there was no indication, so I dutifully took my seat as Miss Barclay moved closer to her father. She whispered into his ear, and the mumbling stopped for a moment. She took a rag from the side table and carefully swabbed at his face, whispering the whole time. I pretended to be paying attention to the book in my hands, but regarding them both from under my lashes, I took note of their interaction.
Miss Barclay’s actions did not seem to me to be odd; in fact, this was the most normal her behavior had been. She was bent over her father, still talking to him, and I could see that he was not flinching away from her touch. His eyes flickered as she spoke, so it seemed he comprehended her words, though he could not answer.
Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) Page 11