“It’s this case, isn’t it?” Mrs. Jones pressed as Dr. Watson pulled a stethoscope out of his bag and with my permission applied it to my chest. “It’s the stress of school and cases and God knows what else! You frightened Mr. Barclay silly. You should have seen him when he carried you in here — white as a sheet!”
“I am sorry to have scared anyone,” I said, and meant it, taking a breath as the doctor instructed. “I am at a loss as to what caused it. As far as I can tell, I have no other symptoms.”
Mrs. Jones looked to the doctor for his assessment, and he cleared his throat. “Miss Adams is correct, I see no underlying health issues. Her lungs sound clear, her pulse is steady, her pupils are slightly dilated but not worryingly so. How are you feeling right now, miss?”
I took another breath, sitting up fully and swinging my legs over the side of my bed. “Fine, honestly, I feel totally fine.”
“Did you ingest anything odd recently or something you had not eaten or drunk before?” he prompted.
“Nothing out of the ordinary here at home, and I neither ate nor drank at the Barclays’,” I replied, shaking my head. From the stairs came the sound of loud footsteps and a few seconds later, an out-of-breath Brian Dawes came into the room, his hair disheveled and his boots leaving wet track marks on the carpeting at my bedroom door.
“I … I was at the pub after work … I just got home … my mother just told me…” he blurted out in a rush, glancing between Mrs. Jones and Dr. Watson, his gaze finally landing on me.
“I’m fine, Mr. Dawes, really,” I said, raising my hand toward him palm out, hoping to impart some calm, but at the same time embarrassed that he had heard about my fainting spell.
“Oh … all right, good,” he replied, recovering his breath. “Apologies, Mrs. Jones, sir.”
Mrs. Jones managed a small smile. “Not at all, Mr. Dawes, you were just worried about my charge, and for that I am appreciative. The doctor was just delivering his diagnosis though, so…” She looked to the other gentleman in the room.
Dr. Watson shrugged, replacing his stethoscope in his bag. “Then I think your guardian is right, Miss Adams, we should just chalk this up to the stress of a new country, new school and new surroundings.”
“And needless cases,” Mrs. Jones put in, causing the doctor to cock his eyebrow at her disapproving tone.
“Thank you, so much, Dr. Watson, for coming down here to check on me,” I said, extending both hands his way, “and I very much look forward to meeting the rest of your family next week.”
He bowed at the waist, smiled at both of us and turned on his heel, medical bag in hand.
“Doesn’t matter anyways, does it, miss?” Mrs. Dawes said, negotiating her way around her son, who still stood dripping in my bedroom doorway, to deliver the promised pot of tea. “I suppose Mr. Barclay’s advice of getting you cleaned up and cool worked!”
I recovered quickly from whatever had ailed me, and the next day Mr. Barclay visited.
“Miss Adams!” he exclaimed when I answered the door. “I am very pleased to see you up and about!”
“Yes, thanks to you, sir,” I replied, ushering him in and noticing he wasn’t wearing cologne today. Taking a closer look at his appearance, I also noticed his tie had been knotted in a hurry, the lengths slightly wrong and the knot too loose. Had my fainting spell scared him that badly? “I am most grateful for your help yesterday. If you had not come along when you did…”
He shook his head modestly. “Not at all, Miss Adams. Had I but known that you were coming by the house, I would have stayed home instead of visiting an ill friend.”
I filed that away, remembering the pieces of paper I had seen sticking out of his jacket before I fainted. I didn’t get a close look, but they had looked to me like gambling chits from the local racetrack. “Your sister and I have not yet really developed a routine, so I dropped by quite unannounced.”
“And you read a new book to my father,” Mr. Barclay said, taking a seat. I tilted my head.
“How did you know I started a new book?”
“Oh, I must have seen it on the side table when I went to visit my father this morning,” he said, waving dismissively. “Did you get the opportunity to observe my sister? Are you any closer to discovering what really ails her?”
I hesitated. “She seemed very emotional again, sir. Whatever is troubling her —and I contend that I have found nothing further than her concern over her father’s condition — it continues to weigh on her most heavily.”
“Is that all you observed, Miss Adams?” he asked, leaning forward expectantly.
I had already decided not to discuss the glass bottle I saw in Elaine Barclay’s possession until I found an opportunity to pursue that lead further myself, so I replied in the affirmative.
Barclay looked very disappointed and hung his head, his perfect curls obscuring his eyes for a moment. “You must discover the root cause of my sister’s paranoia, Miss Adams. I am depending on you.”
I nodded. “I know, Mr. Barclay, I truly do empathize…”
“My father worsens every single day. I am barely allowed access to him — his own son!” He ran his hands through thick auburn locks. “I feel like I am losing my entire family at once!”
I closed my eyes, feeling the burden on my shoulders driving me to speak against my better judgment. “There was one … small thing … that I have yet to fully explore—”
“Yes?” he demanded, dropping to his knees in front of my chair. “Anything, Miss Adams! Just give me some small drop of hope!”
I looked into his desperate eyes and could not deny him. “When your father’s meal was delivered, your sister, that is Miss Barclay, she had a small glass vial in her hands … and she was weeping.”
His eyes widened and he stood slowly as if in a trance.
“I don’t know what is in the vial. I had planned to discover that the next time I gained access to her rooms. I believe it is locked up in the reticule in the anteroom,” I continued.
He was by now pacing with his back turned to me, so I stood as well.
“We need to get into that reticule, Mr. Barclay,” I said. “Do you have a key?”
“You want to see what is in the vial because you think…” he whispered, back still turned, “you think my sister is poisoning our father with whatever is in that glass vial.”
I gulped. It was a leap without information, and exactly what I had been trying to avoid. “I do not know, Mr. Barclay. I actually suspected something quite different. Nonetheless, it is just one of many unexplained things in those rooms. I would not jump to any conclusions without more data.”
He turned finally, his eyes wide but determined. “But it all makes sense, Miss Adams, don’t you see? It is the guilt that has changed her, made her retreat into herself, made her bar all of us from his side! She wasn’t protecting him — she was covering up her crime!”
I quickly shook my head. “I know it is tempting to take a few pieces of evidence and construct a plausible scenario, but I beg you, Mr. Barclay, let us proceed with caution. We may discover that the glass vial contains something totally innocuous — like salt, for heaven’s sake!”
He closed his eyes again and made a visible effort to get his emotions under control — and that was when we were startled by a brisk knock at my door.
Brian Dawes poked his head in and looked taken aback by my guest.
“Miss Adams, I just ran back to get you, but I think you had better come with us, Mr. Barclay,” Dawes said, taking off his hat and opening the door wide for us to follow him out.
I picked up my coat as I said, “What is it Constable Dawes?”
He was halfway down the stairs when he turned with an apologetic glance at my companion. “The Right Honourable Judge Barclay was pronounced dead ten minutes ago by the coroner.”
Chapter Seven
The Barclay house was surrounded by police, press and curious Londoners, and even Constable Dawes struggled to get all three o
f us through the crowd.
James Barclay had said nothing during the ride over, and only when we had made it through his front doors did he seem to regain his tongue.
“Where is my father?” he demanded of the men in uniform gathered in his foyer.
A man I recognized well stepped forward. “You are James Barclay then, sir?” asked Sergeant Michaels.
Barclay nodded stiffly.
“Take this man to the front room,” said the sergeant, directing one of his men. “Very sorry for your loss, sir, but your father is still being examined by the coroner.”
I stepped forward. “Still? Is there something suspicious then about the judge’s death, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Michaels looked taken aback by my presence, and then, seeing Constable Dawes, he barked, “This is not the circus, Dawes. You cannot bring friends and family to a crime scene to see the show! Most unseemly!”
Poor Brian had opened his mouth to protest but Barclay stepped in. “Apologies, Sergeant, Miss Adams is here at my behest. I had hired her to investigate something personal in my family, but in light of this,” he spread his hands sadly, “I see no need to keep it a secret any longer.”
“Miss Adams, you are no longer bound to secrecy,” he said, putting his hand on my arm, an action that made Constable Dawes frown. “Anything you can do to aid the police, I would appreciate.”
So saying, he followed the constable out of the foyer and toward his father’s body.
The rest of us stood there, watching his hunched shoulders until Sergeant Michaels cleared his throat. “Hired as an investigator, eh?” He whistled. “Seems like our services aren’t even required here, boys, not with Miss Adams on the case!”
I ignored his sarcasm and instead asked, “Where is Miss Barclay?”
“Locked up tight in her father’s rooms,” answered another officer, pointing up the stairs. “As soon as we carried Judge Barclay out of his room to the front rooms where he could be examined, she locked herself in.”
I started up the stairs. “Has aught been done to bring her out?”
“No, we thought we would leave a murderer to live out her days in the comfort of her apartments,” answered Sergeant Michaels, rolling his eyes. “We thought she was safe enough up there while we dealt with the body.”
I turned toward him with my hand on the railing. “You’ve already convicted her, then?”
Sergeant Michaels crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “The doctor smelled poison on the poor man’s breath as we were bringing him down the stairs. He’s running some tests to confirm it now. Miss Barclay is the only one with the means, motive and opportunity to do such a thing, and in my business, that is all you need.”
I looked up the stairs to where two policemen stood outside the bedroom. “Well, in my business, you also need hard evidence.”
Michaels snorted.
I headed the rest of the way up the stairs, and at the bedroom door, I knocked twice. “Miss Barclay? Miss Barclay, it’s Portia…”
There was silence from the other side of the door. I glanced at the officer to my left. “Is she in the bedroom or the outer room?”
He shrugged, so I turned the door handle and immediately discovered the answer to my question. For the first time since I had been in this house, the room was bathed in sunlight, the drapes spread wide, and, as I suspected, Elaine Barclay was nowhere to be seen.
Motioning for the officers to stay where they were, I looked behind me to see Constable Dawes follow me into the room, his nightstick at the ready.
He nodded encouragingly at me, so I walked over to the reticule and to my surprise found it open. Inside, amongst some goblets and liquor, I found a single glass vial containing some cream-colored powder. I carefully handed it to one of the officers at the door and was directing him to take it to the medical examiner when I recognized the sound of Miss Barclay weeping.
Hurriedly, I made my way over to her father’s bedroom door, followed again by Constable Dawes.
“Miss Barclay,” I said through the door, testing the handle. It was locked, this time from the inside. “It’s me, Portia Adams.”
“Go away!” she wailed.
“The police are here, Miss Barclay, you must come out,” I explained. “They really must speak to you.”
More wails. “I cannot! You must tell them I cannot! It is not safe!”
“Not safe?” whispered Dawes at my shoulder.
“Who is not safe, Miss Barclay?” I called out.
“They didn’t even let me say goodbye to him!” she cried. “And now I will never see him again!”
I absorbed that. “Your father, Miss Barclay? Of course you can see him again. Your brother is with him now. I can take you to them!”
“No, no, you can’t, Portia!” she replied, hiccoughing her words through her tears. “You are not safe, Portia, none of you are!”
Brian shook his head at my questioning raised eyebrow, and then Sergeant Michaels appeared at the outer door, impatiently waving us over.
Brian holstered his weapon and automatically walked over to his superior. Spying the book I had been reading to Judge Barclay on the table, I stooped to pick it up, my senses tingling.
Odd — the bookmark I had laid in it yesterday was there, but there was something strange … this book was newer … the one I had been reading was dog-eared, its pages bent from someone’s habit of licking their finger to turn the pages.
“Miss Adams!” Sergeant Michaels hissed at me from the doorway, but I barely heard him.
Why replace the book with a new one? And so carefully as to place the bookmark between the same pages?
Rudely ignoring the sergeant, I pushed past him and ran out of the anteroom and into the library with the book in hand. Once there, I pulled book after book off the shelves, opening them, flipping through them and tossing them aside in a frenzy. I had made it through a dozen books when the men caught up with me.
“Miss Adams, I must protest!” Sergeant Michaels said angrily, grasping my shoulder to turn me toward him.
“Help me find some dramas, please!” I said to the officers who had followed us into the room. “Plays, satires, anything like that, please!”
To my delight, and I’m sure Sergeant Michaels’ consternation, all three men began scanning the bookshelves for books of that genre.
“Miss Adams, that vial you found,” Sergeant Michaels said. “I need to know everything about it. James Barclay claims you have been witness to a most heinous crime!”
“I have indeed, sir,” I said breathlessly, continuing to scan the bookshelves myself.
“Here!” announced one of the officers, pointing to the lowest bookshelf in the room. “All of these are dramas and plays, miss!”
He tried to hand one to me, but I raised my hands. “Please, open it?”
He looked confused but obliged me, flipping through a few pages with his gloved hand.
“Miss Adams!” Sergeant Michaels repeated, his face growing red with impatience. “We believe a man has been poisoned by his own progeny! Surely that deserves your undivided attention.”
“It does.” I nodded as a second officer joined the first at the lower bookshelf and started flipping through a book of collected sonnets.
“Well?” demanded Michaels as Brian entered the room, looking around at all the activity in confusion.
“Has the poison been identified?” I asked, feeling dizziness stealing over me as a third officer pulled a book from that shelf.
“Yes!” Michaels admitted. “Though a lot of good it will do poor Judge Barclay!”
“Is there an antidote at hand?” I said, reaching out to steady myself as the third book was flipped open in front of me.
Michaels looked like he was about to explode, even to my suddenly swimming vision. “Yes!” he finally burst out. “But again. The man is dead!”
“But we’re not,” I stated, sinking carefully onto the couch, noting the alarm on Brian’s face as I pointed at the bookshelv
es. “Seal this room and touch nothing else till I wake.”
“Till you wake?” asked Brian, who was looking very blurry to me, even as he stepped closer.
“And administer the antidote to Miss Barclay and then myself immediately,” I managed to say before giving in to the darkness.
I awoke on the settee I had selected for myself in the same room, with Dr. Joyce and Brian bent over me. Both heaved sighs as my eyes focused first on the doctor where he crouched beside the settee, and then on Brian, who was hovering over him. “Welcome back, Miss Adams,” the doctor said with a smile.
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said, slowly sitting up with the doctor’s help. “How long was I out?”
“Less than fifteen minutes, because you knew your own ailment,” replied the doctor, replacing his equipment in his bag. “If only I had known that Marcus was being poisoned with cyanide, I could have cured him as easily and as well, poor man! In small amounts, this particular poison works over time, though you might have a more delicate constitution, Miss Adams, as it affected you quite dramatically. I have administered amyl nitrite now, but you should rest here until you feel better.”
Brian sat down beside me on the couch and wrapped an arm around my shoulders just as Sergeant Michaels and James Barclay entered the library.
“How did you manage to get yourself poisoned, Miss Adams?” Sergeant Michaels demanded.
“The same way Marcus Barclay did, sir,” I said, looking at James Barclay, feeling Brian’s arm stiffen around me. “And the same way poor Elaine Barclay did.”
Barclay looked decidedly worried, and when he glanced around the room at the books strewn everywhere, he seemed to pale even more.
Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) Page 14