The young constable wavered, looked to his superior, who nodded once more, and then we were escorted out of the fray, off the platform, and to freedom.
Chapter Nine
“But then what will happen to Mrs. Anderson?” demanded my guardian as she lit the wood in the enormous fireplace.
“I suppose she must suffer until the investigation ends and she gets her divorce, poor woman,” I said, shaking my head at the prospect. “But Constable Perkins knows all now. He will keep a close eye on her through his peers in her local precinct, I am hopeful. I have arranged a luncheon with him tomorrow to talk about the case. He is most troubled but sure he made the right decision, good man.”
The fireplace crackled invitingly, and the beautiful decorations sparkled all round us in this great hall. Once I had delivered Mrs. Layton and her precious package to the nearest horse-drawn hackney, I had returned to the platform, where my guardian awaited me, watching Mr. Anderson’s tirade. I hesitated for a moment, remembering my real purpose here, and was glad to see her attention was directed at Anderson rather than me.
She had shaken her head at his diatribe, and together we retrieved my valise and left the place as quickly as possible.
This grand home was just outside Edinburgh near East Lothian, though it was “on loan from my good friend Major William Baird,” my guardian had explained, without really explaining, as usual.
“And you didn’t feel even once that the perpetrator of this case deserved to be brought to justice?” Mrs. Jones asked curiously from her cushioned chair under a thick wool blanket.
I heard a car engine outside the house and cocked an ear, listening to it slow and then pass before shaking my head steadfastly. ”Mrs. Anderson has been punished enough and — as she says — her husband not enough.”
“And the ghost of Mr. James Barclay?” she asked knowingly, reaching for her tiny clay pipe.
“Just that, Mrs. Jones,” I replied, leaning back in my chair with a determined grimace. “A ghost. Ephemeral. Invisible. Immaterial. And not something that can stand between me and the truth.”
That word sat in the air between us for a few beats, and then we both spoke at the same time.
“Portia, I must—”
“Mrs. Jones, it’s time—”
We smiled at each other nervously, and then I raised my hand in invitation for her to continue.
“Portia, I must admit that I brought you here under … somewhat false pretenses,” she said, taking a steadying pull from her pipe.
I frowned. “I don’t understand, ma’am.” And then my eyes flew wide at a thought. “Do not tell me that we are not actually in the home of a friend! Oh, please don’t tell me that we are … I don’t know … squatting in some rich family’s home without their permission?”
A deep laugh from somewhere behind us caused me to twist around in my chair, knocking throw pillows to the floor, as a tall man stepped from the darkness to say, “Our granddaughter knows you well, Madam Adler, despite your machinations to hide your identity from her.”
“Your … your what?” I whispered, now standing on shaking legs as the man approached us, resisting the urge to back up only because my curiosity was slightly greater than my shock. But only slightly.
“Granddaughter,” said the lean man, finally stepping far enough into the firelight for me to recognize cold gray eyes over a thin hawk-like nose. He was approximately the same height as I, and though fifty years my senior, had the posture and bearing of a man much younger. His hair was iron-gray, receding in the front, emphasizing the widow’s peak I had seen in photos. His square chin, though, was the one physical feature that made my lower lip tremble. I knew that chin. It was my father’s.
“Charles Eagle was my father.” I looked to my guardian, who had tears in her eyes but met my gaze with acceptance. “Adler is the German word for Eagle. You changed your name when you had him; when you had my father. That’s why my mother left me in your care. You are my grandmother!”
She glanced down for a moment, and then back up, one tear tracking down the wrinkles on her pale face. “Yes, Portia, I wanted my son to have something of my name. Something of me without labeling him as the son of a known criminal.”
“And you,” I said, turning back to this man who had upended my world, “you and she…”
He didn’t even glance toward my guardian, but his eyes narrowed, and I saw her flinch out of the corner of my eye. “Where were you?” I demanded of them. “I was told my father was an orphan! That he had no family!”
“Told by your mother, Portia,” Irene Adler said softly, calling my attention back to her, “who married my son after I had to leave the country, and then lost him in a war a few scant months later. Her sorrow was profound. To the point that she cut off all relations with me, blaming me for leaving, blaming me for … for Charles’s death.
“I blamed myself too,” Adler continued, taking another shaky draw on her pipe. “I had to leave the country before they were married. I was being pursued by some investigators and was unable to return to the States for years. Your grandmother Constance died as well while I was abroad, so I had no way to gain access to you, no sympathetic ear.
“I sent money and letters, and at first she returned both unopened,” she said. “But eventually, as I pushed money on her for your education, she gave in. But she never wrote back to me or asked me back into your lives. I even showed up at your door one day, though you would not remember, you were so small.”
Her eyes glistened as she reminisced. “Your mother threw me out and threatened to call the police on me should I ever return.”
“And yet, when she died, she left me in your care,” I said, wondering at my mother’s decision. It must have been so hard on her. Even more so now that I knew just how angry she had been.
“I was the only living relative she knew of,” she said, dabbing at her eyes, before looking at her former lover. “The only one she trusted.”
He didn’t respond, choosing to keep his gaze on me.
She stood up to come to my side. “I love you. Surely you know that. Surely even without this revelation, you know that I love you? That I am so happy to have you in my life?”
I tilted my head, trying to be angry with her, but instead just feeling weak with emotion.
I thought of the monogrammed handkerchief she had handed me on our first meeting — IAH — Irene Adler Holmes — and looked at the man who purported to be my grandfather.
“For my part I must admit I refused to believe that our brief union had produced an heir,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “I allowed Madam Adler’s denials to push me away despite the evidence in front of my eyes. She had remarried by the time Charles was born, and, I believe, specifically chose her mate based on his physical similarities to me.”
I glanced at Adler and found weary admission in the way she waved for him to continue, turning her back on him to warm her hands in front of the fire.
“She divorced him, of course, and remarried at least twice more, moving around the world, doing her best to keep him from my sight. Only when he was … only when Charles died did I finally accept the truth. And only then with Watson dragging me to the hospice to see him.”
His guilt and sadness were writ large on his lined face. For the first time since stepping from the shadows he lowered his gaze from mine. “I cannot ask his forgiveness, and your mother refused to give it. I respected your mother’s wishes and never approached she or you in her lifetime.”
He hesitated, and then raised his sharp gray eyes to meet mine again. “Now, it is all up to you. Do you want me in your life, or will you, like your mother before you, choose to deny our relationship?”
“This is surreal,” I whispered, reaching down to steady myself by putting a hand on the back of the chair I had just vacated, feeling its texture and trying to focus my thoughts. I looked again at the hawk-nosed man. “I was looking for you. I have been trying so hard to connect with my grandfather — w
ith the life he had with you…”
“I know my dear, I know,” he answered, the beginnings of a smile starting on his lips. “I have followed your exploits and am thrilled with your work. You have a remarkable mind, and combining that with all the grace and social skills that were so admired in Watson, there is truly nothing you cannot do. London needs a new consulting detective, and who better than the granddaughter of Holmes and Watson?”
Adler sniffed, her tone confident again as she spoke without turning. “Her mind is her own. Her skills her own. What she chooses to do with them must be her choice as well. Perhaps she will choose a safer course, Sherlock — surely it is what her mother would have wanted. The apartment at Baker Street could just as easily become a law office.”
I swallowed painfully, unable to keep the tears from running down my cheeks at the reminder of all my mother had kept from me. “All I wanted was for you to fill in the gaps about Dr. Watson and Constance Adams,” I found myself mumbling. “All I wanted was for you to confirm my findings about her — about Irene Adler. And now…”
“And now, my girl, you have found me,” Sherlock Holmes said with a sparkle in his eyes I was hesitant to call emotion only because of all I had read about him. He stepped forward to take both my hands in his, the long fingers reminding me of my own. “And imagine how much more we can be — together.”
Acknowledgments
Taking up the keys to Baker Street in order to make my young detective come to life means that my first debt of gratitude must be towards Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The writings of Doyle have been a seminal source of inspirational and escapism starting at the age of ten and lasting to this day. His Sherlock Holmes will always be at the top of a very talented list of fictional detectives, and writing about Portia is my attempt at a suitable homage to Holmes and his creator.
Speaking of homages, I must mention that my third casebook in this book is named for author Stephen King. I have probably read more of his work than Conan Doyle's (just because word count to word count King has been more prolific) but it was his short story “The Doctor's Case” that first set off the idea that I too could write about Holmes and Watson. The short story is so respectful of the relationship between the two men while being so obviously written in King's style that you can't help but be impressed. Unfound is the name of a very important door in King's Dark Tower series, and my use of it as the title to my casebook is again an homage to an artist I adore.
Leaning out of the adulation and towards appreciation, I could not have written this book without the loving support of my family: my husband Jason, who read every book despite not being a fan of the genre, and my son Connor who is my loudest publicist.
My beta readers have to get their due, suffering through versions one through fourteen with aplomb: Chris Howden, Joe Mahoney, Ann Jansen, Margy Gilmour, Bobber Wright, Wayne McPhail, Kim Fox, Quade Herman, Wynne Channing, Christie Hoos, Scaachi Koul, and of course my sister Ana.
All my friends at CBC who encouraged me and held me on their shoulders as I reached for this goal: Natasha Fatah, Leslie Peck, Pedro Mendes, Ananda Korchynski, Barb Carey, Barb Wright, David Carroll, Sharon Farrell, Colleen Ross, Eleanor Wachtel, Shelagh Rogers, Carolyn Warren, and Nora Young.
I would be remiss if I did not crow about my amazing publishers at Fierce Ink Press, Kimberly Walsh and Colleen McKie, for seeing something in Portia and helping to hone her into the multi-faceted character she is now, with the aide of their fantastic editor Allister Thompson.
The internets have been very kind to me in this process, so I am very thankful for my writers groups (especially #write-o-rama on Facebook) and for all the folks who follow and comment on my blog.
Finally, I am truly thankful for each of you who have bought this book. I hope Portia lives up to your expectations and that you continue to follow her exploits in the rest of the series.
Bio
Angela Misri is a Toronto journalist, writer and mom who has spent most of her working life making CBC Radio extraterrestrial through podcasts, live streams and websites. These days she’s focusing on her writing but taking on freelance and digital projects along the side.
Photo © Chris Straw
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