Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) (10 page)

Chapter Fourteen

E
arly in the morning on Sunday, before the sun had even made its appearance, Constable Brian Dawes made his arrest.

Into Scotland Yard was bustled a disheveled and sleepy Ben Fawkes. I waited at the Yard for the two men to arrive, and to witness Fawkes’s attitude — no longer grinning and at ease, but angry and squirming to get away.

Brian and I had conspired to keep Fawkes in the Yard for as long as we could, so Dawes took his time with paperwork and questions, asking basic things over and over again until Fawkes was nearly pulling out his hair in frustration. I knew Brian would have to release him soon, so, giving him a nod, I proceeded to the next part of our plan.

With not a little effort, I had convinced my professor and two of his best men to accompany me down to a spot I had previously scouted out on the east side of Westminster Bridge. Archer was only persuaded when I finally told him about chasing down the eyewitness he had hidden from me — and even then, I could tell he was just humoring me with this effort. I also knew that this was my one chance to prove myself with this case. It had to work!

“I cannot imagine what Sergeant Michaels is going to say when he hears about this,” my professor whispered to me as we crouched behind some crates we had strategically arranged.

“
Sir, how much longer will we be here?” whispered one of the officers, his tiny mustache wiggling as he spoke. It was obviously itchy — was he new to growing facial hair?

I shook my head, fighting off the distraction of a new puzzle. “If I am right, Professor, Officers, Sergeant Michaels will soon have one less case on his desk.”

“How do we even know he will come this way, though?” the other officer muttered. “He could take any of the bridges to get across the water, and his home is not even on this side of the river!”

“
Because he will be coming from the Yard, and this is his destination,” I explained again, growing annoyed with these men. We had only been waiting fifteen minutes, for goodness sake! I acknowledged inwardly that part of my annoyance was actually worry I was wrong about this theory, but before I could follow that depressing path of doubt further, the man we had all been waiting for made an appearance.

Across the bridge, walking at a very quick pace and turning around every few minutes to see if he was being followed, was Mr. Fawkes. Obviously, Brian had run out of excuses and had released him.

“What th’ hell?” whispered one of the officers, also recognizing him.

“
Now, remember, don’t move until I say!” I warned the men as two of them tensed to leap out despite my earlier remonstrations.

Meanwhile, Fawkes had gained the bridge and was suspiciously glancing this way and that. He stood there turning in a circle, looking down the river and up, until he finally seemed satisfied that he was alone.

He reached over the side to grab a pole with a hook on the end the size of a man’s fist — used by fishermen and others to scoop up items that fell into the water — and leaned over the side. He fished with it for a few minutes and then triumphantly hauled up a sack that we had previously observed floating amongst the general garbage and flotsam.

“
Now!” I whispered excitedly as he got the sack in his hand and made to replace the hook.

Whistle signals rang out from my group.

“Halt!” yelled the officers in my cadre, quickly rushing out onto the bridge, to be joined by their fellows who had been hiding on the other side, alerted by the whistles.

Within moments, Fawkes was once again in police custody, and even angrier than he had been early this morning.

“’Ere! What’s this?” he demanded as the sack was wrested from his hands.

I quickly covered my mouth and nose with my kerchief as one of the officers opened the bag. “Good God!” he exclaimed, nearly dropping the bag in shock at the stench.

I had wrapped some cloves and a stick of cinnamon into my kerchief in preparation for this moment, but I could still detect the rotten stink of death emanating from the dripping sack. There was yelling, and when I looked up, Sergeant Michaels making his way in the early morning light, followed by a defeated-looking Constable Brian Dawes. I hoped he had not gotten a tongue-lashing for his part in the morning’s work.

“
What the hell is going on here?” yelled Sergeant Michaels, huffing his way into our midst, where he cursed at the smell and pointed at the bag. “And what godawful thing is that you’ve dredged up from the river?”

Meanwhile, the officer had gotten over his initial shock and reached into the bag to pull out a necklace of sparkling emeralds covered in gore, blood and matted fur.

After a full moment of stunned silence, Constable Dawes recovered enough to say, “Miss. Bennett’s emerald necklace!”

Everyone started talking at once, none more volubly than the unfortunate Fawkes, who was protesting his innocence at the top of his lungs. Several officers had stepped around to shake my hand, promising that they had never doubted me, and my professor was fairly glowing with pride at the compliments flowing all around.

“Enough!” barked Sergeant Michaels. “You two, take Fawkes back to the Yard immediately!”

The two officers holding Fawkes by the arms scampered away, one winking at me, the other tipping his hat deferentially.

“And you — what else is in that bag?” he demanded of the officer holding the bag and necklace.

“
I believe it is a dead rat, sir,” he answered, confused and looking to me for an explanation.

“
Well, for heaven’s sake, close that bag back up and get everything back to the station for evidence,” Michaels ordered. “And clean that bauble thoroughly before you call on Miss Bennett!”

Constable Brian Dawes was grinning from ear to ear, and I couldn’t help but return the expression — an action that drew the attention of the sergeant and my professor.

“You two,” Michaels said, pointing to each of us in turn, “start talking.”

Brian just shook his head and gestured at me, but my professor broke in. “Yes, Miss Adams, your theory has surely been proven, but how
did
you know?”

I took a breath. “It was the smell, you see. That is what made everything clear to me finally.”

“Made
what
clear?” interrupted Sergeant Michaels, flapping his arms dramatically.

But my good professor simply raised his hand to let me continue.

“You had your man, Sergeant Michaels, you knew who was responsible. What you didn’t know was why he was never caught red-handed,” I explained, pacing as I spoke. “That first day, when you brought Mr. Fawkes in for questioning, Madame LaPointe was unable to make a positive identification, but she remembered a smell.”

Michaels looked surprised again. “How could you know that? I never wrote that in the report — it wasn’t a useful piece of evidence. The man worked as an assistant undertaker, of course he smelled bad!”

“Except he didn’t always smell bad,” I pointed out. “The first time he was brought into the police station, Fawkes smelled normal. It was on a separate and, I thought, random run-in, that I too noticed what Madame LaPointe had noticed — that horrible rotting smell.”

I halted and gestured in the direction the bag had been taken back to the Yard as evidence. “Both times the smell was noticed, Fawkes was holding a large sack. It seems fair to postulate that the sack was the origin of the smell, not Fawkes himself. But then there was the size of the sack. If you were planning to steal single pieces of jewelry at each robbery, why carry such a large bag? Madame LaPointe said the sack was full when he was escaping her rooms. Well, what was it full of to give off that smell? The tiara was the only thing reported stolen that night, so what else was in this sack?”

I looked at the three of them, and only Dawes shrugged. But Michaels sputtered, “Wait, I don’t care about the size of the bag
or
the cursed smell. Are you saying that Fawkes would run past this bridge and throw his loot over the side! Are all the other jewels at the bottom of this river too? What manner of plan is that?”

I continued as if I hadn’t heard him. “At first I couldn’t place the smell, but by chance I recognized it when I was near a butcher’s stall in the Smithfield Market. The smell was that of a decomposing body. Then, it was just a matter of understanding why Fawkes stuffed the dead body of an animal in a sack with the jewels he had just stolen.”

“To dissuade anyone who found the bag from opening it?” my professor offered.

“
Maybe,” I answered, “but the night that Fawkes was caught, you had a half dozen officers down here searching for Madame LaPointe’s tiara. Your men wouldn’t have been dissuaded from searching a sack just because it smelled bad, would they, Sergeant?”

“
Certainly not,” he said stiffly.

“
In addition, as you said, his modus operandi was to fling his stolen goods into the river as he ran past,” I said, my fists bunching, “and that’s where his knowledge of dead bodies was useful to him.”

I resumed pacing. “Fawkes knows that when a body first becomes a corpse, it is heavy, and the smell is there, but it gets worse as the body decays. He also knows that within twelve hours rigor mortis sets in.”

“Yes, yes, but then why throw a sack full of jewels and a dead rat that would weigh the bag down to the bottom of the river?” snapped the sergeant impatiently.

“
Because in another twelve hours, the gases build up in the body,” I explained. “It’s called bloat, and it would have caused the sack, which had initially sunk to the bottom of the river, to float, buoyed by the trapped gases.”

“
Incredible,” said Constable Dawes.

“
Impossible,” said Sergeant Michaels.

“
Elementary,” said my professor with a grin.

“
I promise you, that is the second stage of decomposition. I researched the phenomenon thoroughly last week,” I insisted. “Fawkes knew this from his work, and used this to his advantage to carry out his crimes.”

“
I was there, sir,” Brian put forth, his eyes sparkling. “The images were disgusting, but Miss Adams had textbook after textbook describing the progress of decomposition.”

“
And you knew that twenty-four hours after the robbery, Fawkes would come down here desperately seeking his now floating bag,” summarized my professor with pride.

I nodded. “Indeed. Throwing the bag into the river, Dawes knew that he always had a twenty-four-hour window to lay low or even be arrested. With his latest robbery on Friday, his twenty-four hours were up this very morning. The third stage of decomposition is heralded by the pressures of the gases finally escaping the body, often in violent ways. At which point the sack would eventually sink, to be lost to Fawkes forever.”

Sergeant Michaels finally found his voice again. “And you surmised all of this?”

“
Extensive research and simple induction, sir,” I answered, hoping I didn’t sound arrogant, but unable to suppress the smile on my lips.

He snapped his mouth shut, looking as if he wanted to say more. Instead, he just bowed slightly at the waist and, barking at Dawes to follow him, headed back at a quick pace toward the Yard.

With a wink, my professor extended his elbow and we followed them back across Westminster Bridge.

Chapter Fifteen

T
he press made much of the case, but I asked for, and was granted, anonymity for my involvement. Indeed, Sergeant Michaels was quite happy to take credit for my work, but publicly, and at Scotland Yard, he shared credit for the capture with Constable Dawes, so I was well satisfied. In addition, the reward offered by Miss Bennett for the return of her emerald necklace was personally delivered to me by the most appreciative lady.

It wasn’t until almost the end of June that my guardian showed up again.

“Well, you
have
been busy,” she remarked as I ushered her into my apartments. She handed me her shawl. “I asked dear Mrs. Dawes to bring us up a spot of tea.”

“
Have I?” I answered, only slightly amused.

She glanced at me, perhaps assessing my mood before she answered. Finding it jovial rather than sarcastic, she said, “Come, come, you have solved your first case — surely this is a moment to celebrate?”

Mrs. Dawes trundled in with a precariously balanced serving tray. I quickly relieved her of it.

“
The ‘moment’, as you put it, was almost two weeks ago, Mrs. Jones,” I corrected respectfully, pouring us each a cup of tea as Mrs. Dawes exited the room.

“
Oh pish tosh!” Mrs. Jones said with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been abroad, and your professor Archer’s glowing letters took time to reach me in Lyon. I came as soon as I could. I was taking the baths, my dear, relieving my old ailments.”

“
Mmm,” I murmured, taking a sip of my tea as I regarded her.

We sat in quiet assessment of each other for a few minutes, until I finally had to put down my cup with a sigh. “It will not do, madam. We must discuss Bruiser Jenkins.”

She said nothing for a beat and then, “Ah, I was wondering if sending him your way was a mistake.”

I nodded. “Of course it was, Mrs. Jones — sending a former thief to train me in … I don’t even know what — what could you be thinking?”

“Of your safety, my dear girl,” she replied, putting down her cup.

“
So you sent a former boxer, a criminal who has spent time in jail, to protect me?” I demanded.

She waved her hands and my gaze hardened, unwilling to be pushed off the subject this time.

“That little escapade on the bridge scared me, and rightfully so!” she said, her eyes flashing. “You cannot be putting yourself in danger like that — you are a young impressionable girl! You are not Watson or Holmes!

“
No, I am not, madam,” I said coldly, “but even I noticed the ring you wore a few weeks ago that is now so obviously missing from your finger.”

She threw up her hands. “I knew you made the connection — curse your bloodline! When did you know?”

“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.”