Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) (21 page)

Mrs. Anderson gasped at my words, but Mr. Arnold was already nodding vigorously.

With my arm around her, I said to Constable Perkins, “These are your choices as I see them, sir. Either you arrest this woman for making a false allegation and hand a poor defenseless child over to a known abuser.
Or
we erase the events of the last few minutes and continue as if we still don’t know Leah’s whereabouts.”

Mr. Arnold moved around to stand on the other side of Mrs. Anderson, indicating his opinion on the subject. This left Constable Perkins stonily looking at the three of us, and I will admit I did not envy him his choice. I had been advised and had experienced this middle ground of justice before. I knew my decision to be one I could live with, but perhaps Perkins, with a lifetime of defending the law, could not.

A knock at the door startled us all out of our stand-off, and Constable Borgin slid open the door.

“
Sir, Crown Prosecutor Anderson is demanding to see his wife,” explained the younger constable. Perkins’ back was still to the door, with the three of us — Arnold, Anderson and myself — facing it, so only we saw the senior constable grit his teeth.

“
You can escort Mrs. Anderson t’see Crown Prosecutor Anderson, but I want you tae stay with them the whole time,” he said finally.

I squeezed her shoulder, still unsure of what Constable Perkins was going to do, and she turned fearfully toward me. Then I gave her a hug, whispering in her ear as I did so. “Say nothing, stick to your story. If it all comes out, it all comes out, and it will do no more harm than has already been done.”

She wilted in my arms at my words and I had to help her to the door and pass her on to Constable Borgin. The door slid closed behind them as I opened my mouth to ask after Perkins’ intentions, but he spoke first. “I want tae know where Leah is, an’ I want tae know how ye discovered her, Miss Adams, and I want tae know now.”

I looked at Mr. Arnold, who just pursed his lips, and I realized it was up to me.

“The truth is that all I have is theory, but I believe it to be a good one,” I hedged, “and it starts with Mr. Arnold.”

“
I have a feelin’ your theories are uncommonly correct, Miss Adams. Tell us on the way tae Leah,” said Perkins, opening the door and ushering me out into the hallway.

“
Once I realized that Mrs. Anderson had inflicted those wounds upon herself, I was left with some answers to some key questions,” I said, leading the way. “Leah didn’t scream, because her mother was never beaten, that much was clear. So when did Leah disappear? Well, obviously not after her mother knocked herself unconscious. Somehow Leah was not in the compartment. Sometime between meeting Mr. Arnold and Mr. Arnold discovering Mrs. Anderson on the floor, Leah left the compartment.”

“
I follow ye, but how? By herself?” answered Perkins, right at my heels.

“
By no means. She was walked from her mother’s compartment to where she is right now by Mrs. Anderson’s accomplice,” I said, weaving around two conductors. “I think I may have even seen her being led in this direction when I was in my compartment. But the key is who saw her and who did not. It is why Mr. Arnold was never permitted to join the search. He was the only one on the train, other than Mrs. Anderson, who knew what Leah looked like.”

Perkins interrupted. “We all had a description!”

“You had the wrong description — as evidenced by the dress and wig we found in the luggage, sir,” I corrected. “And I am betting even the birthmark was fabricated by Mrs. Anderson in order to further confuse our searches.”

“
But then I was working under the same conditions as any of you,” said Mr. Arnold from the back of our little group. “I too knew Leah to be a blonde child in a pink dress with a red birthmark. If that was all for show, I would have been hard-pressed to recognize her!”

By now we had arrived at our destination in third class. I stopped, slightly out of breath, and turned toward Mr. Arnold and Constable Perkins. “Well, let’s test that theory, shall we, gentlemen?” I slid open the compartment.

Inside sat a woman I had interviewed a few hours earlier, in the exact same position as before, with her son’s sleeping head resting on her lap.

Mr. Arnold entered the compartment, glancing around, at first not understanding. Then finally he gasped when he took a good look at the child. The woman, realizing she had been found out, tensed, her hands balling into fists.

“This … this is Leah Anderson,” Arnold managed to stammer, pointing at the child in the woman’s arms. “Her hair is dark and short, and the poor thing is dressed like a small boy, but it is her, I would swear to it, Constable.”

“
We searched this compartment twice,” Perkins said incredulously, “but we were looking for a blonde girl with a birthmark … not a sickly boy with dark hair.”

“
Exactly,” I said, taking a moment to look out at the platform to see a huge man in a tailored suit yelling at the crowd around him.
That must be Mr. Anderson
, I thought, shaking my head as Mrs. Anderson was escorted to his side. She was a brave woman; despite the fact that he dwarfed her by a stone and a foot, she still allowed herself to be placed in front of his terrifying ire.

“
How did she get here?” Perkins demanded from the woman seated in front of us.

The woman looked down at the sleeping child then back up at the constable.

“We know everything, ma’am,” I counseled gently. “We found the wig and the dress. Even now, Mrs. Anderson is outside with her husband.”

The woman closed her eyes briefly, and then opened them. “I met Mrs. Anderson in first class as we arranged … we took off Leah’s wig and dressed her like a boy. We told her it was a game,” she explained haltingly. “Then Leah and I ran back and jumped on the train in third class with tickets I had purchased beforehand.”

“Why is she still sleeping?” I asked, putting my hand on the girl’s forehead.

“
Opium in her milk,” she answered, eyes on Perkins. “We felt it was more plausible that the child be explained as sick rather than try to keep her quiet.”

Perkins ran his hand over his bald head. “What is your name, ma’am? How are you connected to all ’o this?”

“Mrs. Layton is my name,” she said, stroking the child’s head. “I am a friend of Mrs. Anderson’s mother, and I am helping them to ensure that that man out there never strikes this sweet baby ever again.” At her words, I looked at Perkins for his reaction. He was a good man and flinched a bit.

“
You cannot send the child back to that man, Constable!” said Arnold, shaking his head.

“
Please, you must help us!” begged Mrs. Layton. “Nothing can be done to save Mrs. Anderson, poor girl, but we can still save her daughter … please!”

“
There are ways to do this, Constable, please,” I said, adding my voice to their entreaties, wishing Constable Brian Dawes was here to help me and wondering at the same time if he would agree with my interpretation of the law.

But Perkins hung his head before saying, “My conscience aside, I cannae willfully lie tae this father. This is a crime. This whole endeavor has been criminal, and I cannae condone it, no matter how justified it is.”

He turned toward the door, no longer able to face us. “I go now t’speak to the man. Ye should follow the crowd and speak to the constable at your door. I believe it is Tooms. He will escort you to us.”

So saying, he walked out of the compartment, shoulders hunched.

Mrs. Layton tenderly kissed the top of Leah’s short-cropped head, and then we helped her stand, draping the child over her so that her head rested comfortably against the woman’s shoulder. Mr. Arnold sadly placed the boy’s cap over the sleeping child’s head, and I led them out of the compartment into the stream of people being shepherded off the train.

I wracked my brain for an escape route, but there was none to be found. Besides, Perkins knew the truth now and would be honor-bound to pursue Mrs. Layton and myself if we by some miracle did make it away from here. As we neared the steps to the platform where a constable stood checking passengers, I could hear Mr. Anderson threatening violence to any and all a few yards away. From my raised vantage point, I could see the large man berating Constable Borgin and shaking Mrs. Anderson by the arm as he yelled.

She wasn’t even struggling despite the pain he was obviously causing her, but Constable Perkins finally got to her side and managed to pry the man’s hand off her arm, pulling her behind him to speak to Mr. Anderson directly. Mr. Anderson could have played American football — that was how big he was, with huge, meaty hands and massive shoulders. The man had to be at least two hundred pounds, and his face and neck were crimson with anger. He was sweating from the exertion of yelling and waving his arms around; his baldpate and the dark hair over his ears sheened with it.

Whatever Perkins said to Anderson obviously incensed him more, because the man actually shoved the constable backward, to the surprise of the policemen gathered all around. A few more minutes of negotiating did nothing to lower the man’s temper, and it didn’t even seem he was listening to Perkins, just railing on about the stupidity of the entire force and the weakness of his useless wife. He bellowed that when he found his daughter he would never allow her out of his sight again, and never allow his wife to be trusted with her alone again, and pointed a meaty finger at the woman even as she stood behind Constable Perkins. Her head was lowered, poor thing, well used to this level of abuse, I was sure.

I gritted my teeth, wondering how I could hand this poor child into the hands of such a man, when Perkins turned away from the terrifying man, made eye contact with me, and nodded once.

I didn’t even hesitate. I put my arm around Mrs. Layton and said to the constable in front of me, “Constable Tooms, we need to get Billy to a doctor right away, he’s been ill for the whole trip. Can you help us, please? Constable Perkins told me you would see to our hasty departure.”

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

“
B
ut 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 — with 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.”