Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) (6 page)

Chapter Five

D
uring one ambitious excavation, I managed to climb up into one of the attic storage spaces. Mrs. Dawes had advised against it: “Nothing up there but spiders ‘n’ dust!”

As usual, my curiosity won out. Borrowing a stepladder from downstairs, I made my ascent. Moving carefully, I pulled out my battery-powered flashlight (a gift from Mrs. Jones) and scanned the attic. The dust was absolute on the wooden floor, undisturbed but for a few tiny paw prints that appeared between items and disappeared under furniture. The floor was creaky but seemed stable based on the weight of the contents. I could not stand in this space, the height being less than four feet, and therefore I was forced to crawl through flotsam stacked all around me. I shuddered when I encountered the well-chewed papers, wondering what did the chewing and promising myself to get some mousetraps next time I was out. I negotiated on my knees around cobweb-covered trunks, bags and all manner of old, broken furniture.

The air up here was well beyond musty. I ducked down to get several gulps of clean air before trying again. Tucking back up, I grabbed a random leather satchel and hauled it back down with me, closing the pulley door as soon as I got clear.

“
Doing some dusting, dear?” the familiar melodic voice of my guardian said from somewhere below me.

I continued my descent, brushing at the cobwebs and dirt clinging to my hair. “Just exploring.” I held aloft the leather satchel.

Her eyes lit up with recognition at the sight of it. I wondered again with annoyance how she knew so much about this townhouse, a question she had yet to answer despite my asking at least once a week.

She was removing her fur coat — this one mink, I believe — and wore an expensive day suit beneath, its lavender color bringing out the hazel in her eyes. She pulled off her long gloves and I noticed her jewelry and makeup, which were both heavier than usual for so early in the day, and glanced at her shoes, which were not at all suited to the snow.

I walked over to the desk. “Do you know this bag? Was it my grandfather’s?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Yes, I believe so.”

Excited now, I unfastened the clasps and pulled open the bag by the handles. Inside, I found the most unexpected articles: some jars of dried-up makeup, two wigs, a scarf, three pairs of eyeglasses and what looked like a fake nose.

“
Extraordinary,” I said.

“
No,” corrected Mrs. Jones, looking over my shoulder into the open bag. “Just a normal day at 221B Baker Street.”

She chuckled, but it didn’t sound happy — it sounded sad and bitter, as she sometimes did when referring to the past occupants of this apartment.

“I must be going now, dear,” she announced airily. “I’m attending the opera this afternoon.”

“
But you’ve only just come from the opera,” I remarked, confused.

She stopped in the midst of pulling her gloves from her pockets. “What
can
you mean, Portia?” she said, her back to me.

What did I mean? I knew she had already been to the opera today — less than an hour ago, in fact. My mind whirred as I struggled to articulate my thoughts. “Your glasses, Mrs. Jones. I can tell you’ve been wearing your opera glasses for some time today already.”

She turned toward me now, eyes slightly widened. “My opera glasses are in my purse,” she corrected, a touch of frost creeping into her voice.

But I knew I was right, so I pressed on. “The creases where you press the glasses against your face — you can still see where the makeup has been slightly smeared. More so on the left than the right. So if I had to guess, I’d say you were sitting in the upper left balcony this morning, perhaps watching a dress rehearsal.”

I was out of breath and strangely excited at the end of my statement.

“
Anything else?” she invited, one perfectly sculpted brow raised.

I squinted in thought, and then released my breath. “No, that is all.” I awaited her reprimand, as was the usual reaction from anyone subjected to my observations.

The corners of her mouth turned up in a wry smile. “Better and better. Your grandmother’s looks and your grandfather’s brains. A deadly combination, I must say.”

Chapter Six

“
Y
our grandmother and I became close when we were both divorced young mothers living in San Francisco,” Mrs. Jones explained over a late cup of tea several weeks later. “We were both divorced by men who were very alike, obsessed with their work. It was like mixing oil and water in both our cases, perhaps even more so in mine than in hers.”

A knock at the door interrupted the discussion. Brian popped his head in. He had come straight upstairs from work, not even stopping at his flat downstairs to change out of his uniform, so I knew he had something exciting to share.

“Oh, ’scuse me ladies, I didn’t know you were over, Mrs. Jones. I had some news to share with Miss Adams from downtown. It’ll keep — I’ll come back.”

He gave me a wink and went back out the door.

We listened to his receding footsteps on the stairs, and then Mrs. Jones spoke. “He graduates soon as a constable, yes?”

I nodded.

“Most exciting,” she said, looking as if it were anything but.

“
So you had a child from your marriage as well, and you were living in San Francisco?” I said, drawing her back to our earlier conversation.

“
Oh, yes, as I was saying, we were very close. Our children practically grew up together, and it wasn’t until I had to leave the country—” She hesitated. “On business, of course, that we lost touch for a few years.”

“
On business?” I repeated, noting the slightly defensive way she said the words.

She waved her hand as she tended to when she refused to go into detail. “It seemed very important at the time, but in hindsight, it of course was not.”

“And then … then my son left to join that cursed war.” Her eyes took on a harder sheen. She pulled in a deep breath. “He was killed in action. I ran away from everything and everyone I knew. I ran for years. It is one of the reasons I am so well-traveled, I suppose.”

She reached into her bag for one of her monogrammed hankies. My heart stirred at the similarity of our circumstances, both her son and my father being lost in the war. But then again, many sons and fathers were lost in that war, on both sides of the conflict.

“By the time I allowed myself to communicate with my old life, your grandmother was dead, and your mother had moved to Toronto and married that odious gambler.”

I felt a twinge of guilt, remembering the fights I had with my mother over my former stepfather, and pushed it away with effort. My mother’s choice of a second husband had never made any sense to me, but who were we to judge so many years later? It was a very mature reaction, I felt, after years of contempt for my stepfather. But in light of all that had happened since my mother’s death, it seemed like the distant past.

I did some quick calculations. “So then your son was about the same age as my parents?”

She nodded stiffly. “Indeed, though I lost touch, as I said, with your mother after…”

“After the war,” I finished for her, my brow furrowed as a new thought occurred to me. I had opened up my mouth to ask the question when she rose, pointing to the bookshelf.

“
Tell me, Portia, have you considered moving some of this furniture around?” she asked, testing the weight of the bookshelf slightly. “Just because this is how it was arranged doesn’t mean it has to remain this way…”

“
I … I honestly haven’t thought about it, Mrs. Jones,” I replied, disappointed because I knew pushing her for more information today would be fruitless. She would just announce that she had somewhere else to be and be gone before I could argue.

“
I don’t believe I have ever seen the wall behind this bookshelf for example,” she said, tapping at her bottom lip thoughtfully and pulling out book spines at random.

I watched her for a moment and then realized what she was looking for.

“I don’t believe that a hidden alcove could exist against that wall, ma’am,” I said dryly, pointing at the window. “That is, after all, an outer wall, and behind that bookshelf would have to exist at least eight to ten inches of brick, and that does not leave a lot of room for hidden space.”

“
Indeed,” she remarked thoughtfully, and then shrugged as if the subject no longer interested her and began regaling me with a new story about the ladies luncheon she wanted me to attend.

Chapter Seven

I
started at Somerville College the same week Brian Dawes became Constable Dawes. I was sorting through my new books with an ear cocked, listening for him to get home, and when he did, I leapt to my front door. Looking down the stairs I watched his mother come out of her downstairs apartment to coo at her son’s new uniform, complete with hat and badge. He glanced up the stairs and gave me a cocky salute, taking off his hat and running a hand through his thick brown hair before answering a question from his father, who had just entered the hallway to join his wife and son. I smiled back at Brian. His black uniform enhanced his lean, tall body, making him seem so much older than his twenty-four years.

Somerville was part of Oxford University and about an hour away from Baker Street by tube. The red brickwork stood out on the street, and the array of windows was a favorite feature of the students who were lucky enough to attend. Though I had only visited this school in the dead of winter, the headmistress, Mrs. Darbishire, assured me that the gardens in the summer were unparalleled. It was she whom my guardian had contacted about my entry into the college, though they didn’t act like friends when we arrived on campus the first time. Indeed, Darbishire was a great deal friendlier toward me than to Mrs. Jones.

But unlike Mrs. Darbishire, my classmates seemed wholly unimpressed with me, as demonstrated by their giggling comments about my attire (old-fashioned) and ‘colonial accent’. These girls seemed to be rich, entitled and only mildly interested in the lessons we all attended. The few girls who were of my quieter, anti-social disposition avoided me for exactly the personality traits that made us alike. As I had when attending classes in Toronto, I refused to allow either their disinterest or their derision to upset me, and I was actually glad for a moment that my mother would not be hurt on my behalf by their rejection. When my professors found out from the headmistress about my famous residence and the reason I lived there, they had many questions and many nice things to say about my late grandfather. Unfortunately, their attention did nothing to improve my reputation amongst my peers.

“
This weekend, I want you all to read very carefully the chapter on chain of evidence,” Professor Archer said, looking around the room at each of us, missing the rolled eyes from the back row of tittering debutants who had been whispering about the fashion faux pas at a recent ball they had all attended. “We’ll have a little debate on it Monday morning, so I expect you to be experts in it.”

The professor was of medium build with a small chin, a long gray-blond handlebar moustache, pale blue eyes covered by thick spectacles, and was probably five foot seven in height. Today he wore a bright green tie under his homemade vest, though his trousers were from his police uniform.

His gaze landed on me, his eyes lighting up, and my heart sank even before he said, “You might want to stop by Miss Adams’ home if you are looking for inspiration — after all, I hear her grandfather filled bookshelves with notes on evidence and cases. I am sure Miss Adams wouldn’t mind at all.”

I winced as I looked around the room at the stony faces now directed my way.

Miss Wellesley, one of the most popular girls in the school, at least according to her own repeated declarations, put up her hand.

“
Yes, Miss Wellesley?” Archer said.

“
Oh, professor, I just wanted to say that,” she feigned hesitation here, her dyed red curls framing her face in the latest short style seen on Hollywood starlets. I looked around at her friends, who were covering their grins with their hands as she spoke. “My mother doesn’t feel comfortable with me attending a home without any sort of parents or even chaperones around. I mean, Miss Adams is living alone in that … flat, after all.”

She turned her sly green eyes my way, and I rolled my own, not even trying to hide my annoyance. The purse she carried around showed signs of repair while the leather strap was not the original, meaning that she had owned this very expensive purse for longer than the season it was in style. Her hair was dyed with a cheaper solution than was found in beauty salons, as evidenced by the lingering smell of henna and the stains I sometimes saw on her fingernails from doing the job herself. All of this told me that for someone who acted high and mighty, her family fortune was not what it once had been, and certainly not at the level of the girls who followed her around hanging on her every word.

Archer looked taken aback by her statement, but he said nothing as she gave me a dismissive wave and led her pack of followers out of the classroom. Archer turned toward me, and I just nodded at him, gathering up my things as well. Professor Archer was also Chief Inspector Archer at Scotland Yard, and he was one of my biggest supporters at the college through his admiration for both Watson and Holmes. I knew he didn’t mean to further alienate me by pointing me out, but he seemed to do so at least once a week.

Regardless of my continued social pariah status, I loved everything else about attending classes and absorbed knowledge like a veritable sponge. The class on the basics of real estate law and the class on the intricacies of legal communication and jargon fascinated me equally, but by far my favorite class was the one about historical cases brought before real judges and real juries. The various trials of author Oscar Wilde, the romantic back story to the trial of the mutinous crew of the Veronica; case after case I ingested like a half-starved vagrant invited to a buffet. I would come home every night with homework, and when I finished it, I would dive back into the cases of my grandfather. It was like my days were filled with theory and my nights with history and reality.

Employing inductive and deductive reasoning was second nature to me, just a few steps beyond my natural observant nature. It was a combination of observation and knowledge that allowed a ‘leap’ of logic … Mr. Holmes had the uncanny ability to make the leap sooner than those around him.

A degree in law could only be bolstered by a powerful investigative mind, and I was determined that I would not squander this opportunity handed down to me from my very genes through John Watson. What better way to develop myself in this field than to suck in all the knowledge and experience this room had to offer?

I already had the keen observational mind (or so I flattered myself). I simply needed to add to this the knowledge of crimes and law that was readily available around me in the books on the shelves and the daily newspapers I read every single day.

I followed stories from stunning crime to eventual solution, making my own notes and cutting out articles to paste into my notebooks. When a crime went unsolved for weeks, I would badger Brian Dawes for details, determined to prove myself worthy of my newly discovered ancestral heritage. If I did that, maybe I could stop thinking about my mother and the years she spent alone after losing my father and then her mother. Even when she remarried, she spent most of her time with me, her new husband quickly returning to his old habits of drinking and gambling after their marriage. Maybe some distance from thinking about my mother’s motivations would allow me to better understand her. By walking in her father’s footsteps for a while I might, through a different route, come to understand why she didn’t pursue their relationship, even after discovering who he was.

“Mrs. Jones?” I asked one evening as we sat in front of my fireplace.

“
Mmm?” she replied, shaking herself awake from her light slumber in the wingback chair next to mine.

“
Was there something wrong with Dr. Watson?” I asked, leaning forward so that my elbows were on my knees. “And by wrong, I don’t mean physically. I mean was there something about him that would make my mother not want to reach out to him?”

Mrs. Jones looked taken aback for a moment. “John Watson was a gentleman, Portia, a doctor with a spotless reputation and a kindness I have described to you in detail. I’m not sure where you could be getting this idea from that there was something wrong with him.”

I leaned back, a little frustrated. “There has to be a reason my mother chose not to get in contact with him once her mother died.”

She shrugged, leaning toward the fireplace with the poker. “As I’ve said before, speculating about your mother’s motivations is a waste of time. I think it’s far more important to focus on you, and now, than on her back then.”

“Do you think she felt rejected?” I asked, wrapping my arms around myself at the thought. “That maybe my grandfather didn’t want her. Or didn’t want us?”

Mrs. Jones sighed loudly, drawing my attention back to her face. “See, this is exactly what I was talking about — this obsession with dwelling on people who are dead and gone, and whose actions are now irrelevant…”

She trailed off and I started to feel a little foolish. Maybe I
was
dwelling in the past. Maybe my new guardian was right.

“
I would hate for this obsession to become a driving force in your life, Portia,” she continued, adjusting herself more comfortably in her chair. “Is it the study of law that is reminding you so much of Watson? Or is it these rooms? Because the college has a very convenient dormitory if you prefer. It is very early in your education, you know. We have plenty of time to reconsider your focus. There is, I believe, a program in literature — you do so love to read. Or botany?”

My head snapped up at that. “Oh, no, ma’am, that is entirely unnecessary. Honestly, I am so thankful that you are providing me the financial ability to attend the college, and I am perfectly happy to be living here. Really I am.”

She waved her hands in that way she had, the palms soft and wrinkly even in the firelight. “Don’t be silly, my girl, I only seek to provide you with options, not directives. If this is what you want to do, to be a lawyer, to work in the legal field, I am with you. But I suggest that you focus your attention on that present situation lest it be distracted by ghosts from the past. We have both, after all, been witness to your dips into depression…”

She was right in that, of course, and I colored at her observation, made after only knowing me for a few months. Once in a while I would find myself distracted from whatever was capturing my attention, and it was at those moments that memories of my mother would overtake me, like milk simmering on the stove that goes from a light bubble to spilling over the sides at a fast boil. In the same way the sadness would overflow out of me and I fought hard against it, as did Mrs. Jones in her own way.

I looked up at her beautiful face in the flickering firelight. She was incredibly intelligent, evidenced both by her perfect memory and her own keen sense of deduction. More often than not, when I would speak excitedly about a crime currently in the newspapers, she would quickly shred my solution with a few well-thought-out arguments. Far from discouraging me, her intelligent debates drove me to work harder. I should be cognizant of her encouragement toward my education and more thankful of her efforts.

“
You are right, of course, Mrs. Jones,” I said, taking a deep breath at her answering smile of approval. “I will focus on the future you have secured for me.”

In my head, I swore to prove myself worthy of my mother’s faith in me, of my lost father’s memory, and of the ghost of my grandfather in this very room.

I didn’t yet allow myself to put a name to this destiny; the very act of thinking of myself as an aspiring ‘detective’ felt arrogant at this point. But I promised myself at that moment to focus my learning, my actions and my very thoughts toward this unspoken goal.

Brian’s time was taken up with a rash of local burglaries, so, naturally, my attention swung that way in terms of research. I separated out some of Holmes and Watson’s cases that were specifically about thievery and made copious notes on them, also referencing my legal books and changes to laws since my grandfather’s time.

The constabulary’s continued frustration with the unsolved cases kept my interest high, and I spent hours on the streets of London, walking from one crime scene to another. The smoke from the exhaust of the cars combined with the breath of the people walking the sidewalks in this winter season, but the traffic and the types of traffic varied, and I noted it all. Unlike Toronto, which was a very new city when compared to the one I now lived in, London had distinct populations, smells, activities and yes, even tastes when you traveled from one borough to another. The smells of detergent and cleaning solvents assailed me as I walked around Acton as surely as the smell of fish heralded my arrival in Barking. I took the tube to most of my destinations, but walked home for hours once I had my fill of the sights, often stopping to stare up at stately buildings or to peer into the dusty windows of closed-down shops. Surely I must have looked mad to the Londoners who passed, but I cared not; it made me feel even closer to Watson and Holmes as I tried to imagine what they would have done were they on the case.

Determined to learn more than could be gleaned from textbook and diary, I once again made a visit to the dusty old attic above my apartment. Finding a ratty old suit and beard, I disguised myself as an old man with a huge nose. Consulting some of Holmes’s notes, I reduced the size of the nose (“the key to anonymity is to have no distinguishing features by which you might be remembered”).

Turning this way and that in the mirror, I found something was missing. I grabbed one of my simple frocks and stowed it under my shirt so that I looked as though I had a slight belly. Perfect!