Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

I
t wasn’t until almost two weeks later, though, that I could finally test my theory with the real perpetrator. Flowers that had been shivering buds in April had burst into colorful bloom in May, and everyone seemed happier for it despite the increase in rain.

I waited and waited for another burglary, but the pattern seemed finally to be broken, as days went by without any new incidents reported. Perhaps the thief had finally sated his appetite, or perhaps he had moved on from London.

Every evening I bothered Brian Dawes with the same question, and every day I repeated the process with my professors: had anything else been reported stolen?

Finally, on a Friday in June, my prayers were answered, at the cost of someone else’s fortune — another robbery.

Brian, good man that he was, came racing up my steps to deliver the news.

I answered his knock with a question even before fully opening the door. “Has something been stolen?” I demanded.

“Yes, miss. Trudy Bennett has reported a stolen necklace,” he answered with a laugh. “
Now
will you tell me why you have been waiting for another incident? We had been hoping this spree was over, but you had the opposite hope.”

I blushed, because it did seem somehow immoral to wait for someone else’s bad fortune in order for me to prove a theory, but I honestly couldn’t contain my excitement. “I will, but only if you arrest Ben Fawkes on Sunday morning, very first thing,” I replied with a grin.

“Sunday morning?” he replied, understandably confused. “We all believe him to be the man, so if you have new evidence, let us go and arrest him right now, before he has a chance to sell the spoils from his newest heist.”

I shook my head determinedly as he came into the room, stepping carefully around the papers and plates. “I promise you, if I am right, the latest stolen goods are quite safe until Sunday morning. Will you be reprimanded for arresting him, though?”

“This is about the theory you came up with at Guy’s Hospital, isn’t it Miss Adams?” he said, waggling a finger at me.

I nodded as he crouched down beside me and we fleshed out a quick plan right then and there for how to best drop the net and avoid risking Brian’s career. I appreciated again how open he was to my opinion despite my untried hand in this field, looking up at him as he stroked his strong jaw, thinking hard about the details I was describing.

“What?” he asked as I paused mid-explanation.

“
Why do you believe me, Mr. Dawes?” I asked, truly curious as to his answer. “Why do you take my opinion so seriously? It is one that is so amateur when compared to the insights around you every day.”

He moved to a kneeling position, his elbows on his thighs, his brow furrowed, “Well, I suppose because you are so adamant in your beliefs at so young an age, and because I’ve seen how quickly your mind works. Also, you think … I don’t know, differently from anyone at the Yard these days, and I think we need more of that.”

I blushed at his kind words.

“
And of course, there is your very heritage,” he said, looking round at the room. “I am willing to make a great leap for the granddaughter of such a prolific detective and man.”

I lowered my eyes, unwilling to let him see the tears that threatened to appear at his final statement — it was so much the destiny I was hoping for.

We had just settled the details when my guardian arrived. Brian made his polite goodbyes and winked at me on his way out — the plan was on!

The thrill of this chase must have shown on my face as Mrs. Jones finished removing her shawl. As she gracefully pulled off her kid gloves I noticed that she had removed her beautiful new ring with the turquoise stones and replaced it with an older band.

A prickle of unease ran down my spine, though at the time I wasn’t entirely sure of the cause.

“
You look better,” she remarked, settling into her favorite chair beside the fireplace where Brian and I had so recently been planning.

“
Yes, I am, thank you, and you?” I said, my excitement at the case fading, replaced by a new unease I could not explain.

“
Oh, age has its benefits to be sure, but I confess I am starting to feel its ill effects as well,” she said.

Worriedly, I took a good look at her now and could not perceive any difference in complexion, and I said so.

“Oh, sometimes, Portia, you will find as you get older that it is the restlessness of the soul that drives you, not the body. Quite the opposite of youth.” She sighed dramatically.

I asked whether there was anything I could do to aid with such a problem and she laughed in response, a girlish, tinkling sound. “Oh heavens, no, my dear, and don’t worry yourself. This malaise is most easily solved.”

She shifted in her chair, her eyes taking on a dreamy sheen. “I think it is time I took my ease at one of my more rural homes, away from the hustle and bustle of London.”

Since the busy streets of a large city were one of her purported loves, I filed that statement away without comment and merely nodded. “Where?”

“Perhaps Lyon, I have a lovely apartment there I haven’t been in for years. Or maybe even Cairo.”

“
You have a home in Cairo?” I burst out, unable to contain my surprise at so exciting a destination.

“
I have an arrangement with a friend there, yes,” she answered with a smile. “Would you like to join me?”

“
Very much so!” I said, eyes wide as she described the exotic foods and culture in detail.

“
The
kofta
, oh there is this little street of vendors in the east end of Cairo.” She shook her head with a smile, taking my hand. “It is indescribably good, my girl, and you would never know about it unless you were with someone who had found it before.

“
The very streets smell like cinnamon, and from the moment you arrive the smells of spice and sugar just seem to envelope you.” She closed her eyes in remembrance. “Even weeks after getting home, all I need to is pick up something I wore there and smell it, and it takes me right back. So too will your very being become infused with the aromas of the East.”

We talked late into the night, planning a fantastic tour in the fall, when the heat would be less of an issue.

By the time Mrs. Jones left, my mind was whirling with images of camels and pyramids and I fell asleep marveling at the tragic circumstances of losing my mother and my home that had brought me such an opportunity.

Sleep, though, brought dreams of a very different nature, filled with jewels and Turkish silks and the splashing of water.

Chapter Thirteen

I
woke late in the morning that Saturday, puzzling over the dream. Despite having a grand plan with Brian to execute the following day, I found myself instead distracted by the confusing elements of the dream.

My morning walk was disturbed by this confusion as I made my way to my customary café. About halfway along my trek, I noticed someone was following me — which was also odd since I had been so absorbed in my thoughts.

The man was obviously not really trying to disguise his pursuit, so I kept him in my sights as I turned corners and finally made it to the small café.

I took a seat outside, facing in the direction I had come from, and the waiter came to take my usual Saturday order. I was therefore not in the least surprised when the gentleman who had been following me took the seat across from me.

I felt no danger radiating from his large frame. I guessed his age at over seventy. He was obviously of African descent, over two hundred pounds, and revealed a shiny bald head when he removed his hat.

“
Good morning, young miss,” he said finally, enduring my silent scrutiny with an equally assessing eye. His accent was pure British, from Liverpool if I had to guess.

“
Good morning,” I replied respectfully, nodding once again at my waiter as he dropped off my coffee.

“
For you, sir?” the waiter asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

“
Tea,” he replied, barely glancing up at the waiter but placing double the bill in notes on the table.

The waiter fairly sprinted off to get the tea.

I took a sip of my coffee before deciding to approach this conversation head on. “You have been following me, sir, for some distance, and I can see that exercise is something you do often with your physique at such an advanced age. So I would not keep you — what can I do for you?”

He looked surprised by my observations, as most people did when they first met me. “Advanced age, eh? She was right, you are pert.”

“Indeed? And who is
she
?” I demanded, putting down my cup to glare at the man.

The waiter returned with a pot of tea and a cup, whisking it onto the table and scooping up his payment with a grin.

The old man’s clothing consisted of a worn pair of knickerbockers and a loose sweater, and looking from the twists and turns of his nose and down at his knuckles, I quickly surmised why.

I leaned forward as the older gentleman tipped the pot toward his cup. “Are you by chance the type of man who has an interest in accosting young women?” I said, hoping to shock him into the truth.

“Ha!” he said with a laugh, shaking his large head as he took a sip of tea. “Not in the way you mean, though.” He leaned forward, forcing me to back up. “If I were that type of man, you didn’t make it hard to follow you at all.”

“
Who are you?” I demanded, my annoyance growing.

“
Also, if I were that type of man, you can’t tell me that’s how you would deal with me!” he said, shaking his head with a smile.

I crossed my arms, glaring at him.

“The name’s Jenkins, Asher Jenkins, and I’m someone who's gonna help you,” he declared, clapping his hands. “I promised your guardian I’d teach you how to take care of yourself, and by God, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

I rolled my eyes. “Are you … you’re a friend of Mrs. Jones?” I demanded. “Why didn’t you say so right away?”

He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I wanted to see what you were about first. Get a feelin’ for what I’m dealin’ with.”

My shoulders came up defensively as he took another casual sip of tea, glaring at another customer who seemed too interested in our discussion. “And?”

“Eh?” he replied, swinging his gaze back my way.

I blew out my breath. “And what do you see? What are you dealing with?”

He looked me up and down. “A soft American who’s totally out of her element and thinks she can wander all over London like she owns the place. That’s what I see. But don’t you worry your head, little Miss Adams, I made a promise to Irene.”

“
To do what? Teach me how to box?” I challenged. “To muscle my way out of trouble?”

He spat out his tea, causing even more of the café’s patrons to glance over and then quickly glance away.

“You’re a boxer, possibly a professional one based on the number of times your nose has been broken and reset,” I said as he pulled a hanky from his pocket to clean his face. “I can’t believe you’d still be practicing that sport at your, yes, advanced age, so you’ve graduated into what? Professional intimidation?”

“
I call it trainin’, little miss,” he replied, pulling the hanky away from a lopsided grin and making me add a broken jaw to his list of very old injuries.

“
Well, I am not interested in being trained, Mr. Jenkins,” I said, standing and looking him in the eye. “Thank you for your interest, but I shall relay that message to my guardian myself. Good day.”

He laughed, a great bellowing sound that seemed to come from his very shoes. “Oh you do that, Miss Adams. I only wish I was there to see you relay…” he guffawed again, “…that message.”

I stalked off, the sound of his laughter following me all the way down the block.

*     *     *

It only took three hours of research at the Bodleian Library at Oxford to find newspaper articles crowing about the great boxer Asher “Bruiser” Jenkins. He had been quite a prizefighter in his day, but had disappeared in the press after 1895. Jenkins had been arrested twice in the 1890s on charges of theft, but only one of those had gone to trial, resulting in a three-year jail term he had served at Wandsworth prison.

I sat back in my chair, stretching my sore muscles as I considered his connection to my guardian. They seemed to be from opposite ends of the social spectrum — how would they even have met? Finding no comfort in stretches, I stood, pacing around the oak table I had piled high with newsprint and anthologies of newspapers, taking a deep breath to enjoy the soothing smells of old books and paper. I had spent much of my free time in the Queen and Lisgar Branch Library in Toronto, where my mother had been a part-time librarian and where I had hoped to become a page someday. With effort, I shook my head free of the memories that would derail my current endeavor, glancing at the stately window to my left.

The sun was setting, and I knew the librarians would want to close up soon, so with a sigh I picked up a few of the larger bound anthologies and walked them back over to the shelves I had found them on. I went back to my table, collecting up the newspapers and stacking them more neatly. These would need to be re-filed by the library staff.

How did Bruiser Jenkins know Mrs. Jones? More importantly, how had she come to trust him enough to send him my way? What did they have in common?

I suddenly thought back to the dream I had about the sound of splashing and the jewels that had been stolen, and remembered that had been on the night Mrs. Jones dropped by with the silks and jewelry from some exotic locale. A locale she had been very cagey about.

“
A locale where maybe a Turkish millionaire could buy a stolen tiara?” I whispered.