Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure)

by Misri, Angela

  She had just moved to cleaning around her father’s lips when she suddenly jerked away with a gasp.

  “You must leave … immediately!” she whispered to me, backing away from the bed, where the poor man resumed his murmuring soliloquy.

  “Now?” I replied, wondering what had happened, trying to see around her body to his face. “But—”

  “No time to explain,” she said, pulling me forcefully by the arm, forgetting her own rule and rushing us back out the door. She closed it and tried unsuccessfully to apply the key to the lock twice, but her hands were shaking too badly.

  On her third attempt I finally said, “Miss Barclay, if you will hand me your key for a moment, I will lock the door for you.”

  She glanced up at me and I was surprised to recognize fear in her tired eyes, before she grudgingly handed me the key. Noting the blood on the rag she had been using on her father’s face, I quickly locked the door and handed the key back to her directly. She had regained a bit of her composure and tucked the rag out of sight as she backed away from the locked door.

  “Apologies, Miss Adams, this must seem very strange to you,” she said, moving slowly back toward the chairs.

  To deny it would have been both disingenuous and suspicious, so I admitted it. “It does, Miss Barclay. You seem suddenly more worried about your father, more so than when we entered the room. Shall we call a doctor?”

  “No!” she exclaimed, and then regaining her composure, shut her eyes wearily. “I cannot explain, Miss Adams. Please do not ask me to explain, for I cannot.”

  I did not want to push her on this our second meeting so I said instead, “Very well then, Miss Barclay, I will not intrude on your business.”

  I stood, bowed slightly to her and headed for the door, leaving her to the darkness and her own dark worries.

  Chapter Three

  Constable Brian Dawes and I often consulted each other on the crimes and cases that interested us. His pursuits were entirely professional and sanctioned, being a junior member of Scotland Yard. Mine were known by few and supported by even fewer. That said, I flattered myself that someday this interest and experience would be useful in my professional life.

  Once a week, I was invited to dinner with my downstairs tenants, and on one such night, Brian and I were swapping stories from our week’s travails.

  “But Miss Adams, surely she is guilty. She was caught with the murder weapon — fleeing the scene!” he said over the table.

  “I understand, Mr. Dawes, but how did she manage to so violently kill the victim?” I challenged him as Mrs. Dawes laid the table around us, turning up the radio as she passed behind her husband, who was nodding off again. “You said that she was barely one hundred pounds! The victim was almost twice her size and was struck from behind by a single blow to his neck. Is she six feet tall, with extraordinary upper body strength?”

  “No,” he admitted. “She’s tiny, smaller than you for certain, closer to five feet than six.”

  “Then how did she get up high enough to stab him with the amount of force required to kill a man with one blow?” I raised my hand high above me head in a stabbing motion. I demonstrated stabbing upwards with my butter knife and then gripped the knife and stabbed downwards.

  “Perhaps he was bending down at the time?” Brian offered, scratching his chin, a smile coming to his lips at my pantomime.

  “I would need to see the crime scene, but the position of the body as it falls from a kneeling position as compared to when a man is standing is quite marked,” I replied. “I refer you to casebook #122 upstairs for details on how the body falls after being struck and common bruising when it hits the ground.”

  He considered, then nodded. “I will borrow that casebook from you after supper, Miss Adams, thank you, most helpful. Now tell me about this strange case you say you are bound by secrecy not to tell me about. You know I can be relied upon to keep a secret.”

  I nodded, knowing that his career made him one of the few people I could share this case with.

  “I have been asked to discover the real reason behind a young woman’s complete withdrawal from society. She is under severe stress due to the illness of a loved one, but it is suspected that there is more to her change in personality than stress, though from my first day on the job, I will admit that the illness caused me not a little stress myself,” I said, thinking back.

  That strange day at the Barclays’, closing the door behind me, I had walked back down the stairs, collected my things from the butler and left the house.

  About a block away, Mr. Barclay came into sight and fell into step beside me, the rain starting almost in parallel with his appearance at my side.

  “I hope you have some explanation for placing me in such danger, sir,” I said angrily, not slowing my pace but pulling my hat lower over my eyes to deflect the droplets.

  He looked shocked at my statement and paled slightly. “Why, whatever can you mean, Miss Adams? You were never in any danger!”

  “Blood on the lips, weight loss, general weakness,” I listed, still walking briskly. “You may not know this, but when my mother became ill and went undiagnosed for months, I did extensive research in search of the cause of her illness. Your father shows some of the tell-tale symptoms of tuberculosis, and it is something you should have divulged.”

  Oddly, my explanation seemed to relieve him, because his paleness receded as he shook his head vehemently, little drops of water flying off his hat as he did so. “Oh no, Miss Adams, I assure you, tuberculosis was the first thing the doctors tested for, months and months ago — along with cholera, malaria, the Black Death, influenza, the grippe … the list of diseases systematically eliminated was the length of my arm!”

  I finally slowed so that I could look the man in the eye; he seemed sincere.

  “Well,” I hesitated before saying, “I would never claim to be a medical expert, Mr. Barclay, and if I have wrongfully accused you of endangering my life, I will, of course, apologize.”

  He had raised his hands. “No, no apology necessary, my dear Miss Adams, but I want to wipe every doubt from your mind so as to allow you to concentrate on my sister.”

  I recalled blushing at this reminder of what I was actually being paid to investigate, and when he extended his arm, I humbly took it.

  “Do you know of Dr. Joyce? He is a family friend, and his offices are a quick cab ride away. Let him tell you with his own lips of his findings,” he offered, and he hailed a cab as he spoke. It was still midday and the traffic was minimal, so we were quickly picked up and transported to the grand offices of the aforementioned Dr. Joyce. The building, according its cornerstone, was almost a hundred years old, but the marble pillars and cornices that led up the stairs to the ornate iron doors were newer and very expensive.

  Shaking hands with the middle-aged gentleman, I was introduced as a schoolfellow who had taken up a part-time position in the Barclay household.

  “Ah,” said the doctor, as he offered us upholstered chairs in front of his ornate desk, “very good! Then your sister has somewhat relaxed her policies, Mr. Barclay?”

  “Only very slightly, sir,” Barclay answered. “And actually it is more for Miss Adams’ benefit that we are here. She expressed concern about possible contagion through employment in our home.”

  “Oh, very understandable, Miss Adams, and one can never be too careful with one’s health,” the doctor said approvingly. “But as far as I or any of my colleagues can tell…” He leaned over his papers to turn on his desk lamp since the cloudy day afforded little light in this office, despite the large windows. The doctor drew out a folder, consulted it under the light then continued. “The Right Honourable Judge Barclay remains undiagnosed but not contagious. None of us who have been around him, examined him and spoken to him have developed any symptoms, including the members of the family and the staff who serve them.”

  “As I said, the list of diseases he is not suffering from is long and covers tuberculosis, cholera a
nd influenza,” Barclay offered as explanation.

  “And many, many others, Miss Adams,” the doctor said, taking up the thread. “If I could show you the chart in my hands without breaking confidentiality with my patient, I would. But you will have to take my word for it that whatever Judge Barclay is suffering from, poor man, it is not contractable by touch or breath.”

  “As I admitted to Mr. Barclay moments ago, I am, of course, not a medical expert,” I replied. “But Elaine Barclay seems to be developing a few of the same symptoms as her father, does she not?”

  “Not unless something has changed in the past few weeks with the poor girl,” answered the doctor, and he then looked to Mr. Barclay for confirmation.

  “Miss Adams is no doubt speaking of the tired look my sister has about her and the paleness of her features.” He paused, and I remember nodding — that was indeed what I had been referring to. “Those are the symptoms that you tried to talk to her about in June, sir,” Barclay finished with a sigh.

  “Ah yes,” the doctor confirmed. “Miss Elaine Barclay is indeed suffering a malaise, but I suspect it to be mental as opposed to physical. When we considered that Judge Barclay might in fact be contagious, I had blood drawn and full work-ups of the entire family conducted back in…” he consulted his chart again, “…February of this year. Nothing was found. I believe that Miss Barclay’s choice to shutter herself in her house and dwell in misery is due to some mental issues, and that is what is causing the outward symptoms you have described, Miss Adams.”

  “What about the possibility that I could be bringing germs into contact with a weakened man … and Miss Barclay’s strong aversion to sunlight?”

  The doctor thoughtfully leaned back in his chair. “I would not disagree that the patient may have a weakened immune system that requires us to be extra careful around him. But as to the banishment of light — that as far as I can tell is not a symptom but a situation that Miss Barclay has imposed on herself and her father, initiated without medical basis or advice.”

  Barclay looked at his hands at that, and then said, “There were the burns a few months ago, doctor…”

  “Oh, come now, very minor skin irritation, the effects of which were gone the next day,” the doctor answered, shaking his head and then, answering my puzzled look, he went on to say, “Back at the beginning of his illness, Miss Adams, Judge Barclay suffered some unexplained burns on the backs of his hands while on his way, I believe, to an appointment with me.”

  “And Miss Barclay has taken that small occurrence and made it into a symptom so worrying that she has condemned them both to darkness?” I asked.

  “It certainly seems that way,” the doctor answered. “And I promise you, we did our best to talk her out of it. Doctor Alan Roche, if you will recall, Mr. Barclay, attended your home every morning for two weeks in the hopes of convincing Miss Barclay that she was doing more harm than good. But all it resulted in was his being barred from the house!”

  I thought back to the way Miss Barclay had locked the doors behind us, and tilted my head. “Thank you, Dr. Joyce, this has been most enlightening.”

  “Not at all, young lady, and if you wish to speak to any of the other four physicians involved in the case, I would be happy to arrange for it.” He then turned to Barclay as he linked his hands and leaned back toward us. “Does this mean I will be permitted to examine my patient again?”

  I recalled how Mr. Barclay looked saddened. “I wish that were true, Dr. Joyce, but my sister still refuses to move on this decision.”

  “There may come a time, young man, when you may need to countermand your sister’s orders … for the very life of your father!” the doctor answered angrily, slamming his folder shut.

  “So the illness is not contagious,” Brian now said, dragging my attention back to the present.

  “No, at least it is not any known disease,” I replied.

  Brian chewed on that, along with his dinner, for a moment. “So, which is it? Is she protecting this man from you and if so, why let you in the room at all?”

  “That’s just it, Brian, I don’t think she was protecting him — I think she was protecting us.”

  Chapter Four

  All this talk of protecting me or not protecting me, combined with Brian’s off-hand remark about being a ‘capable woman’, reminded me of the promise I had made to my guardian concerning my education in self-defense.

  So when one of my afternoon classes was cancelled during the week, I found myself wandering in Brixton, where I knew the former boxer lived.

  Despite being a transplanted Canadian, the fact that I looked like a Londoner until I opened my mouth and revealed my ‘colonial accent’ meant that I had been able to walk the streets of this populated city with relative invisibility. Not so in Brixton. I was obviously and immediately the minority, getting looks from the local black population and feeling quite out of place as soon as I exited the tube stop.

  A couple around my age passed me, their eyes suspicious, whispering to each other as soon as they were out of my sight, and a group of small boys wearing brightly colored scarves started from their game of jacks as I passed their sport, pointing at me and calling to each other to see the odd sight of a white woman walking alone in Brixton.

  Digging into the bottom of my ever-present satchel, I again consulted the small piece of paper upon which Mrs. Jones had written the man’s address, and with a deep breath I knocked on the painted wooden door to the brick house. The house was large, with three stories that looked as though they had been built by very different builders with varying amounts of money and architectural styles.

  “Eh, what’s up?” said a voice from somewhere to my left.

  Poking his bald head out of a downstairs apartment, I recognized Asher Jenkins. “Up here, Mr. Jenkins. Portia Adams, remember?”

  He flashed a huge grin when he recognized me, waggling a thick finger as he came up the wooden stairs to meet me at street-level. “I said you were pert — and I was right, wasn’t I? Comin’ all the way down here on yer own. Does anyone even know you were comin’?”

  I shook my head, annoyed now and somewhat regretting this promise. “No, but surely you aren’t saying that your neighbors are a threat to me, are you, Mr. Jenkins?”

  He guffawed, shaking his head and waving me down the stairs into his basement flat, where the smells of sweat and blood combined and assaulted the senses.

  I looked down at the padded mats at my feet that were scattered all around this front room and wondering what I had gotten myself into. I could see that there were two other rooms leading out of this large room, which I expected were the bedroom and bathroom, respectively.

  “Does my guardian come here often?” I asked, removing my jacket and putting it on the hook by the door where he had pointed. “Mrs. Jones is the one who asked you to give me these lessons, after all. Do you two socialize much?”

  He shrugged his big shoulders as I removed my hat. “Less so now than when we were young, t’be sure. She is a traveler, your Mrs. Jones is — she hasn’t lived in London for a long time — and I’ve hardly lived anywhere else.”

  “So then, did you know her husbands?” I asked, following as he walked around the large room, noticing the multitude of rectangular windows ringing the open space, allowing in the maximum amount of light for a sublevel apartment.

  “Her husbands?” he repeated, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he stopped, picking up a wooden chair and moving it against a wall. “Which husband is it you’re talkin’ about?”

  “Really, any of them,” I hedged, running my hand along the wooden bar that had been screwed into the wall, reminding me a crude dancer’s bar in a ballet studio. “I know she married someone in London, and divorced him, and then married someone else in San Francisco, where she and my grandmother were friends.”

  “Mmm-hmm, and you’ve asked her about this, have you?” He raised his chin in a challenge.

  I sighed. “Mr. Jenkins, if you don’t wa
nt to answer my questions…”

  “I do not,” he answered immediately. “That is not what we are here for. My first lesson, little lady, is this: your first line of defense is to never let yourself be caught in a dangerous situation. So that starts with gettin’ smart about lookin’ around you, payin’ attention to the people, the exits, the weapons at hand.

  “Your second option is to carry a gun. Is that possible?” he asked, cracking his knuckles.

  “I don’t think I am anywhere near that worried about my personal safety,” I said. “Mr. Jenkins, I am still hopeful to replace the gun option with the running away option. I have no illusions of bravery or prowess in the physical arena.”

  He laughed. “You have decent skills in ‘that area’, as you put it, little one, with those blue eyes, and dark hair — your grandmother used that kind of physical prowess to get herself, and me on more than one occasion, out of very sticky situations.”

  I blushed at his compliment and thought of my mother and her kind blue eyes and felt a slight pang that the color was not as clear in my memory as it once had been.

  “So, no gun means that we’ll focus on the element of surprise, so as to fell your adversary quickly rather than engaging in a drawn-out physical battle you are unlikely to win,” he said.

  Far from being hurt by his most logical assessment, I heartily agreed, and then asked, “Was it your father or your brother who coaxed you into boxing, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “My father,” he answered automatically. “How did you know it was in the family?”

  I pointed to the large bag hanging from the ceiling. “That bag is a more than a decade old at least, and so is the chain holding it. And the height of that bag — it gets lowered and raised to two specific heights consistently, one for you at about six foot two, and another for someone closer to my height — I’d guess under five foot ten.”

  Mr. Jenkins ran his fingers over the well-worn chain holding the punching bag, “My father was small for a boxer, but that man!” He laughed again, a deep, warm sound. “That man could surprise the devil himself with his left hook!”