Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure)

by Misri, Angela

  He glanced at me. “You’re a righty, eh, Adams?” I nodded. “That’s what everyone expects, you know, and we’ll work on that, but we’re also gonna learn ya one mean left hook. No one’ll expect that from ya!”

  And Mr. Jenkins was as good as his word, launching right into the basics of anticipating and dodging attacks. We practiced footwork, what to do if someone grabs you from behind, and most of all, how to deal with a heavyweight restraining you.

  “That’s their biggest advantage, Adams,” he growled as I swung away from his grappling hands. “Once they get their weight on top of ye, fight’s about ten times harder to win.”

  “So?” I gasped, ducking again breathlessly. “What do I do?”

  “Stay outta their reach, just like you’re doin’ now,” he growled back, pivoting and coming at me from the left this time and trapping me against the wall. “Always remember, you’re a woman, they’re expecting an easy mark, so don’t make it easy, and most blokes’ll just give up. And if God forbid they get you between a rock n’ a hard place, I got a few more tricks for ya.”

  Chapter Five

  That weekend I decided this case required more data. Quick research had given me enough information on Elaine’s ex-fiancé, Mr. Ridley, to know that on Saturdays he did shift work at a hospice in central London.

  Borrowing from one of the many disguises in the attic, I found a suitable nurse’s uniform (though which of the previous tenants of this apartment could have fit into this costume, I knew not) and used makeup to age my features, even applying some white paint at my temples.

  I was at this stage of my maquillage when my guardian knocked at the door and entered.

  She stopped at seeing me thus, bent in front of the mirror, and then I saw a slow grin spread across her face.

  “Well, Portia, what are you up to now?” she asked, pulling off her coat and coming to stand beside me in front of the mirror, her various rings glinting, marking a recent cleaning.

  “I have a case,” I explained, looking at myself critically in the mirror. “What do you think, do I look like a middle-aged nurse?”

  She snorted and, grasping my chin, pulled a few loose tendrils from my tight bun and rubbed some purplish makeup lightly under my eyes. She adjusted my makeup with a small brush and had me try on a few different pairs of shoes before she was done.

  “Walk like your feet ache from years of walking up and down hospital halls and be sure to be very deferential to all the doctors,” she advised as she worked.

  “What was this costume used for before, Mrs. Jones, do you know?” I asked, looking up as she directed.

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” she said airily. “But I am certainly enjoying imagining John dressed as a nurse instead of a doctor for once!

  “I hear you had a highly successful first bout with Jenkins,” she prompted, tapping out some makeup on her hand and applying it to my face.

  “‘Bout’ is the right word for it,” I admitted. “I have more than a few bruises from the encounter, Mrs. Jones.”

  “But it was useful, non?” she asked, turning my face so our eyes met again. “You will be going back?”

  “Every Tuesday afternoon, ma’am, I promise,” I answered. “And I have to admit, much of what Mr. Jenkins said about paying attention to your surroundings and keeping exits in view was quite fascinating. He has an interesting paranoia about everyday life.”

  She snorted. “Justified, I promise you.” She stepped back to admire her work. “Now, what is this case, Portia?”

  I hesitated, as I had when speaking to Brian. I had, after all, given my word to Mr. Barclay and then separately to Miss Barclay.

  “Oh, come now, you’ve been sighted about town on the arm of the very handsome, very eligible James Barclay. Surely this case has something to do with his father’s mysterious illness?” she prodded, leading me back to the fireplace.

  I sighed. Sometimes having highly intelligent, highly connected people in your life was trying. I brightened when I considered that she probably thought the same thing.

  “Actually, I am not hired to investigate anything about poor Judge Barclay. His case is one for the doctors, I am afraid,” I said, pulling on a threadbare overcoat. “No, I’ve been asked to try to discern if there is something more than concern behind Miss Barclay’s drastic personality change.”

  “Elaine Barclay?” my guardian said, her perfect silver eyebrows arched. “How very interesting. I had heard that she broke off her engagement to Mr. Ridley, but assumed it was a result of family disapproval.”

  I had by now put on a hat to complete the ensemble. “Why? Is there aught about Mr. Ridley I should know?”

  “Oh, dear no, he is a most agreeable gentleman,” she answered, settling herself comfortably by the fireplace with a sigh. “Both gentleman are, though Ridley is a much more suitable match for you than Barclay, if you ask me, despite the latter being the richer of the two.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “All right, I will pretend that these two eligible men are not so eligible,” she said with a chuckle. “I am referring to the well-known fact that Elaine and James do not get on. Even more so after she got engaged, from what I was hearing at the season’s parties.”

  I compared this to Barclay’s description of his sister. “Odd … that is not the impression I got from speaking to James Barclay.”

  “That is very interesting then, little one,” she said, pulling an ottoman close. “Now, you do your investigating. I’m going to take a nap so that when you return I’m full of energy to hear about your adventure!”

  * * *

  When I arrived back at 221 Baker Street, it was almost suppertime. I trudged up the stairs and was pleasantly surprised to find a warm meal on the stove and my guardian still waiting for me.

  I apologized for my tardiness between gulps of delicious onion soup and fresh bread, and only when I had consumed my fill did I lean back from the table with a satisfied exhalation.

  “That,” I declared, “was exactly what I needed.”

  “I thought as much,” she said with a smile, pulling out her tiny ceramic pipe and lighting it. “How did your day pretending to be a nurse go?”

  I wearily rose and stepped behind the screen to undress. “Difficult. And I remain firmly in my chosen career — the medical gene seems to have been lost to me, no matter who my grandfather was.”

  “Never mind, dear, there are at least two other Watsons carrying on that family tradition,” she said from the other side of the screen. “Did John Watson come by and visit again by the way?”

  “Yes, I thought I told you! And his brother invited me to dinner next week.”

  “Lovely boys,” my guardian said. “You should go. They are men worthy of being part of your life, those two are. And maybe they could even help you with your current case. How did it go with Dr. Ridley?”

  In a much more comfortable long skirt, blouse and cardigan, I rejoined her, scrubbing at my face with a wet towel. “Not well, I’m sad to say. My questions about his ex-fiancée were met with anger. All he would say was that his opinion of women had been forever changed by the experience.”

  “Oh my,” my guardian said. “That sounds like their parting was acrimonious and not perhaps caused by the brother’s disapproval at all?”

  I shook my head. “That was my impression, at least — that Mr. Ridley blames Elaine Barclay directly for the dissolution of their engagement.”

  “Interesting,” was all she said.

  “I did manage, over the course of a very long shift, to turn the conversation toward Judge Barclay,” I said, sitting forward, “but Ridley claims to have had limited access to his, well, his future father-in-law at the time, I suppose. He said that his questions to Elaine Barclay were met with increasing suspicion and paranoia.”

  “I wonder if his poking and prodding around her father’s illness could have led Elaine to break things off,” Mrs. Jones mused.

  “I wondered the same thing, though the
re was no diplomatic way to ask that, of course,” I said. “But surely a worried daughter would seek out and encourage more medical intervention, not less — especially from someone she trusted enough to consider marrying?”

  “Then where does that leave you?” she asked, taking a puff of her little pipe.

  “Right back to my stolen moments in that gloomy room,” I answered with a sigh. “I think the answers to this case are hiding in there like shadows in a dark alley.”

  “Speaking of dark alleys,” she started and then poked me in the arm when I rolled my eyes, knowing where she was going with this, “we were supposed to continue our tour of downtown London, were we not?”

  “I have been just a little busy, Mrs. Jones,” I replied.

  “With school work?” she demanded. “Or with this new case?”

  “Both,” I retorted tartly, and then, “and also with my efforts to track down Sherlock Holmes.”

  That took her aback and she actually started in her chair.

  “That surprises you, Mrs. Jones?” I asked, though I had meant to test her. “I am, as you know, on a quest to find out more about my grandparents. Mr. Holmes knew my grandfather better than anyone alive, other than his own sons, with whom, as I said, I am sitting down with again next week. The great detective is the next logical next step, don’t you think?”

  “I … hadn’t considered it,” she replied, tapping her pipe on the ashtray, her trembling hand evident in the way the ashes missed their target.

  She cursed aloud, another telling sign of her discomfort, and I rose to get my brush and dustpan, calling over my shoulder, “You don’t by chance know where Mr. Holmes is, do you, Mrs. Jones? So far Brian’s efforts to locate him have failed, even with the members of the constabulary who knew the man.”

  I had by now returned to her side and swept up the errant ashes, waiting for her reply.

  “No, I do not,” she answered when I looked at her.

  I nodded, having surmised as much, though the reason for her obviously defensive feelings on the matter still evaded me. “It’s interesting,” I said, returning to my kitchenette and tilting the dustpan over my dustbin as I spoke, “you only ever speak of half of the detective team who lived here. I’ve hardly heard you mention Holmes at all.”

  “Well, I focus on answering questions about your grandfather, of course,” she replied hurriedly.

  “Obviously,” I answered, returning to sit back at her side, “but now you must tell me what you know of Sherlock Holmes. Please.”

  She surprised me by leaning forward to say, “Agreed — but let’s start with your efforts as aided by the young constable from downstairs — what have you two found out and who have you talked to?”

  Chapter Six

  The next day I returned to the Barclay residence and was once again shown to the library by the surly butler. This time Mr. Barclay was not there, so I purposely picked a different book off the shelf, one I knew well, and followed the butler to the master bedroom. After I knocked on the door, the butler, looking even paler than usual, motioned me in to find Miss Barclay once more sitting in candlelit darkness and dressed all in black.

  “Ah, Portia!” she said, her tired face reflecting surprise. “I confess I was worried that after that … incident the other day that you would not return.”

  “Not at all, Miss Barclay, confused as I remain about what happened, you hired me to do a job, and I am here to do it.”

  “Very well, shall we proceed then?” I nodded and watched as she again produced the key from the chain around her neck. As before, when we entered the room it was dark and candlelit. I obediently sat straight down in the chair I knew to be assigned to me and started to read aloud. I had been reading for perhaps fifteen minutes when there came a knock on the outer door.

  Elaine looked at me, hesitated, and then glanced at her father where he lay prone on the bed.

  The knock came again, and she made up her mind. Passing me, she headed back through the previously locked door into the anteroom where she spent her days and answered the outer door.

  I continued to read aloud, but from my vantage point I could see the maid enter the room carrying a tray. Elaine waited impatiently for the maid to put down the tray, and then she took a look at me to make sure I was still in the same position. I was, of course, and I continued to read as she watched me from the other room.

  She finally stepped out of my sight, and only the slight aroma of food seeping into the air alerted me to the fact that the tray held the midday meal.

  I continued to read, squinting at the bed as I did so, careful not to move or give Elaine reason to worry. When I stopped hearing utensils being used, I carefully leaned back in my chair and could see her out of the corner of my eye, weeping over her half-finished meal.

  I had picked this book purposefully, knowing the words well enough that I barely needed to glance at the page to continue my recitation. This allowed me to observe her movements in the anteroom while she had the comfort of hearing my voice doing the job I had been hired to do. I glanced at Judge Barclay and could see that the man was either unconscious or asleep.

  I leaned forward again as she stood and walked out of my sight toward where I knew the tall reticule stood on the north side of the room. Assuming she was searching for a kerchief to stem her tears, I was surprised to see, as she walked back toward us, something small in her hands, something that reflected light … a glass? No, too small to be a glass. It looked like a … salt shaker without a metal cover … some kind of small glass container ... it was hard to tell from across two rooms with so little light.

  She leaned over the tray with her back to me for a few seconds. When she turned, tray in hand, the glass container was nowhere to be seen.

  I kept reading as she passed me and carefully placed the tray on the side table near the bed.

  “That is all for today I think, Portia,” she said, her back to me. “Thank you, please come again tomorrow.”

  I dutifully stopped, placing the bookmark to hold my place and leaving the book on the table beside my designated chair.

  She was leaning over her father, so I carefully stepped into the anteroom. Noting the half-finished plate, and not seeing the glass object, I stepped to the reticule to test its door. It was locked, and I dared not linger and incite Miss Barclay’s suspicion, so I went out the door into the relief of the sunny hallway.

  I made my way out of the house and back onto the street, considering my data. What was that glass object? Was it relevant to this case? Could it be that Elaine Barclay was on some kind of drug? Opium addiction? I made a mental note to look into my grandfather’s medical books for symptoms of drug addiction. I shook my head and the afternoon scene swam dizzily before my eyes. I stopped walking, leaning on a lamppost, suddenly sure I was going to be sick.

  “Why, Miss Adams!” said a voice in front of me.

  I opened my eyes, still battling the dizzy spell, and saw Mr. Barclay striding toward me looking very concerned.

  I had the chance to observe some papers sticking out of his suit pocket before I knew no more.

  * * *

  I awoke in my own bed to find Mrs. Dawes slumbering in the chair beside me. I glanced at my window, surprised to see how dark it was, and sitting up carefully, I reached for a water glass beside me, waking Mrs. Dawes from her nap with a start.

  “Well, finally, missy,” she said, leaning forward to test my forehead. “No fever still — how are you feeling?”

  “Tired, but well, Mrs. Dawes. How did I get here? And where are my clothes?” I asked, looking down at the simple cotton dress I now wore.

  “That fine gentleman Mr. Barclay brought you in, didn’t he? Carried you all the way up the stairs,” she said, adjusting my blanket. “Most worried he was ’bout you, little lady, most worried. Even insisted that I bathe your arms and legs in case you were catching fever.”

  “How long ago was that?” I asked, putting down my glass and doing a bit of a self-assessment,
detecting none of the dizziness I had felt before.

  “Three hours you’ve been asleep,” Mrs. Dawes replied, nodding at my surprised look. “Your Mrs. Jones was here when he brought you in and stayed with Mr. Barclay and me the first little while. But when you wouldn’t wake up, she ran out to find a doctor. She asked me to stay here with you in case you woke up, and thank goodness you have!”

  “Oh, Portia!” declared Mrs. Jones as she entered the flat with her usual dramatic flourish. “You’re awake finally! What happened?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest,” I replied, allowing her to check me over, noticing the familiar-looking gentleman who had followed her up the stairs and now stood just at my doorway. “I left the Barclays, got dizzy, and I suppose … fainted?”

  “Fainted? That’s what poor Mr. Barclay said, but I just can’t believe it,” she repeated incredulously. “Portia Constance Adams, you are not the fainting type. I don’t believe it.”

  Mrs. Dawes took the opportunity to steal out of the room, promising to bring up a spot of tea, and taking the gentleman’s top hat and coat as she passed, revealing his medical bag as she did so.

  “I am fine, ma’am, really,” I said, reaching over to pat her hand. “And Dr. Watson, please do come in,” I called to the man at the door, my uncle.

  “Miss Adams,” replied Hamish Watson, brother to the Watson I had already met, “I am sorry our first meeting is under these circumstances.”

  Mrs. Jones waved him into the room, so he approached to take my extended hand in greeting. While he was looking over my vitals, opening my eyes wide, and taking my pulse, I ran my eyes over him, comparing his physical attributes to the photos I had seen of our shared grandfather. Where I looked almost nothing like John Watson, this fellow looked like a rounder version of the man.

  Dr. Hamish Watson was in his forties, younger than my mother, which made sense since she was the product of John Watson’s first marriage and this man a product of Watson’s third. He had a very round face, a receding dark brown hairline and brown eyes that wrinkled when he concentrated, as he was now, looking at his watch with his hand on my wrist. He was shorter than I and had the look of someone suited to desk work rather than physical activity, leading me to believe that he hadn’t followed his father’s example of joining the military.