Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure)

by Misri, Angela

  The rocking of the train and the pristine white of the landscape had the expected effect of relaxing me. But only minutes had passed in this serene state when I was jerked fully awake by a woman’s scream. I sat up straight, cocking my ear for either a repeat of the sound or a signal that I had mistaken it for something else — a train whistle, perhaps. Several more minutes passed, and I watched some official-looking men run past my compartment toward the front of the train. A few minutes later, a group of men headed in the opposite direction, passed by more men heading the same way as the first group.

  My curiosity never really needed much to arouse it, so I slid open my door just as a conductor, followed by a constable, passed by me in a rush.

  I waited a beat and then followed them down the hallway. Only five compartments away, still in first class, a small party of people was gathered around a door through which a woman’s sobs could easily be heard.

  “But what could have happened to her?” a passenger whispered to her companion.

  “Happened to whom?” I asked, trying to see into the compartment.

  “Why, to the child of course!” the second woman said excitedly.

  Another fit of sobs brought our attention back to the compartment, and that was when the constable reappeared at the doorway.

  “All o’ ye need tae get back to your seats,” he announced in a thick Scottish accent. “Leave us to our business. Go on now!”

  Chapter Three

  He waved his large hands at the crowd as if trying to disperse flies buzzing around a meal. He was tall, with rounded shoulders, a bit of a pot belly, a long graying mustache and deep wrinkles about his eyes. He also had a scowl that would make even Mrs. Jones take a step back, so, grumbling and whispering, the various passengers did as they were told and ebbed around me until I stood alone in the passageway. I would like to say that I fought hard to mind my own business, but, I rationalized, mysteries were my business, so…

  I stepped closer to the open door and stuck my head in as unobtrusively as possible. “Please, can I help in any way? Perhaps I could fetch a glass of water or a blanket?”

  I used those precious seconds to take a mental photograph of the scene in that compartment. A young woman of under thirty sat cradling her head. A huge welt was even now beginning to purple around her weeping eye. The left side of her face was swollen from the blow that had caused that welt, her blonde hair in disarray, half matted to the side of her head and the other half hanging limply on her shoulder. The pot-bellied constable, who had been taking notes, turned toward me with his right hand on his baton. I judged him to be about forty — a little old to still be a constable, but obviously at the ready. The only other occupant of the compartment was an older man in his sixties who was patting the woman’s hand in a comforting way.

  “Here now! You’ve been telt already tae clear off!” the constable barked at me.

  “You did, sir, I admit,” I replied, holding my ground. “I only sought to offer my aid.”

  “Why don’t you sit down here, miss, and keep Mrs. Anderson company while I run and get her that water?” suggested the kindly older man. And without waiting for anyone’s approval, he bustled out of the compartment.

  I took advantage of his quick decision and sat down next to the woman.

  “Why don’t you continue, sir? I promise not to cause trouble,” I said.

  The officer must have seen that I meant no harm, because he mumbled “Americans” under his breath but resumed his questioning.

  “I’ve got Borgins and Jameson searching right now, Mrs. Anderson, but I want tae get every detail from ye. Ye say ye were struck down in this very compartment in the presence of your daughter, Leah?” he said.

  Mrs. Anderson nodded weakly, and then winced at the pain that caused her.

  “D’ye ken if there was anyone else in the hallway?” he asked.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “And when ye woke, through Mr. James Arnold’s discovery of ye, lying on the floor here, your wee bairn was gone,” the constable continued.

  “Yes!” wailed poor Mrs. Anderson. “Please, let us stop going over the story again and again, and find Leah!”

  The constable raised his hands. “I swear, all is being done to find her, Mrs. Anderson, but I must ken one more thing: when ye were attacked, was the train in motion or were we still stopped on the platform?”

  “We were moving, sir,” the gentleman identified as Mr. Arnold answered, re-entering the compartment bearing the promised glass of water. “I had just introduced myself to Mrs. Anderson and her daughter Leah as we left the station. And then I left to check on some friends in the next compartment, and when I got back…” He handed the glass of water to Mrs. Anderson, patting her hand. “I am so sorry I wasn’t here to stop this from happening, my dear!”

  She sniffed tearfully up at him and took the glass of water in her shaking hands.

  “How long do you estimate you were gone, Mr. Arnold?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  Mr. Arnold looked surprised, but answered, “Why, maybe ten minutes…”

  “And did you pass anyone in the hallway — either on the way out or on the way back in?”

  “I already asked that of them, miss, and Mr. Arnold telt me he did not,” the constable broke in, a little annoyed with my questions.

  “Then where is she?” demanded Mrs. Anderson, trying to stand but failing.

  “Your bairn is still on board this train, m’um, don’t you fash yourself — and I will find her!” the constable replied. “This here is a non-stop trip, dinnae ye ken? No one can get off or on for eight hours.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Mr. Arnold reassuringly. “There’s already a band of constables out there looking. I passed them on the way back from the dining car. They’ll find Leah in no time!”

  “I heard there was need for a doctor?” came a new voice from the doorway. “My name is Dr. Ewing,” said a tall man, carrying a medical bag.

  “Ah, yes, sir, if ye could see to Mrs. Anderson’s injuries, I must consult with my men,” the constable said, rising and nodding at Arnold and I to do the same.

  I patted Mrs. Anderson awkwardly on the arm and followed the men back into the hallway, where the constable slid the door closed behind us, leaving the doctor with his patient.

  “Now, we are working with a description of the wee bairn given tae us by the conductor who seated them, but I’d like tae hear it from ye as well, sir,” the constable said, licking the tip of his pencil and holding it expectantly over his notebook.

  “Young, around six or seven, I’d estimate, blonde with ringlets, all the way down over her shoulders,” described Arnold, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his temple. “She was wearing a pink dress that matched her pink jacket — that was left behind in the compartment … and she had a birthmark — a red one, on her cheek — about the size of a ha’penny.”

  The constable checked all of this against his existing notes and nodded. “The birthmark was mentioned by the conductor as well, as was her bright blonde hair.”

  The doctor slid open the door and stepped out into the hallway. “I would like to give Mrs. Anderson a mild sedative to help alleviate the shock and allow me to treat her cheek. I fear she might have a fracture,” he explained, “but she insists on not being alone, and asks for your attention, sir.”

  He said this last to Mr. Arnold, who of course agreed, and they re-entered the cabin, leaving the constable and me in the hallway.

  “You should return to your seat, miss…?” the constable suggested.

  “Portia Adams,” I replied, and then threw in, “of Baker Street. And you are?”

  “Constable Perkins,” he answered automatically, not placing my famous address, or perhaps not caring. He tipped his hat. “I must catch up with my men now.”

  So saying, he hurried toward the front of the train. He was right, of course; the train had been in motion since the assault and abduction, so the child was still on board, hopefully s
afe, but surely distraught after seeing her mother knocked unconscious.

  Chapter Four

  “A struggling, screaming child should not be hard to find in such a confined area,” I mused aloud, heading back toward my compartment. I slid the door open and resumed my seat next to the window, picking up my discarded newspaper from the floor. What a risky way to kidnap a child! I thought. Surely not a well-thought-out plan, with no escape for eight hours? Perhaps the kidnapper had thought to get off the train before it left the station, and something went wrong?

  I shook my head, folding the newspaper, and then, reaching up to put it in my satchel, I pulled out my notebook and pencil instead. I sat back down to detail the case.

  An hour at least passed in this fashion, and twice I was interrupted by a group of men who knocked, asked to search my compartment and were granted full access.

  The second time, I had to ask how the search progressed.

  “Not well, miss,” a young conductor admitted, wiping his brow. “This is our second sweep, and so far, no hint of the little girl.”

  “No one saw or heard anything at all?” I asked incredulously. “Surely someone heard the child’s screams? Witnessed a struggle? Even one that was explained away as an unruly tantrum?”

  The man shook his head sadly as the troupe wrapped up its physical search and the men tipped their hats to me.

  I stood for a moment, unable to settle back down, and then decisively headed to the dining compartment, notebook in hand. It had more of the same brocade found in my compartment on the seat pads and in the wallpaper that marked this car. The drapes in here were the burgundy rather than the gold, and were all open, affording the diners views of the passing scenery. More than twenty tables for four were arranged in various positions around this car, with a bar in the northeastern corner of the room and waiters in pristine white uniforms moving quickly from table to table. The mood in the large room was morose, to say the least, with clusters of patrons gathered around their meals whispering furiously. I caught snippets of their conversations as I wound between and around their tables headed to an empty spot near a window.

  “Poor thing! Maybe she was thrown from the train by the beast!”

  “Ridiculous, Sarah! The child is in the bowels of the locomotive, hiding under the coals or something!”

  “But they searched my compartment twice. Am I a suspect, do you think?”

  I took my seat and a waiter quickly approached to take my luncheon order. I wrote in my notebook: Is the child already dead? Sad as that would be, it would explain the silence of the crime, an unexplained clue that stuck in my mind like a burr on a jumper. But why attack a mother and child in such a brutal way? And on a train where you could not make a quick getaway? I took a glance around the room at all the gossiping people and shook my head. I had no evidence of this poor girl’s death other than the equally uninformed speculation of my fellow passengers. I ate my meal automatically, barely noting the tartness of the cheese or the warmth of my tea. I took a sip from my cup, looking out the window at the landscape speeding by, thinking about the distraught Mrs. Anderson and her bruised and battered face.

  The waiter silently withdrew my empty plate at some point, but I barely noticed, still so deep in thought.

  Suddenly I jerked upright: she had known her kidnapper — that was why the girl didn’t scream! I sat there for a moment, undecided. Or was it? Was it the explanation? Or was that the explanation I was being led to? I shook my head again. This wasn’t a person lying to me: it was the evidence speaking — or the lack of evidence, actually. No one had heard Leah scream or seen her struggle to get away. Not every book is poisoned, Portia, I seethed.

  I dropped my napkin and made a beeline for Mrs. Anderson’s compartment.

  Chapter Five

  Outside Mrs. Anderson’s compartment were stationed two men, one a junior constable and the other an equally young conductor. They were speaking in low tones when I stopped in front of the door.

  They stopped talking abruptly, and the constable said, “May I help you, miss?”

  “Yes,” I replied, crossing my arms behind my back. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Anderson, please.”

  They looked at each other confusedly and then the constable spoke again. “Ah, and are you a friend, Miss…?”

  “Adams, and as much as I feel for Mrs. Anderson, we just met today,” I answered honestly. “I have to ask her a few more questions that may shed some light on the whereabouts of her daughter.”

  That got the men’s attention, and they both started questioning me at once, so I raised my right hand. “You are welcome to accompany me into the compartment and witness our interaction, gentlemen, but I cannot solve this mystery until you let me through that sliding door.”

  I waited patiently for them to decide, the conductor looking to the young constable for guidance.

  “Really, what harm could I do?” I said. “You can watch me the whole time, and I swear to you I only want to help. My name is Portia Adams, and I live at 221B Baker St. If you are worried, you can contact Scotland Yard and ask for either Chief Inspector Archer or Constable Brian Dawes. Both would vouch for me.”

  “You work at the Yard?” the conductor asked incredulously.

  “I have done business with them, yes,” I replied, cognizant of how mysterious that sounded but hoping I wouldn’t have to go into detail about the relationship.

  The constable’s brow furrowed for a moment then he nodded, stepping aside to let me in.

  “Thank you,” I said, sliding open the door.

  Mrs. Anderson sat wanly in the same position as before, leaning slightly to the left in an obviously drugged state, but Mr. Arnold fairly leapt up at seeing us.

  “Anything new?” he demanded of me.

  “No, I am sorry,” I said and then looked at the glassy-eyed woman whose cheek had been bandaged since last I saw her. “Mrs. Anderson, how are you holding up?”

  She sniffed, eyes unfocused as the constable followed me into the now full compartment.

  “She has been drifting in and out, I’m afraid,” Mr. Arnold explained, sitting back down beside her with a sigh.

  “I confess I’m surprised to still find you in here, sir,” I said, taking a seat opposite. “I expected you to be searching the train with Constable Perkins…”

  “And so I would prefer, Miss Adams,” he answered, slapping his thigh in obvious frustration, “but I could not leave this poor girl alone. But now that you are here—”

  But he did not get the chance to finish his hopeful sentence as Mrs. Anderson sobbed and reached out to hold his hand tightly. “Please, no, stay with me, Mr. Arnold. I feel safer when you are here,” she entreated softly.

  Mr. Arnold of course acquiesced.

  I gave her a moment to get her emotions under control and then said, “Mrs. Anderson, there is something about this case that has puzzled me. When you were struck down here, why did Leah not scream for help?”

  Mrs. Anderson shuddered dramatically and I felt a frisson of unease. Finally, she said, “I don’t know! Why do you make me imagine what was being done to my child to prevent her from screaming?”

  I felt the eyes of the men in the room turn on me in remonstration, and that frisson ran up my spine again.

  “Could it be?” I pressed, pushing down my insecurities about my instincts, “that she knew her kidnapper and therefore was not frightened of him?”

  Mrs. Anderson’s eyes widened in shock and she shook her head vigorously. “No! No!” she said, tears ready to spill again.

  Mr. Arnold reached out to steady her, and the constable asked me, “You think the little girl didn’t scream because she knew the kidnapper? Even if she knew who it was, she would have screamed upon seeing her mother hit, would she not?”

  I bit my lip because of course she would have — another mistake, Portia! It would have been most upsetting to see your mother beaten right in front of you, especially to a young girl. I looked to Mrs. Anderson, who was
still shaking her head and mumbling, “No, no! He can’t be allowed to get away with that … not that!”

  I focused on that. “He?” I said, leaning forward at the same time as the constable. “Who is ‘he’, Mrs. Anderson?”

  She gulped, blinking quickly. “My husband … we’ve been having problems…”

  I tilted my head at this new possibility, matching the constable’s raised eyebrows.

  “But Mrs. Anderson, you told me you were on your way to meet your husband,” said Mr. Arnold.

  She sniffed before answering. “We are … we are to meet him in Scotland … he will be so angry!” She slid slowly to the side, her eyes going unfocused again.

  I signaled for the men to step outside with me, but as Mr. Arnold rose to follow, Mrs. Anderson’s hand whipped out to grab his arm. She surprised us all with her quick movement, but Mr. Arnold simply grimaced and sank back down to his assigned seat.

  As soon as the door slid closed behind us, the constable turned to me excitedly. “I will wire to Edinburgh and have the husband picked up by local authorities. If he is somehow involved in this business we can proceed on that front.”

  He wasn’t looking for my approval, but I nodded anyway and watched him sprint off. I turned thoughtfully back toward my own compartment, analyzing my reaction to Mrs. Anderson’s various replies, both oral and physical.

  Chapter Six

  My experience with James Barclay, a consummate actor who had managed to fool me for most of the investigation involving his father and sister, had left me doubting my own instincts. I now found myself more paranoid, less likely to believe what I was told and more likely to vacillate between options. My instincts told me that Mrs. Anderson was hiding something. But was that more of the same unfounded paranoia? Why would she lie to me? Her sole mission was to find her daughter, was it not? How could it be anything but? Her fear and worry seemed genuine, but that was just it, they seemed genuine. Was she over-dramatizing? What was the normal way to act when one’s child was missing, for heaven’s sake?