I had been taken in by Barclay’s show of concern toward his sister and his poor father. I still got a small shiver of fear when I considered what would have happened if I hadn’t mistakenly been poisoned by the books the man was using to murder his father. Would I have followed his clues — sheep-like — and been the first to point my finger at the innocent sister?
I angrily shook my head. Even the great Sherlock Holmes had made mistakes! One of his best-known errors was in underestimating Irene Adler — the woman I now believed to be masquerading as my guardian, under an assumed name.
It would not help to dwell on the mistakes of the past, but it was so hard to move forward without glancing over my shoulder! I had by now been standing outside the door to my compartment for a few minutes. I pressed my head to the glass of the door, trying to make a decision based on fact and not on anxiety. It was hard to make a decision with so few facts. I resolutely lifted my head from the glass — it was time to obtain some facts for myself.
I walked down the long hallway, passing through compartments, nodding at conductors, until I reached the end of the train. Then I turned and walked back, doing my own visual check of the carriages and possible hiding spots. I wasn’t subtle in my search, stopping to talk to everyone as I made my way. I came across a couple arguing about the possible hiding spots on a train (their theory was that the child had willfully run away).
Another couple was discussing the possibility that the child had never made it onto the train, that the mother had somehow gotten separated from her daughter on the platform and hit her head and forgotten. I explained why that was unlikely based on the conductor’s meeting with the two of them then moved on to the next row of seats in third class.
An elderly woman was asleep in one car and I surprised her when I woke her by moving her six suitcases around to check under and behind them. She threw me out of her compartment, but by and large, people made allowances for my private search.
Halfway back to my seat, I talked to a young mother about the same age as the unfortunate Mrs. Anderson, who half-jokingly offered one of her unruly four to replace Leah. I shook my head as one of these little despots launched a barrage of spitballs in my direction.
I kept moving. It was almost two o’clock. Little Leah had been missing for four hours now, and I was no closer to finding the poor girl.
Another compartment revealed a family of four peacefully reading, happy to allow me to search and very curious about our progress in finding the lost girl. I sadly admitted that, as far as I knew, no progress had been made, and left them to their books.
I kept going, entering compartment after compartment, speaking to passenger after passenger. Some were curious, some were uncaring, and some just wrapped up in their own problems.
One such occupant was a young woman sitting alone in a compartment save for her son, who was sleeping peacefully with his head in her lap.
“He’s been very ill,” she whispered, large brown eyes worried. I promised to be quick, noting the little boy’s sweet face and dark brown hair as he slept unmoving while the mother’s eyes watched me conduct my search. I left as quickly as I could. In the next compartment I found a few businessmen who were annoyed with the repeated searches and at first refused me access. I stepped back and offered to find Constable Perkins so that he could ascertain just what it was they had to hide, and was quickly (if grudgingly) given the access I needed to cross their compartment off my list.
By the time I got back to my compartment, it was a quarter past three, and I had to admit that I was no closer to solving this case than before I had started my search.
“At least I saw with my own eyes that Leah is not in the passenger cars of the train,” I mumbled, sitting down and pushing off my shoes with a relieved sigh. I closed my eyes for a moment, fighting down the fear that I had missed something obvious, and cursing James Barclay for making me doubt myself.
Chapter Seven
A knock at the door startled me out of my brief slumber. A glance at my watch told me I’d been asleep for almost an hour, though I felt less rested.
“Come in!” I called, putting my shoes back on and recognizing Constable Perkins through the glass.
Perkins entered, followed by the younger constable who had been present for my interview with Mrs. Anderson. Both men looked tired but removed their hats respectfully as they entered, their body language communicating the state of the search.
“Miss Adams, Borgin here tells me that ye were instrumental in revealing our new lead with Mr. Anderson in Edinburgh,” Perkins said.
I looked at them and nodded slowly. “Has he been questioned, then? That was remarkably fast!”
They took a seat on the bench across from me as Perkins answered. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Anderson was discovered at court. The man is a well-known Crown prosecutor in the area, with many friends in the local police force. He seemed by all accounts surprised and terribly worried about his wee daughter’s kidnapping.”
I sat back. “Then he is no longer a suspect in having orchestrated the attack in some way?”
“Well, I wouldna say that,” Perkins said, glancing at Borgin. “The man is awfully well-connected, though, and has caused quite a stir in Edinburgh. The implication that he might have been responsible for this whole affair sent him tae the highest levels of the police. And from what I hear, he wasna very polite in his pursuit.”
“He admitted, though quite angry about our intrusion, that he and his wife have been separated for over a year,” Borgin put in.
“This trip, according tae Mr. Anderson,” Perkins said, flipping open his notebook to read from it, “was their last-ditch effort to fix their marriage. Sounds tae me like a man who was ready tae be rid of his wife and make a fresh start with his wee girl.”
“Then you are holding him in Edinburgh until we arrive, in the hopes that when we get there, his accomplice on board this train will reveal himself to pass the child to the father?” Without waiting for a reply, I continued, “Well, at least in that scenario, we need not worry about the safety of Leah. Her father would of course have paid for her to be well-treated.”
“‘Holding’ him is a strong word,” Perkins said with a snort. “The man has demanded tae be kept totally up tae date on any findings, and I am to check in wi’ him once an hour by wire.”
I scratched my chin. “There is more here. More that has made you suspicious of Mr. Anderson.”
Perkins and Borgin looked at each other, confirming my suspicions, but then Perkins cleared his throat and said, “Any other findings we have made, Miss Adams, we daren’t share, those being police findings.” He clasped and unclasped his hands twice, an obvious tell if I had ever seen one. Finally, when I remained silent, a technique employed and recommended by Holmes in his personal notes on interviewing, Perkins cleared his throat again and spoke. “Miss Adams, you should know that in addition to wiring Edinburgh, we also contacted the London police tae find out more about Mrs. Anderson, Mr. James Arnold … and yourself.”
I nodded. “Of course, under the circumstances that makes complete sense, sir. My curiosity about the case could easily have been due to an involvement in the crime. What did you discover?”
Borgin looked surprised at my casual acceptance of being treated like a suspect, but Perkins, reminding me a bit of Constable Dawes, answered, “Your reputation with Scotland Yard was most positive, young lady, astonishingly so, I would say, unless one kenned your further connections with the offices of Sherlock Holmes.”
I tilted my head in admission of these connections. “Then I am no longer a suspect, sir? Because if I am, I would like the opportunity to prove my innocence before we go any further.”
Perkins held up his hand. “In addition tae your good name among my peers at the Yard, I can see no motive for ye tae harm Mrs. Anderson or her daughter. You are not a suspect.”
“But?” I prodded.
“But, tae be frank, we could use all the help we can get,” Perkins admitted. “We
have four hours till we arrive at Edinburgh, and while we intend tae bar all exits with our constables, who will look over every passenger and then sweep over the train, but I sturt, t’tell you the truth I do…”
“Because once we’ve stopped, the opportunity to escape doubles,” I finished for him.
“Exactly,” he said. “But while we’re in motion, while we ken that the bairn and her captor are on board — that is our best opportunity tae get her back.”
“Agreed!” I said, standing up decisively. “What can I do to help? I already conducted my own thorough search of the passenger compartments from third class all the way back here. What is next?”
“I want tae explore your theories as tae why little Leah didn’t raise a fuss when her mother was hit and she was taken out of her compartment,” he replied, flipping through his notebook again. “This idea that she was taken by someone she knew…”
I started pacing a bit in the confined quarters. “I do wish we had some tea to help us think,” I said under my breath.
Perkins immediately turned to Borgin and the younger man ran out, presumably to find a waiter to deliver us a pot.
I continued to pace. “If the father hired someone Leah knew to kidnap her, why did Mrs. Anderson not recognize that person?”
“She stated that she saw naught,” replied Perkins, reading from his notebook. “She says that the door was slid open, she turned towards the sound and something hard chibbed her across the face.”
“Chibbed?” I echoed with a frown, not understanding.
“Ah, struck her across the face,” explained Perkins.
“So Mrs. Anderson is hit by someone both she and the child know, but the mother doesn’t see them,” I mused, pacing still. “Even if I knew the person who had just hit my mother, I confess, it would still make me scream, unless I somehow harbored ill will for my mother. Has there been any evidence of that?”
“Nae, not at all, all reports are that mother and child were extremely close,” replied Perkins, watching me pace.
Borgin reappeared, followed by a waiter carrying the requested pot of tea. I thanked them both and poured us all a cup. I sat down to drink mine despite still feeling the urge to pace.
“What if the kidnapper drugged the girl?” offered Borgin, eager to contribute.
“Before or after hitting the mother?” Perkins replied.
“After,” Borgin said, and then his face fell. “That would still not account for the silence of the child.”
“Well, it might,” I said, “if it was a quick enough attack.”
We all considered that for a moment until Borgin said, “But even then the kidnapper would have had to carry the unconscious child out into the hallway and all the way down the train to wherever they are right now. Someone would have seen them, wouldn’t they? Passengers would have noticed an unconscious child.”
One pot of tea gone, we all glumly thought about that as Borgin rang for another pot.
“What if the assailant threatened Leah?” I said, pacing again as I felt the clock ticking against us. “After hitting her mother,” I pantomimed the action and then pointed threateningly at Borgin, “he tells Leah that if she screams or fights him, he will kill her mother?”
“The bastirt!” cursed Perkins, considering the horrible scenario. “Apologies, Miss Adams. But it would account for the poor child not making a scene, and still remaining quiet five hours after being kidnapped.”
We continued to throw out ideas, each of us managing to rationalize a reason it couldn’t be possible and forcing us to keep thinking.
“Could Leah have hit her mother?” Borgin asked hesitantly.
Perkins and I looked at each other and shook our heads at the same time.
“What about one of the conductors? They’ve been helping with the search. Have any of them been steering the search away from compartments?” I asked, “or rushing you through a section of the train?”
This time Perkins and Borgin shook their heads.
We were halfway through our second pot of tea by now, and a knock at the door drew Borgin out of the conversation again.
“What was discovered about Mr. Arnold?” I asked, determined to leave no rock unturned.
“Nothin’” answered Perkins, running his hand over his bald pate. “He’s a businessman, traveling with some partners in a compartment two doors down, and they corroborate his story. Nae connection tae the Andersons, nae criminal background, nae connection tae the husband in Edinburgh, nae debts, nae motive.”
Borgin re-entered, looking unhappy, to update us on the search. With difficulty, the search party had made contact with the front engine room, and that too had been ruled out as a potential hiding place for the girl and her captor. I drank another cup of tea as Perkins and Borgin talked, planning a new strategy for the search.
No one on board had seen or heard anything. How was that possible? The searches had been immediate and continuous. Though the luggage car had been searched multiple times, Perkins told Borgin to start opening anything that could fit a small body.
I closed my eyes against that thought, but Borgin dutifully left without argument to pursue his grim assignment. Perkins thanked me for my help, asked me to come find him if I thought of anything else and then followed Borgin out the door.
I sighed, finishing my cup and staring out the window.
Chapter Eight
Putting aside the fact that the physical searches had been completely fruitless, there was also the problem of the passengers witnessing nothing. How was the child being hidden so thoroughly and successfully? Her description had been widely transmitted up and down the train, officially and unofficially. A silent crime, a silent victim and a silent perpetrator. I couldn’t recall a case from my grandfather’s shelves that presented such a list of obstacles.
I decided the least I could do was to sit with Mrs. Anderson. Heading to the dining car, I ordered my third pot of tea (my first three-pot problem — Mr. Holmes would be so proud) to be delivered to her compartment rather than mine. In the casebook titled “The Adventure of the Red-Headed League” my grandfather had described a particularly tense moment wherein Sherlock Holmes had turned to him and referred to the complexity of the case as a ‘three-pipe problem’. Holmes measured the difficulty of working through the clues by the amount of time it took for him to smoke three pipes of tobacco. Moving on to my third pot of tea, I silently agreed; this was a complex case indeed when measured through the consumption of our respective drugs.
When I knocked on the door, Mr. Arnold answered, looking restless.
“Oh yes, Miss Adams, do come in, I must stretch my legs,” he said, turning toward Mrs. Anderson, who had opened her mouth to protest. “Do not worry, my dear, I am not going on a long search, just to spend some time with my friends in the next compartment. I will knock on the wall as soon as I get there, I promise.”
He whispered to me, “She has been most distraught, of course, and has not allowed me out of her sight save for a few minutes, poor thing!”
I thought that a trifle strange and said so in the same low tone.
Mr. Arnold shrugged as we exchanged places. He shut the door as he left.
Mrs. Anderson looked terrible, her face a motley range of colors and her red-rimmed eyes darting everywhere at once. Obviously the sedative had worn off.
“Mrs. Anderson, I’ve asked for a pot of tea to be delivered here,” I said, taking the seat across from her.
She nodded, eyes still on the door. In her hands was the small pink jacket her daughter had taken off before this whole nightmare had started for the two of them. She was worrying at it, fidgeting with the buttons, running her fingers over the seams.
A knock sounded from the couch behind where I was sitting, signaling that Mr. Arnold had rejoined his friends. Mrs. Anderson seemed to tense at the knock and then, her shoulders dropping, relaxed when she realized what it meant.
“Mrs. Anderson, I hope you know that the search continues,” I said,
trying to impart some comfort but unsure what could possibly make her feel better.
She nodded again, and then started when another knock rang out — this time from her closed door. Opening her drapes, I invited the waiter in. He took his time putting down his wares, probably eager to gather some gossip for the dining car. He finally left, and I poured two cups of tea. Mrs. Anderson held hers closely, content, it seemed, to warm her hands against it rather than actually drink it.
I didn’t know what else to say to the poor woman, so my eyes strayed around the compartment to the square suitcase on the upper luggage shelf. There was one other suitcase on the shelf, but it was neatly lined up with the front bar of the shelf. This one was askew, almost precarious in its positioning. Curious, I stood up and carefully tested its weight.
“Don’t touch that!” Mrs. Anderson said shrilly.
I jerked my hand back from the luggage in surprise, turning to her with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s Leah’s,” she said in a choked voice.
It wasn’t a big case, perhaps two feet by two feet in size, but even my slight test had revealed a surprising heft to it. I wondered how she had carried it in here. And why it didn’t go into the luggage compartment, like my own heavy valise?
“A porter must have helped you get it in here,” I remarked, sitting back down to my tea. She nodded, hugging the coat and her tea to her chest. That explained the placement of the first suitcase but not the positioning of the second. If the train had caused the luggage to move, would not both of them have moved?
Another knock at the door startled poor Mrs. Anderson to the point that the contents of her teacup slopped all over the small pink coat she had been cradling. As Constable Perkins slid open the door, Mrs. Anderson burst into tears and the poor constable looked very confused, so I did my best to comfort the woman. The stress was obviously unbearable; she was getting worse as time wore on.
Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) Page 18
