Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) (4 page)

“
What was he like?” I demanded, rapt with attention despite my uneasy belly.

“
Like?” she repeated thoughtfully. “He was, well, John was just so remarkably kind and human. Without ego or avarice, sympathetic and caring…”

I nodded, forming in my mind’s eye this paragon of a man.

She leaned back, closing her eyes and blowing out a thin wisp of smoke. “He was always a good-looking man. Your eyes are from him, the same blue, but you are slimmer of build and have your grandmother’s exotic face rather than his rounder, friendly one. He was a bit of a bounder, as men of his looks are apt to be.”

I grinned at this, adding to my mental picture.

“He married as often as…” she blinked, laughed, “well, as often as I did, I suppose, though my reasons were infinitely better.”

She glanced keenly at me. “Your grandmother was the first and best of his wives, and he would have been a far happier man had he come to this side of the pond with her rather than returning to England and marrying Mary.”

That was all I could persuade her to say that night, and indeed I despaired of gaining any further insights into my grandparents until almost four days later. I was mournfully ill, bent at the waist over my basin, weak and sweaty from seasickness. The voyage to this point had been relatively calm, but as of this morning the skies had darkened, and the seas all around had become choppy and violent. I had missed two meals that I would have normally enjoyed above deck, but was too ill to even pass word to Mrs. Jones excusing myself.

She arrived as I had just managed to regain my bunk, dragging the basin with me onto my stomach as I lay back.

“Oh, my dear, you should have sent for me,” she said as she took in the pathetic scene.

I mumbled something barely intelligible about being too weak, but she ignored me, sweeping in, soaking a wet cloth and pressing it over my closed eyes.

I sighed at the relief that brought and took her ministrations with gratitude. So much was I relaxing that I nearly missed her whisper, “Both your grandparents suffered the same seasickness, I remember.”

My eyes flew open as I tried to sit up. “They did?”

“Lie back down, you silly girl,” she commanded, easily pressing me back into a prone position because of my weakened state.

“
But—” I protested.

“
If you lie still and try and regain your spirit, I promise I will answer your questions,” she said.

I nodded a little too eagerly, bringing on a new wave of nausea. I shut my eyes, willing the sea to cooperate. Meanwhile, she re-soaked the cloth and applied it to my brow.

“As I recall, your grandfather never traveled by sea without a tincture of ground mint to add to cool water,” she explained.

“
Mint?” I said, taking care not to move.

“
A self-prescribed antidote. Do you want me to ring for some from the galley?”

I did, and said so, my reason being as much to relieve my present state as to feel just a little closer to my mysterious grandfather. We sat in rocking silence until the attendant arrived with some fresh mint leaves. I watched Mrs. Jones crush a few leaves into the jug of water, the pungent smell filling the cabin, and then she soaked the cloth before applying it to my forehead. Whether it was actually a cure or just a placebo of faith in a lost relative, I do not know. I know only that I awoke the next day feeling better than I had in two weeks.

Chapter Three

I
expected that we would go straight to Mrs. Jones’s home in London (I had learned that she had residences all over the world), but instead she directed the cabbie at the train station to my inherited property. I peppered her with questions about every landmark we passed: the gothic look of Tower Bridge, the imposing structure of Big Ben, the crimson-dressed guards in front of Buckingham Palace, Lord Nelson’s statue in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Everything fascinated me, and she had a story to tell about each.

“
Those bronze lions were remarkable when they were put in place under Nelson,” she whispered, pointing at the regal feline statues as we passed. “It is one of my fondest memories as a child, when my father brought me to their installation. Though by then Sir Edwin was quite mad, at least according to the gossip at the time.”

The traffic in Whitehall took my breath away with the mix of horse carriages, trucks, cars, bicycles and pedestrians all vying for the lane that would allow for the quickest route through the heart of the city.

In between my barrage of questions, Mrs. Jones sang to herself under her breath and her eyes grew moist as we passed through the city.

I was not above my own sense of wonder at finally arriving at my new home, taking in the differences and similarities between Toronto and bustling London. The age of the city struck me again and again, in its architecture and condition. It was at once more beautiful and more mysterious than any other city I had been in before, not that I had traveled much at all — once to Montreal, twice to Ottawa in the past ten years and those few days in New York with Mrs. Jones. New shiny awnings fought for my attention with crumbling façades, and every darkened alley seemed to be positively alive with hidden movement. The sheer number of people on the streets amazed me, and the varieties of dress as well as the different shades of skin were all new. Toronto had its share of immigrants, and a fair number of native Canadian people as well, but they were very much in the minority, especially in the downtown core of the city. I had been introduced to more than a few immigrant groups through my mother’s myriad of professions — from house cleaner to nanny to librarian — but in limited circumstances, and never socially. Here people of all races, colors and classes mixed and mingled, bustling through the streets in an equal hurry toward their respective destinations.

I wished that my mother were alive to see it, and I had to blink away a tear remembering her kind face and soft voice. She loved to travel but finances had restricted her ambitions, especially after my father’s death. Their move from San Francisco to Toronto when I was a toddler had been made out of necessity as they sought more job opportunities and lower rents. But she would bring home brochure after brochure from the local travel agency as a way to feed that hunger for new cities and new cultures. I had never really shared that ambition myself, preferring places I knew to places I did not, but no one could be unmoved by my mother’s enthusiasm, not even me. It had been a few weeks since her death, but I still felt her absence sharply and wished for the hundredth time that she were still at my side. Not that Mrs. Jones was failing in her new role as my guardian… I looked over at the older woman. On the contrary, in some ways she and I got along better than my mother and I had. But she would never be able to fill that place in my heart for the only person who had loved me above all others. And whom I had loved the same way.

It took almost an hour for us to wend our way to our destination, and upon arrival, both Mrs. Jones and I leaned out of the cab in excitement.

Before us stood a brick townhouse in reasonable condition, two floors at least with very serviceable steps leading to a nondescript dark green door. The semi-circular stained glass window above the front door displayed the number in black, and a light could be seen within. On the left, or west side of the townhouse, stood an ancient-looking bakery, Greek if I had to guess by the writing on the sign and the smells wafting from it. To the east were another seven townhouses obviously designed by the same hand, and having the same framing, stained glass and style of door.

“
If’n you ladies are lookin’ for help, you might be better off with the boys at the Yard these days,” the cabbie remarked as we made no move to disembark.

I thought that a strange comment, and said so, but he just shrugged and said, “Mr. Holmes hasn’t been seen here nigh on fifteen years, I’d say, if not more. But it’s your lot, I said m’piece.”

Mrs. Jones had by now extended the correct fare to the man and was exiting the cab, so I did the same. As the cabbie pulled away, I turned to Mrs. Jones. “What did he mean — Mr. Holmes?” I asked, looking at the door and feeling my memory claw at me. “Surely he did not mean Sherlock Holmes, the detective?”

Mrs. Jones had meanwhile picked up the doorknocker and given it a sharp rap. “None other, my dear,” she answered.

“But why?” I said, stepping back from the front door to look at the full façade of the townhouse. “How did he come to live in the building?”

The door swung open to reveal a good-looking gentleman only a few years my senior, with a half-eaten red apple in one hand. He was almost six feet tall, with wide shoulders, an athletic build and dark brown hair that curled at the forehead over inquisitive brown eyes. For the first time in almost a month I wondered how I looked and reached up to pat down what I was sure were unruly curls trying to escape my hat.

“Afternoon, ladies, what can I do for you?” he asked in a cordial bass voice. His trousers were half of a uniform, though I couldn’t place them right away. I glanced at his sleeves and decided against kitchen worker, and then at his hands, deciding against maître d’. Finally my eyes lit on the small loop on his belt revealing the uniform’s requirement to carry a baton.

“
This is Miss Portia Adams,” offered my companion, “and I am Mrs. Irene Jones.”

“
Ah yes, Mrs. Jones, your letter arrived two weeks ago,” he replied, his smile revealing a pair of dimples as he took a bite of his apple and stood aside to allow us entrance into a narrow hallway. “My parents have been expecting you.”

I closed the door behind us as the young man was taking my guardian's coat. He took mine with another dimpled smile, and then beckoned us to follow him through a door and into the large sitting room on the main floor.

There sat two middle-aged persons with three middle-aged dogs sitting between them, all in various states of dozing. The sofas and chairs were all covered with a loud floral fabric that had only slightly dimmed over the years, their wooden legs a mix of styles that told a simple story of frugality I recognized from my own mother’s furnishing habits.

“
Excuse me, they are quite hard of hearing,” the man said apologetically, and then taking a deep breath said in a much louder voice, “Mother, Father, our new landlady has arrived.”

I blushed at this characterization, having never owned anything to this point, let alone land with tenants. I glanced at the wallpaper in the room, which was as loud as the furniture, with large circular stamps in shades of gray and blue. The mother jerked awake with a start, turning sleepy eyes on us, but the older gentleman slept right on through, as did the three dogs. I didn’t recognize the breed of the dogs, though they all seemed to have a bit of bulldog in them from this angle — at least from their size and the amount of saliva barely held within their jowls. The young man leaned in now to speak directly in his mother’s ear.

“Miss Portia Adams, daughter to Marie Jameson is here, remember? She has taken ownership of the house.”

This was enough to spark a memory in the woman, and she kindly asked us to sit down and take our ease with a cup of tea.

“We were of course told of your mother’s untimely death, my dear,” said the woman, who had introduced herself as Mrs. Dawes, reaching out to pat my knee. “How terrible for you, poor thing!”

I thanked her for her solicitude, and she continued. “Your mum was a fine mistress. Raised the rent lightly, left management of the house to myself and now to my son. And we have been good tenants, if I do say so m’self.”

I had no idea if they had been, having never heard of this property before the day of my mother’s funeral. Mrs. Jones spoke up at this point. “And the upstairs tenant?”

“
Oh, moved out months ago. Brian here was takin’ advantage of the pause between tenants to fix it up a bit,” the woman said, nodding toward her son, who stood behind her chair finishing his apple. “We were about to put an advertisement in the paper to rent it when the lawyer’s letter arrived.”

“
Ah, perfect! Then Miss Adams will be moving in upstairs as soon as possible,” Mrs. Jones said approvingly.

Once again my guardian had made a hairpin turn. I could scarcely mask my surprise. Everyone else in the room, at least those who were conscious, seemed equally surprised.

“Really?” Mrs. Dawes said, looking at us. “The two of you?”

“
Oh heavens, no, I travel far too much to be considered an occupant of any one home,” Mrs. Jones answered haughtily, dipping her biscuit in her tea. “I will of course drop in from time to time to check on my charge, but I would like to enlist your help in ensuring her safety and care, madam.”

Mrs. Dawes sat up straighter at this responsibility and agreed to be of whatever help she could. They arranged a short-term plan wherein I would eat some of my meals with the Dawes as I became accustomed to a new city, but my guardian made it clear that attendance was not mandatory, and was entirely up to me.

There was nothing left to do but to show me to my rooms. I followed Mrs. Dawes up the stairs to a second landing, where she opened the door to a medium-sized sitting room with a lovely brick fireplace. The wallpaper was thankfully muted, a pale gold background with brown fleur-de-lis accents, and the comfortable furniture also seemed to match the mood of the room, in various shades of brown. The wooden floors looked polished and well maintained, and the tiny kitchen was of a reasonable size for a single person. Everything seemed to be in a decent state, though a little old-fashioned and decidedly male when compared to my mother’s sitting room back in Toronto. No doilies or throw pillows, no small pieces of cross-stitch over the backs of chairs. But it was very clean, even the fireplace showing minimal soot, making me wonder if the chimney had been sealed up and the bricks were now a façade rather than a working fireplace.

I will admit to feeling not a little hurt and cross at the seeming ease with which my guardian had passed me off. This was an odd reaction since I enjoyed being in charge of my own life, which living by myself would grant me. But I forgot all about that when I saw the bookshelves in the sitting room. There were five of these massive dark wooden bookshelves, filled with volumes and reaching from floor to ceiling, their dominance of the north wall interrupted only by the curtains of the two windows.

A glutton for the printed word, I gasped at the treasure before me, barely hearing Mrs. Dawes as she led Mrs. Jones to the bedroom and directed Brian to deliver my meager belongings up here.

I don’t know how long I stood there. At some point Brian said from over my shoulder, “I thought it best to bring these back out of storage. You should be the one to decide where they go.”

“I should?” I answered, my eyes still locked on the precious tomes, though I could feel how close Brian was, and my stomach fluttered at it.

“
Why, yes,” he said. “They passed to you the same as this house. And not a few of them were in fact written by your grandfather himself.”

I finally tore my gaze from the spines of the books. “My grandfather? These are his books?”

Nodding, he selected a brown journal from the bookshelf and handed it to me. “See?”

I read the cover page —
The Adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, June-August 1852
— and my eyes traveled down to the author’s signature: “As faithfully recorded by Dr. John H. Watson.”

“
Dr. John Watson,” I murmured, connecting the dots with a certainty that at once elated and shocked me.

“
Your grandfather,” corrected Brian with another friendly smile, and he wandered away to speak to his mother.

My mind was humming now, grasping at any story I could remember about the world-famous detective and his trusty sidekick Dr. Watson — my own grandfather! How could this be? How could I have never known this? I pressed a hand to my forehead, thinking back to the few times my grandmother had been coaxed into speaking of her life here in London. I shook my head. No, there had been no clues to lead me to this startling place, no unfollowed leads. It was just a secret my grandmother had been determined to keep.