Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) (8 page)

Chapter Ten

B
y the end of April another two robberies had been committed, with no further progress made by the investigating authorities to either regain the stolen objects or apprehend those involved. Brian confided in me that out of desperation the sergeant in charge of the case had hauled Fawkes in again for further questioning.

“
Did you notice a smell when they brought him in?” I asked.

“
A smell?” he repeated, looking understandably confused. “No, not that I recall. He was one cool customer, though. Smiled at us as he was brought into the station, even winked at the inspector.”

That was interesting in itself. Surely an innocent man would be annoyed at being brought in twice for questioning for a crime he didn’t commit. Then again, a guilty man should look scared or defensive at being brought in again. What did it say about a man who found the exercise amusing?

By now, the press had renamed the story to highlight the police’s inability to catch the perpetrators, calling them the “Invisible Hand” and the “Unstoppable Gang.” This was of course still based on Sergeant Michaels’ own continued postulation that these crimes were being carried out by an organized group of thieves, something I still couldn’t quite buy into.

I had a two-week break between classes, and since I had no homework and no more interesting cases, I decided to pursue a new angle rather than give in to the lingering feeling of isolation.

The name of the only eyewitness in the case was a highly guarded secret at the Yard, so much so that all my persuasive skills could not convince my professor to divulge it, for fear that the witness would be in danger from the gang. Nor could Brian glean the information on my behalf, so I looked back at my notes from the day. As we had passed each other on those stairs, I had noted that the flustered woman frequented the same hatmaker as my guardian. The clasp on the side of her hat bore the same triangular stamp of a well-known London milliner.

I headed downtown. In the millinery, I made some small talk with one of the ladies behind the counter before describing the hat I had seen.

“Oh yes, that was a special order for Madame LaPointe of Archer Hall. I remember it well,” she assured me. “Green velvet with a hawk-feather bouquet. Really a one-of-a-kind creation.”

I thanked her kindly and took the next cab to Archer Hall in Hampstead Village. The grounds included an orchard that had been winterized by the staff, the trees wrapped in burlap and rope to ward off the worst of the winter chill.

After ringing the doorbell, I was ushered into the stately home by the butler. I looked around in awe at the combination of oriental and English décor, the rugs from some Eastern country — either Afghanistan or Pakistan, by the pattern, though I could not be positive in my identification. Moments later he delivered me to a fine sitting room, and the very lady I sought entered to greet me. She was dressed this time in a long pink wool skirt with a small jacket that complimented it perfectly, her walk graceful and silent on her thick rugs.

“
Madame LaPointe, I presume,” I said, offering my hand, forcing my eyes to meet hers instead of cataloguing the furniture and accessories.

“
Yes,” she answered in a lilting French accent. “Do I know you?”

“
Not really,” I admitted, and explained our brief encounter on the steps to Scotland Yard, and the actions I had taken to find her.

She took a seat, crossing her slippered feet, looking only marginally less confused. “
Alors
, you came all this way
seulement
to see if my jewelry had returned?” Her brow furrowed.

“
Not exactly, though if you tell me it had, I should be most pleased for you,” I answered.

She sadly shook her head.

I continued. “I was hoping to hear more about the theft, Madame LaPointe. You see, I am studying law — in my first year, at Somerville College, and this case has fascinated me.”

“
Ah, I see.
Dommage
, there is not much for me to say,” she replied, settling back on her golden-flowered settee. “But what I told the police, I can also tell you: I was at the church. It is very close to here. I was helping to … um, to organize for the choir practice, when one of the friends of mine, Madame Polk, arrived. I was reminded I had borrowed a shawl from her the week before. I asked her to stay there while I ran back to the house to bring it back for her. I left, ran back into my house and straight up the stairs and to my bedroom where the shawl, I knew it was there.

“
I passed none on my way in the door or up the stairs. Later I found out that James, my butler, he was out walking with the dogs. And that Mary, my maid, she was at the kitchen.
Alors
, I ran straight into my room and had my hand on my shawl when
quel que
… something made me to look towards my window. There I saw a man almost out on the sill, half out and half in, with a sack in his hand.”

I was taking notes as she spoke and wrote for a few seconds after she stopped speaking to catch up.

“Well?” she asked as soon as I lifted pen from paper, her brown eyes on mine.

“
How did you realize what had been stolen?”

“
Mon dieu
, I screamed, and he, the man, he leapt the rest of the way out of the window and he was gone from my sight,” she answered. “I must have frozen in the shock for a moment because the next thing, Mary was beside where I was, asking me what was wrong.”

“
And then?”

“
And then we both of us ran to my jewelry cabinet and to discover that my mother’s tiara was taken.”

I looked up from my notes. “Only one piece was stolen?”

“
Mais oui
,” she answered, nodding, “the very most precious piece of jewelry I own.”

“
But surely the rest of your jewelry is worth quite a lot of money as well,” I mused. “And how could the thief had known that the tiara was the most valuable thing in your cabinet? Why not take it all?”

“
Sergeant Michaels, he believes that I … interrupted? Interrupted the man in the middle of his burglary, which is why he got away with so little,” she offered. “The sergeant, he said that if I had returned even a half hour later,
comme
the choir practice would end, I would have lost everything.”

“
But he was already halfway out your window when you entered the room,” I answered, dismissing the theory. “Were you wearing the same type of shoes you are wearing now?” I pointed with the end of my pencil at her fine little slippers.

She nodded.

“I doubt he even heard you coming with those light slippers,” I continued. “I would guess that you surprised him as he was trying to leave, not as he was picking through your valuables, meaning he got what he came for and the rest of your jewelry for some reason didn’t interest him.”

She didn’t answer, perhaps digesting my words.

“Did you wear the tiara out recently?” I asked, tapping that same pencil against my lips. “Perhaps to an event that got press coverage? Exposing it to the public?”

She shook her head. “
Non
, not for over a year have I worn that piece, it is quite large, after all.”

“
But then why just for the tiara? And if that was all he wanted, why was he carrying a sack?” I asked. “How big was the sack, do you think?”

“
Grand
. Bigger than my purse, and it looked full already,” she answered after a moment’s thought.

“
Full?” I repeated. “Full of what? Surely he wasn’t going from house to house collecting jewelry? Was anything else of yours missing? Perhaps something other than jewelry?”

“
I think it is not, we did a very good check through my things and police then did as well.”

I nodded, my mind whirling. “Thank you so much for your time, madame. I do appreciate it.”

She stood. “
Pas de problème
, Miss Adams.”

I followed her out of the room, but as I made to pull on my gloves, I found I had one last question: “Madame LaPointe, what made you turn towards the window? Did you hear a sound?”

She paused thoughtfully. “
Non
, and I confess, when I tell to the police about my finding that man in my rooms, they really didn’t think it important...”

I raised my eyebrows.

“It was this
mauvais
smell, Miss. Adams,” she whispered. “This horrible, rotten smell!”

Chapter Eleven

T
he following week Mrs. Jones found me sitting on the floor in front of my fireplace surrounded by notes and books. She had thrown out the threadbare rug that had sat there for decades the week before, with promises to replace it with a “more suitable one.” So I had folded up one of the blankets from my bed and sat on that instead.

“
My goodness!” she exclaimed as she took in the spectacle.

I couldn’t blame her, really. I must have looked a sight — and the room looked like a tornado had swept through it with photos of my mother, my grandfather’s old papers, and half-eaten meals and empty mugs and glasses scattered all over.

She marched straight to the window and yanked open the heavy drapes, surprising me with the brightness of the sun.

“
When did you last leave this room?” she demanded, struggling to open the window a crack, succeeding only when she put down her cane and used both hands.

“
Yesterday morning.” I yawned. She turned toward me with a raised eyebrow, so I gave in. “Maybe it has been a few days. I actually don’t recall, exactly. What day is this?”

“
Monday, and we are going out, so get dressed,” she announced, shaking her head.

Something I had almost immediately discovered about my guardian was that she could be very bossy, and within a half hour she had bullied me into a bath and then into the new clothes she had brought for me. They consisted of a dark wool skirt that I knew even before touching it would itch, a pair of annoying stockings that were destined to slowly slouch down my legs, plus a cream blouse with shoulder pads that made me look like an American football player. The only redeeming item was a pair of brown leather gloves that were so soft they felt like I was wearing velvet rather than animal skin. Regardless of my discomfort, another half hour later found us walking toward the market to find some fruit and to take some air.

“Your professors tell me that you show amazing promise,” she said as we shared a bag of roasted chestnuts.

“
I appreciate their kind regard,” I murmured, my sleepy brain still gnawing at the case spread all over my sitting room floor.

“
Yes indeed, their letters speak of excelling in writing, leading the class in debates and having a remarkable memory for detail and law,” she continued as we strolled amongst the various stalls.

She stopped at a grocer’s cart, picking delicately through some old-looking apples before waving away the hopeful merchant.

“They seem to be drawing interesting linkages between your skills and your ancestry,” she offered, eyes slanted.

“
For which I am flattered,” I answered, following my guardian to another stall, this one with various kinds of animals laid out on butcher blocks and hanging from wooden struts.

“
An interesting leap, in my view,” she snorted. “Your intelligence is your own and, I believe, independent of who your mother and father were, don’t you think? Surely we are our own individuals, destined to make our own mistakes and create our own successes.”

Unfortunately for Mrs. Jones, I was no longer able to answer. I had halted, almost mid-step, seized mentally and physically by something clicking into place.

“Good heavens, Portia!” she exclaimed when I didn’t answer and she turned to see why not.

I don’t know what she saw at that moment, but I felt as though my hair were standing on end. Like I had touched an electric wire and was frozen in place by the current still running through me.

“Portia!” she said again, now shaking my arm.

“
That smell…” I finally managed to gasp.

“
The smell?” she answered, surprised. “Come over here, then.” She guided me by the elbow toward a small garden within sight, away from the stalls.

“
Now, take a few deep breaths, get your—” she was saying reassuringly when I interrupted.

“
That’s the smell, Mrs. Jones. That’s what he smelled like — rotten meat!”

“
What? Who?” she replied, confused.

“
And I bet if I ask Madame LaPointe, she’d recognize it as well,” I blathered on, barely hearing her in my excitement.

“
Madame LaPointe? What has she to do with any of this?” Mrs. Jones asked, her tone exasperated.

I could not explain without revealing my evening visits to the bridge, so I made my apologies to my poor guardian, who by now was looking quite confused, and we continued on our walk as best we could, my mind focused on my case.

Smithfield Market was only two miles from St. Guy’s Hospital, where I knew the department of forensics was located as part of the University of London. Coercing my guardian south across London Bridge towards Southwark, I managed to escape with promises of attending a charity ball in a few weeks. I had to agree to a fitting for a new dress, and finally, with a kiss and a self-satisfied smile, Mrs. Jones hailed a cab and left me to walk the rest of the way to the hospital on my own.

I had never been inside this building before, but the signage was very helpful, directing me to the large library in the basement appropriately situated next to the teaching morgue. I pushed open the door marked ‘Library’, noting that the smell in here owed much to the antiseptic in the morgue opposite and borrowed equally from the temperature requirements — it being noticeably cooler down here than on the main floor.

“May I help you, miss?” a high-pitched voice asked as I looked round at the many bookshelves and tables in the dimly lit room. The voice belonged to a tiny older woman who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, but with commanding thick eyebrows over equally thick spectacles. I guessed her age at between fifty and sixty, and she wore a blue and orange tartan shawl around tiny shoulders, the pin holding it in place bearing the letters RMA.

“
Yes, thank you,” I replied, pulling off my gloves and extending my hand. “My name is Portia Adams, and I am a law student at Somerville College.”

She tilted her graying head instead of shaking my hand, replacing one of the books in her arms on a shelf. “Is that so? Is that she-bear Mrs. Darbishire still stalking the halls of your college these days?”

I fought down a grin at her characterization, visualizing my heavy-set headmistress with the unfortunate chin hairs. I knew that before taking on the top position at the college, Darbishire had worked in the library, perhaps explaining her relationship with this woman. The woman caught the quirk of my lips and gave a toothy grin. “Ay, I see that she is. M’name’s Cotter, and I’m the librarian here. What is it you couldn’t find at Somerville that brings you here? I worked those stacks many years ago. They boast some of the best collections this side of Oxford.”

“
True, though not as good as the ones at Sandhurst,” I commented, smiling when her eyes widened and her hand drifted up to touch the pin on her shawl emblazoned with the colors of the well-known military school. I nodded before saying, “Your son, I presume?”

“
Yes,” she replied, looking down at the pin and then back up at me, her shoulders rising as she spoke from a place of pride, “he’s head boy for the second year in a row.”

My deduction concerning her ‘darling boy’ bought me a quiet corner in the library and the personal attention of the person who knew it best.

Quickly I described what I was looking for and with her help was soon surrounded by thick medical textbooks, books on veterinary medicine, forensics and anatomical drawings. Mrs. Cotter offered a cushioned chair from behind her own desk for me to use at the large square table with a reading lamp before I dove into the books.

I was most interested in the science of what happens to a body directly after it dies — its first moments, hours and days of being a corpse. I glanced up from my comfortable position toward the glass doors that led out of the library and to the only other rooms down here: the morgue. Once the body cooled and the blood coagulated, what happened next?

I flipped through book after book, borrowing a pad of paper from Mrs. Cotter to scrawl notes, fascinated by the stages of decomposition and foment that every living thing underwent after death and how exact the schedule was. How soon rigor mortis set in. How quickly the body rotted.

“
Stepping out for a bite, luv, can I get you anything?” Mrs. Cotter asked, making me jump since I had not heard her step so close. Standing at my elbow, I could see that she already had her coat and gloves on as she looked at me expectantly, her eyes on a level with mine for the first time because she was standing and I was still seated.

“
Oh, no thank you, Mrs. Cotter, is it all right if I stay?” I replied, putting down my borrowed pencil and flexing my hand, only now realizing that it was aching. I glanced at the clock above the doorway, surprised to see it was already five o’clock in the evening.

She shrugged. “Just don’t leave while I’m out, and you can stay as long as you want,” she replied with a wink. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

I smiled as she tottered off, glancing down at my notes and then back up as I heard a voice that I thought I recognized through the open door. With a frown, I stood, groaning as I did so, feeling the effects of sitting for hours, and walked toward the door still swinging slowly shut.

“
No, I tell you, we nicked him square in the middle of his…”

“
Constable Dawes?” I said, my hand still on the library door so it did not lock behind me, but my eyes on the three uniformed gentlemen standing in the hallway.

“
Miss Adams?” he replied, turning my way with surprise stamped on his handsome face.

I grinned and he grinned back as he and his two comrades removed their hats and said their hellos. Introductions were made all around and I learned that they were dropping off a body at the morgue.

“Poor bugger froze, we think,” Constable Bonhomme, a young man in his twenties, explained. His sideburns were a touch longer than fashionable. “Brought ’im in for Beans t’take a look at, though.”

“
Beans?” I asked, looking quizzically at the three men, who all laughed, only Brian looking chagrined.

“
It’s our nickname for Dr. Beanstine, one of the Yard’s coroners, Miss Adams,” he said, elbowing his friend in the ribs to get him to stop smiling so broadly. “It’s all in good fun, I swear.”

I was invited for a drink at the pub with the three of them but begged off, citing the work I was already neck-deep in, and shook hands with them each in turn, smiling at Brian as he turned back at the stairs leading to the main level.

Feeling a good deal warmer than I had a few moments ago, I returned to my lonely work, pulling my chair up to the table and focusing on the dog-eared copy of
Gray’s Anatomy
.

Mrs. Cotter returned at some point, popping by my desk to take a pile of books I had already reviewed and delivering a few more as we refined my search more and more. The grisly images in the books were detailed with captions and surrounded by tables of real data from experiments, and I took careful note of everything I could.

“You’re still here?” said Brian, surprising me for the second time that evening. I looked over my shoulder to find him standing right behind me, staring curiously down at my pad of paper.

I rubbed my eyes wearily before answering, “Why? What time is it?”

“It’s after nine, Miss Adams,” he replied, leaning over my shoulder to put his finger on my pad. “And what in the world is bloat?”

“
It’s a stage of decomposition,” I replied, smelling the beer on his breath and feeling it warm on the nape of my neck. I swallowed nervously. “I thought you were out with your mates?”

“
I thought I’d make sure you got home all right,” he replied with a dimpled smile, leaning in even closer to whisper into my ear. “Besides, I think your chaperone has been asleep for at least a half hour.”

It took me a few seconds to pull my attention away from his lips at my ear over to the desk, where I could see Mrs. Cotter slumbering with her feet up on a patterned ottoman.

He laughed softly, stepping away from me to start collecting up the books scattered on the desk, allowing me a moment to catch my breath.

“
This is rather specific research,” Brian commented, his smile turning to a frown as he read the titles of the books as he picked each up. “For something at college?”

“
No, actually — you did say that Fawkes was an assistant undertaker, did you not?” I replied, with a glance at my notes to make sure I had taken down the title of a book before adding it to the stack.

He looked taken aback but nodded. “So these are helping you to connect Fawkes to the robberies somehow?”

“He’s an expert in dead bodies,” I responded, “and now I think I have a better idea of just how much he understands, and how that relates to this case.”

It took us about five minutes to finish stacking books, and then I stepped away to gently revive my very indulgent librarian. We waited for her to lock the library doors and then the two of us escorted her to a horse-drawn hackney. Brian was patient enough to wait until they cantered away before extending his elbow with the words: “Now, Portia Adams, tell me your theories and why it matters that you understand dead bodies as well as our prime suspect does.”