Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) by Angela Misri Read Free Book Online Page A

— and a new source of income that I could not overlook. I met with Mrs. Jones’ accountant to work out a reasonable budget for myself and discovered that with my guardian covering my tuition costs, the income from my downstairs tenants would be more than enough to cover my small expenses. I owned the townhouse outright as passed down through my family, so my expenses were a very short list.
    Being surrounded by the writings of my grandfather somehow made the loneliness more bearable. It connected me to my heritage despite being thousands of miles away from my homeland. Slowly I was starting to forgive my mother for hiding this from me. I might never know all her reasons, but my faith in her love for me meant that I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
    One morning I found myself staring off into space, rubbing my silver cross, and I came to a simple conclusion: this family here in England had caused my mother pain. I wasn’t sure how, or why, but it made the most sense based on the evidence. Perhaps she felt rejected. Or perhaps her mother had managed to pass on her adamant denials of this relationship. Whatever the underlying psyche, the discovery of John Watson as her hitherto unknown father did not bring her joy. She would have shared joy. She would have hidden pain.
    Mrs. Jones flitted in and out of the apartment delivering clothes one day, bouquets the next, never staying long enough to answer a question unless she demanded my company at dinners and parties, where I was one of many guests.
    At one such party, held at a home that was more marble than brick, I allowed Mrs. Jones to introduce me to the hosts and then quickly excused myself to find refreshments. Mrs. Jones gave me a look that conveyed her displeasure without a word, but I ignored it, making a beeline to the silver-laden buffet table. Waiters in smart white uniforms stood ready to serve out tiny bite-sized hors d'œuvres onto fine china. I shook my head at the waiter offering something gray on a cracker, pasting a smile on my lips and looking over at Mrs. Jones. Seeing that her back was turned, I scampered away from the table to the window, where I could stand casually hidden by the velvet curtains. It was here that I spent most of these large engagements, regardless of the venue, watching the upper class toast each other and make merry. Only when I would see my guardian start looking around for me with her gray eyebrows knit in what I knew to be annoyance would I rejoin the party, so that she would find me smiling and enjoying myself with someone I had introduced myself to minutes before. I will admit that I didn’t try very hard to mingle amongst these people. Not only was I uncomfortable with the number of questions they invariably asked me, but I much preferred observation to socialization. Mrs. Jones never said a word about my activities, though, so I continued my efforts to hide even as she continued her efforts to show.
    I was unrelenting in my efforts to quiz the older lady about our relationship, about her relationship with my grandparents, asking question after question to try to wrest even the smallest clue from which to unravel the secret that was Irene Jones. But she was deft in her artifice and skilled at turning the subject toward one more to her liking.
    Brian Dawes was as well read on the case studies as I. He had spent weeks after my grandfather’s death organizing the papers and books that had lain in disrepair for years in this upper apartment. We delighted in comparing our thoughts on the many cases we had both read and supplemented our readings with his stories from Scotland Yard, where he was in the last few months of training to become a constable.
    “ Have you come across the two cases written by Holmes?” Brian asked me on one of his upstairs visits as he uncovered the small plate of biscuits sent up by his mother. He was wearing a collared shirt with an old brown vest over top, and his hair was shorter today, probably cut in