Read Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) for Free Online

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