Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) Read Online Free PDF Page B

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