the more sentimental of your two grandparents, but the only person he deigned write to or about was his flat mate,” she swept her hand over the bookshelves, “as evidenced by this shrine.”
I worried that perhaps my mother had some kind of correspondence passed down to her by her own mother that now lay amongst piles of refuse in our reclaimed Toronto house, but quickly decided that Constance Adams would not have passed any such items on to her daughter. She had spent her entire life denying her ex-husband’s existence; she would not have changed that view even at the end of her life.
That left me with more and more questions about this family I knew so little about, and even more determined to investigate it through Dr. Watson’s connections here in London.
Chapter Five
D uring one ambitious excavation, I managed to climb up into one of the attic storage spaces. Mrs. Dawes had advised against it: “Nothing up there but spiders ‘n’ dust!”
As usual, my curiosity won out. Borrowing a stepladder from downstairs, I made my ascent. Moving carefully, I pulled out my battery-powered flashlight (a gift from Mrs. Jones) and scanned the attic. The dust was absolute on the wooden floor, undisturbed but for a few tiny paw prints that appeared between items and disappeared under furniture. The floor was creaky but seemed stable based on the weight of the contents. I could not stand in this space, the height being less than four feet, and therefore I was forced to crawl through flotsam stacked all around me. I shuddered when I encountered the well-chewed papers, wondering what did the chewing and promising myself to get some mousetraps next time I was out. I negotiated on my knees around cobweb-covered trunks, bags and all manner of old, broken furniture.
The air up here was well beyond musty. I ducked down to get several gulps of clean air before trying again. Tucking back up, I grabbed a random leather satchel and hauled it back down with me, closing the pulley door as soon as I got clear.
“ Doing some dusting, dear?” the familiar melodic voice of my guardian said from somewhere below me.
I continued my descent, brushing at the cobwebs and dirt clinging to my hair. “Just exploring.” I held aloft the leather satchel.
Her eyes lit up with recognition at the sight of it. I wondered again with annoyance how she knew so much about this townhouse, a question she had yet to answer despite my asking at least once a week.
She was removing her fur coat — this one mink, I believe — and wore an expensive day suit beneath, its lavender color bringing out the hazel in her eyes. She pulled off her long gloves and I noticed her jewelry and makeup, which were both heavier than usual for so early in the day, and glanced at her shoes, which were not at all suited to the snow.
I walked over to the desk. “Do you know this bag? Was it my grandfather’s?”
She tilted her head to the side. “Yes, I believe so.”
Excited now, I unfastened the clasps and pulled open the bag by the handles. Inside, I found the most unexpected articles: some jars of dried-up makeup, two wigs, a scarf, three pairs of eyeglasses and what looked like a fake nose.
“ Extraordinary,” I said.
“ No,” corrected Mrs. Jones, looking over my shoulder into the open bag. “Just a normal day at 221B Baker Street.”
She chuckled, but it didn’t sound happy — it sounded sad and bitter, as she sometimes did when referring to the past occupants of this apartment.
“I must be going now, dear,” she announced airily. “I’m attending the opera this afternoon.”
“ But you’ve only just come from the opera,” I remarked, confused.
She stopped in the midst of pulling her gloves from her pockets. “What can you mean, Portia?” she said, her back to me.
What did I mean? I knew she had already been to the opera today — less than an hour ago, in fact. My mind whirred as I struggled to articulate my thoughts.
I worried that perhaps my mother had some kind of correspondence passed down to her by her own mother that now lay amongst piles of refuse in our reclaimed Toronto house, but quickly decided that Constance Adams would not have passed any such items on to her daughter. She had spent her entire life denying her ex-husband’s existence; she would not have changed that view even at the end of her life.
That left me with more and more questions about this family I knew so little about, and even more determined to investigate it through Dr. Watson’s connections here in London.
Chapter Five
D uring one ambitious excavation, I managed to climb up into one of the attic storage spaces. Mrs. Dawes had advised against it: “Nothing up there but spiders ‘n’ dust!”
As usual, my curiosity won out. Borrowing a stepladder from downstairs, I made my ascent. Moving carefully, I pulled out my battery-powered flashlight (a gift from Mrs. Jones) and scanned the attic. The dust was absolute on the wooden floor, undisturbed but for a few tiny paw prints that appeared between items and disappeared under furniture. The floor was creaky but seemed stable based on the weight of the contents. I could not stand in this space, the height being less than four feet, and therefore I was forced to crawl through flotsam stacked all around me. I shuddered when I encountered the well-chewed papers, wondering what did the chewing and promising myself to get some mousetraps next time I was out. I negotiated on my knees around cobweb-covered trunks, bags and all manner of old, broken furniture.
The air up here was well beyond musty. I ducked down to get several gulps of clean air before trying again. Tucking back up, I grabbed a random leather satchel and hauled it back down with me, closing the pulley door as soon as I got clear.
“ Doing some dusting, dear?” the familiar melodic voice of my guardian said from somewhere below me.
I continued my descent, brushing at the cobwebs and dirt clinging to my hair. “Just exploring.” I held aloft the leather satchel.
Her eyes lit up with recognition at the sight of it. I wondered again with annoyance how she knew so much about this townhouse, a question she had yet to answer despite my asking at least once a week.
She was removing her fur coat — this one mink, I believe — and wore an expensive day suit beneath, its lavender color bringing out the hazel in her eyes. She pulled off her long gloves and I noticed her jewelry and makeup, which were both heavier than usual for so early in the day, and glanced at her shoes, which were not at all suited to the snow.
I walked over to the desk. “Do you know this bag? Was it my grandfather’s?”
She tilted her head to the side. “Yes, I believe so.”
Excited now, I unfastened the clasps and pulled open the bag by the handles. Inside, I found the most unexpected articles: some jars of dried-up makeup, two wigs, a scarf, three pairs of eyeglasses and what looked like a fake nose.
“ Extraordinary,” I said.
“ No,” corrected Mrs. Jones, looking over my shoulder into the open bag. “Just a normal day at 221B Baker Street.”
She chuckled, but it didn’t sound happy — it sounded sad and bitter, as she sometimes did when referring to the past occupants of this apartment.
“I must be going now, dear,” she announced airily. “I’m attending the opera this afternoon.”
“ But you’ve only just come from the opera,” I remarked, confused.
She stopped in the midst of pulling her gloves from her pockets. “What can you mean, Portia?” she said, her back to me.
What did I mean? I knew she had already been to the opera today — less than an hour ago, in fact. My mind whirred as I struggled to articulate my thoughts.
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