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

half-dozen other officers appeared, carrying whistles and yelling at each other to spread out.
    I yawned, throwing the cursed fake nose over the side of the bridge and trudging toward home in defeat, leaving the police to their obviously successful work.
     
     

     
     
     
    Chapter Eight
     
    I t had taken more than an hour to walk home, so the next day I woke late thankful it was a Saturday with nothing scheduled but a day of leisurely reading. By the time I had dressed it was past eleven o’clock in the morning, and the family downstairs had left on their various errands for the day. With one hand I spooned a tiny amount of Mrs. Dawes’ cold, congealed porridge I found in a pot on the stove into a bowl, and with the other flipped through today’s paper. Landing on the story I had been seeking, I transferred food and paper to the table that I might more comfortably consume both.
    My eyes widened as I read the details: “Suspect apprehended fleeing police, accomplice suspected,” and most interesting of all, “stolen tiara still missing.”
    So they had caught someone, but was it the right someone? If it was, where was the stolen tiara? If it was the man from last night, he had run across the bridge and been caught on the other side. When did he have the chance to pass the necklace to an accomplice? I lowered the paper, deciding that I needed more data.
    I was out the door and headed toward Scotland Yard within a half hour. My journey was marked by a churning brain as I mentally riffled through all available case notes I had memorized from my grandfather’s collection. Without a confession or the stolen item they would have to release the suspect, and according to the papers, he was denying any involvement in the crimes.
    The Yard, as it was colloquially known, had its rear entrance called Great Scotland Yard, an entrance I had been introduced to by one of my professors at the college who was also a well-respected chief inspector. I looked up at the building as I approached, its striped red bricks, Portland stone and elegant turrets reminding one of a modernized castle. It was designed by Norman Shaw and overlooking the Thames. I had read that it was a vast improvement over the original offices at Whitehall. I had visited them on one of my many forays into the city and agreed heartily with the improvement of space and architecture “New” Scotland Yard afforded its occupants.
    “ Good morning, Detective Chief Inspector,” I said, recognizing Professor Archer speaking to a sergeant I did not know on the steps that led up from the street. The man he was speaking to made to step forward as I approached, and I nodded at him. I glanced back down at the street thoughtfully as my professor answered my greeting.
    “ Why, good morning, Miss Adams,” he replied, tipping his hat genially, his freshly waxed moustache glistening in the sunlight. “What brings you to our offices so early on a Saturday? Surely not more follow-up questions on the case study I assigned?”
    “ Research, sir. I read in the paper that the alleged jewel thief had been apprehended,” I admitted, stopping to his side.
    “ Oh, no ‘alleged’ about it, ma’am,” answered the sergeant, raising his chin at me.
    “ He has confessed, then?” I asked.
    The sergeant’s chin dropped back down, as did his eyes from my direct stare. “No, not yet, but we are confident that we will have a positive identification from the owner of the jewelry very soon. He was seen as he climbed out the bedroom window with his stolen goods!”
    “Ah, that is damning indeed,” I agreed. “And that is whose arrival you are awaiting, then, the owner of the stolen tiara?”
    The sergeant started slightly and his mouth gaped. “How did you know that we were waiting for the witness to arrive?”
    “I didn’t, until you told me that there was a witness,” I admitted, and then turned to point to the street. “But if I were to bring in a witness to the Yard, a witness