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

seen that style? My eyes wandered to one of the textbooks on Persian antiquities on the shelf.
    “ Hmm?” was her only answer as she refolded the blue and pulled out a vibrant pink shot with silver threads. I wrinkled my nose at it. “The stolen jewelry — the press has been calling those responsible the Gang of Thieves.”
    “ Indeed?” she remarked, putting the pink over her own shoulder and turning this way and that in the mirror. I recognized her disinterest and changed the subject, though my mind stayed on the case. But when she left, I did pull out a few of those books on antiquity and tried to place where I had seen the design of that ring. I was heeding one of Mr. Holmes’s tenets, to follow my instincts, and there was something about that ring that tickled some part of my brain.
     
    *     *     *
     
    The Sunday following her visit I was once again wandering the bridges, starting on Waterloo Bridge, with my dog-eared copy of the Chronicles of Avonlea in my hand. Having now walked across each bridge that crossed the river Thames in downtown London, I could attest that the view from this bridge were the most pleasing. The bridge runs from The Strand on the north side, above Victoria Embankment, over to the South Bank. I wandered there reading about Anne Shirley and the community of Avonlea for almost an hour in the failing light, the granite of the bridge fading from sunlit white to dark gray. Finally, when it was too dark to read or make observations on the locals and traffic, I headed toward Westminster Bridge. Just as I placed my foot on the bridge, I was surprised to recognize a familiar face coming my way — Ben Fawkes.
    Familiar to me, of course, because I had seen him that cold night on the bridge when I was so badly disguised as a vagrant. He took no notice of me as he crossed in the opposite direction in a great hurry, but before I could even begin to take in the details of his appearance, the most noxious smell assailed me.
    Despite wanting to remain unnoticed, I had to cover my mouth and nose as he passed me, the odor was so pungent. As soon as he was a few feet behind me the smell thankfully receded. I hadn’t remembered a smell that night on the bridge. Where had the man been lately to smell so horrible?
    He gained the street I had just exited. I turned to casually hang over the bridge. He passed only one other person, but I could tell by the way the passerby turned slightly from his path that he too was affected by the stench.
    I returned home and set to bathe immediately, wondering if I should add this detail to my notes on the case. I finished toweling my hair dry (even with a bit of lavender, I swore I could still smell that noxious stench), and throwing the towel over a chair to dry in front of the fireplace, I pulled out one of the many notebooks on the shelf. According to my grandfather, Mr. Holmes had insisted time and again that no detail was too small to overlook. He had documented instances where the famous detective had solved a case and then returned to clarify it when he made connection with a forgotten fact years later.
    I therefore followed his lead. Inspired, I pulled open one of my grandfather’s dog-eared medical books. Surely that horrible smell could be identified.
     
     

     
     
     
    Chapter Ten
     
    B y the end of April another two robberies had been committed, with no further progress made by the investigating authorities to either regain the stolen objects or apprehend those involved. Brian confided in me that out of desperation the sergeant in charge of the case had hauled Fawkes in again for further questioning.
    “ Did you notice a smell when they brought him in?” I asked.
    “ A smell?” he repeated, looking understandably confused. “No, not that I recall. He was one cool customer, though. Smiled at us as he was brought into the station, even winked at the inspector.”
    That was interesting in itself. Surely an innocent man would be annoyed at being