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

brought in twice for questioning for a crime he didn’t commit. Then again, a guilty man should look scared or defensive at being brought in again. What did it say about a man who found the exercise amusing?
    By now, the press had renamed the story to highlight the police’s inability to catch the perpetrators, calling them the “Invisible Hand” and the “Unstoppable Gang.” This was of course still based on Sergeant Michaels’ own continued postulation that these crimes were being carried out by an organized group of thieves, something I still couldn’t quite buy into.
    I had a two-week break between classes, and since I had no homework and no more interesting cases, I decided to pursue a new angle rather than give in to the lingering feeling of isolation.
    The name of the only eyewitness in the case was a highly guarded secret at the Yard, so much so that all my persuasive skills could not convince my professor to divulge it, for fear that the witness would be in danger from the gang. Nor could Brian glean the information on my behalf, so I looked back at my notes from the day. As we had passed each other on those stairs, I had noted that the flustered woman frequented the same hatmaker as my guardian. The clasp on the side of her hat bore the same triangular stamp of a well-known London milliner.
    I headed downtown. In the millinery, I made some small talk with one of the ladies behind the counter before describing the hat I had seen.
    “Oh yes, that was a special order for Madame LaPointe of Archer Hall. I remember it well,” she assured me. “Green velvet with a hawk-feather bouquet. Really a one-of-a-kind creation.”
    I thanked her kindly and took the next cab to Archer Hall in Hampstead Village. The grounds included an orchard that had been winterized by the staff, the trees wrapped in burlap and rope to ward off the worst of the winter chill.
    After ringing the doorbell, I was ushered into the stately home by the butler. I looked around in awe at the combination of oriental and English décor, the rugs from some Eastern country — either Afghanistan or Pakistan, by the pattern, though I could not be positive in my identification. Moments later he delivered me to a fine sitting room, and the very lady I sought entered to greet me. She was dressed this time in a long pink wool skirt with a small jacket that complimented it perfectly, her walk graceful and silent on her thick rugs.
    “ Madame LaPointe, I presume,” I said, offering my hand, forcing my eyes to meet hers instead of cataloguing the furniture and accessories.
    “ Yes,” she answered in a lilting French accent. “Do I know you?”
    “ Not really,” I admitted, and explained our brief encounter on the steps to Scotland Yard, and the actions I had taken to find her.
    She took a seat, crossing her slippered feet, looking only marginally less confused. “ Alors , you came all this way seulement to see if my jewelry had returned?” Her brow furrowed.
    “ Not exactly, though if you tell me it had, I should be most pleased for you,” I answered.
    She sadly shook her head.
    I continued. “I was hoping to hear more about the theft, Madame LaPointe. You see, I am studying law — in my first year, at Somerville College, and this case has fascinated me.”
    “ Ah, I see. Dommage , there is not much for me to say,” she replied, settling back on her golden-flowered settee. “But what I told the police, I can also tell you: I was at the church. It is very close to here. I was helping to … um, to organize for the choir practice, when one of the friends of mine, Madame Polk, arrived. I was reminded I had borrowed a shawl from her the week before. I asked her to stay there while I ran back to the house to bring it back for her. I left, ran back into my house and straight up the stairs and to my bedroom where the shawl, I knew it was there.
    “ I passed none on my way in the door or up the stairs. Later I found out that James, my butler, he was