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

though I lost touch, as I said, with your mother after…”
    “After the war,” I finished for her, my brow furrowed as a new thought occurred to me. I had opened up my mouth to ask the question when she rose, pointing to the bookshelf.
    “ Tell me, Portia, have you considered moving some of this furniture around?” she asked, testing the weight of the bookshelf slightly. “Just because this is how it was arranged doesn’t mean it has to remain this way…”
    “ I … I honestly haven’t thought about it, Mrs. Jones,” I replied, disappointed because I knew pushing her for more information today would be fruitless. She would just announce that she had somewhere else to be and be gone before I could argue.
    “ I don’t believe I have ever seen the wall behind this bookshelf for example,” she said, tapping at her bottom lip thoughtfully and pulling out book spines at random.
    I watched her for a moment and then realized what she was looking for.
    “I don’t believe that a hidden alcove could exist against that wall, ma’am,” I said dryly, pointing at the window. “That is, after all, an outer wall, and behind that bookshelf would have to exist at least eight to ten inches of brick, and that does not leave a lot of room for hidden space.”
    “ Indeed,” she remarked thoughtfully, and then shrugged as if the subject no longer interested her and began regaling me with a new story about the ladies luncheon she wanted me to attend.
     
     

     
     
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    I started at Somerville College the same week Brian Dawes became Constable Dawes. I was sorting through my new books with an ear cocked, listening for him to get home, and when he did, I leapt to my front door. Looking down the stairs I watched his mother come out of her downstairs apartment to coo at her son’s new uniform, complete with hat and badge. He glanced up the stairs and gave me a cocky salute, taking off his hat and running a hand through his thick brown hair before answering a question from his father, who had just entered the hallway to join his wife and son. I smiled back at Brian. His black uniform enhanced his lean, tall body, making him seem so much older than his twenty-four years.
    Somerville was part of Oxford University and about an hour away from Baker Street by tube. The red brickwork stood out on the street, and the array of windows was a favorite feature of the students who were lucky enough to attend. Though I had only visited this school in the dead of winter, the headmistress, Mrs. Darbishire, assured me that the gardens in the summer were unparalleled. It was she whom my guardian had contacted about my entry into the college, though they didn’t act like friends when we arrived on campus the first time. Indeed, Darbishire was a great deal friendlier toward me than to Mrs. Jones.
    But unlike Mrs. Darbishire, my classmates seemed wholly unimpressed with me, as demonstrated by their giggling comments about my attire (old-fashioned) and ‘colonial accent’. These girls seemed to be rich, entitled and only mildly interested in the lessons we all attended. The few girls who were of my quieter, anti-social disposition avoided me for exactly the personality traits that made us alike. As I had when attending classes in Toronto, I refused to allow either their disinterest or their derision to upset me, and I was actually glad for a moment that my mother would not be hurt on my behalf by their rejection. When my professors found out from the headmistress about my famous residence and the reason I lived there, they had many questions and many nice things to say about my late grandfather. Unfortunately, their attention did nothing to improve my reputation amongst my peers.
    “ This weekend, I want you all to read very carefully the chapter on chain of evidence,” Professor Archer said, looking around the room at each of us, missing the rolled eyes from the back row of tittering debutants who had been whispering about