Chasing Portia Adams

All Cards on the Table

Portia Adams re-enters her apartment, leaving her door ajar this time. 

"The answer to your question depends on whether I will read my response in The Times tomorrow," says, sitting back down beside me in front of the fire.

I can't help but grin, "I make no promises, Miss Adams."

"Then my answer is the same as before,"she says "I am an avid student of the law, and that is all I lay claim to. My personal family interactions are private."

This is not going well. How can I get her to talk to me on the record?

 A knock sounds at her open door and in the doorway stands a very handsome man holding a tray.

"Oh!" he says, his eyes widening with surprise as Portia takes the tray from him with a smile I haven't seen before. "We thought this was for you, Portia."

"Annie," I reply, standing to shake his hand and very happy that my legs are no longer shaking. "Annie Coleson, and you are?"

"Brian Dawes." He replies, the dimples in his cheeks deep, his brown eyes a little mesmerizing, "I live downstairs at 221A"

"Ah," I say, "how fortunate for Miss Adams."

His blush is charming, and I find myself forgetting my hunger.

It's only when Portia clears her throat from behind us that he raises her eyes in her direction. I don't think she likes our interaction.

"Oh, yes, I must leave you to your meal of course, Miss Coleson," Brian says. "I do hope we meet again."

"Oh, please call me Annie!" I say, giving him a huge smile.

"Annie then," he replies, and gives a small bow before heading back down the stairs.

I return to my chair feeling lighter than when I left it.

"What an interesting young man," I say, automatically taking the tray he had carried into my lap and spooning stew into my mouth. "And a constable! He lives right downstairs?"

"Yes."

I take another bite, "So young though, he must have just graduated."

"Yes."

That must make things easier for a woman trying to gain access to Scotland Yard, I think as I eat. I wonder if they are involved. 

 "Now, since you are steadfastly avoiding any discussion of your malnutrition, let us instead discuss the 'help' you say you came here for." Portia Adams says, interrupting my pleasant thoughts and reminding me of why I am here.

I look down at the spoon. Malnutrition indeed. I force myself to replace the spoon in the bowl and put the tray back on the table.

"I am sure that I don't want to waste any time discussing my missing a few meals, Miss Adams."

"Continue to eat, Miss Coleson," she replies "or this interview is over."

I glare at her across the table, my stomach growling at the interruption of the first real meal I've had in almost a week. 

"Consider, please, that what I am asking is not unreasonable — not every opposition is a fight," she says. "Also consider that I need nothing from you. It is you who is seeking my help, not the other way around."

Actually, making her believe she was aiding me might work in my favor, so I pick up the tray again. "Well, it is perfectly good stew — it would be a shame to waste it.

But you may actually need something from me. The information I have may in fact help both of us. You think these last two cases of arson are related, don't you?"