Chasing Portia Adams

When one door closes...

I'm staring at Portia Adams' closed door at the top of the staircase at 221 Baker Street.

My stomach, for the first time in a long time, is full of good food, but I still feel queasy. Only this time, the source of my nausea is that I have failed to convince the newest consulting detective in London of my importance to her case.

I step down the stairs, deep in thought, my mind already looking for alternatives when my eyes light on a constable's hat, hanging on a hook. 

I change direction at the bottom of the stairs, and instead of going out the front door of 221 Baker Street, I knock on the inner door to 221B, the downstairs apartment.

The door opens after a moment.

"Yes?" A woman with the constable's eyes says as she opens the door.

"Oh, ma'am, I wanted to thank you for the delicious stew," I say, giving her a smile, "I believe your son brought it upstairs to Portia's apartment."

That is all it takes to be invited into the Dawes apartment, and I follow Mrs. Dawes through the living room, where an older gentleman and several dogs, snore by a fireplace. She puts a finger over her lips and motions me into the kitchen at the back.

"Miss Coleson!" Says the man I had met earlier, a kerchief tucked into his collared shirt.

He is sitting at a kitchen table much like my own, in front of a small tart and a cup of tea, but he rises when he sees me.

"This young lady just came by to say 'thank you' for the stew," Mrs. Dawes say, patting my shoulder approvingly, "sit down and have a bit of a tart with us, won't you?"

"I couldn't eat another bite," I say honestly, but take the seat Brian offers.

"Then you'll take them home with you," she says, answering an unsaid prayer, and she turns to wrap two tarts in a small checkered kerchief.

This time, I can't keep the tears from my eyes, which Brian notices, handing me a small napkin.

"You make yourself at home," Mrs. Dawes says, opening the back door that leads out of the kitchen and into the alleyway behind Baker Street, "I just need to pop next door and check on Mrs. Wilkins."

Brian and I are left alone, glancing at each other shyly before he says, "So, am I right that you are the reporter Annie Coleson?"

Wondering what he has heard about me, I nod, my hands nervous in my lap.

"And you are working on a news story about the arsons?" He asks, taking a bite of his tart.

"I am," I say with more confidence, "and I was hoping to work with Miss Adams on it actually. That's why I'm here."

"Ah," he replies, chewing thoughtfully, "Well, our Miss Adams is not exactly looking for media coverage if you know what I mean."

"I wish I had known what you meant several hours ago," I say with a sigh, "I wouldn't have wasted my time."

He offers me a cup and I decline, I'm full of tea at this point.

"I wouldn't say it was a complete waste of time," he says.

"No?" I reply, my hopes rising with no real reason to. Must be the sugar. Or the company.

"No, Miss Adams... well she takes a little while to warm up to something," he says, and then shakes his head with a smile, "to warm up to someone. She has trouble trusting anyone but herself."

"But she trusts you?" I ask, sure I know the answer.

He shrugs, modestly I think, "I think she does, but you would have to ask her."

"So you two aren't ..." I say, leading off without saying the words.

He smiles, making my heart speed up again, "I like to think we're friends, Miss Adams and I. She's still very new to this city, and to her relationship with Baker Street."

I think Portia Adams sees him as more than a friend based on the way she looks at him, but I take him at his word, deciding that I may have found a better way to gain access to the sleuth.