And In Walked Portia Adams

The cold shoulder

It had been two weeks and I had to admit that every time I walked out the shared front door of the townhouse, I lingered at the bottom of the stairs there, hoping to catch sight of our interesting new landlady. Well, actually, at nineteen years old, Portia Adams scarcely fit the image of a landlady, but as the new owner of 221 Baker Street, it was an accurate if odd title.

So far she had been excused from the weekly family dinners arranged by her guardian Mrs. Jones and my mother by the business of arranging school and such.

I checked my old satchel for the third time, making sure that my new uniform jacket was in there. I intended to get it adjusted by the tailor today. We could scarce afford it this month but as this job was to be the new source of income for the Dawes family, I felt it a necessity to at least look the part.

A knock at the front door surprised me, and I opened it to find Mrs. Jones on the other side.

“Oh, that was quick!” she said, her American accent clipped as she looked up at me.

“I was just walking out the door, Mrs. Jones,” I explained, standing aside so that she could join me in the front hallway.

“How convenient,” she replied, her tone disinterested as she allowed me to take her coat. I reminded myself to reinforce the hooks in this hallway – they were not built to hold up heavy fur coats like this.

“I need to get my uniform adjusted, the arms are far too long,” I explained, as she turned to walk up the stairs that would take her up to Portia’s apartment. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to engage with this woman, but seemed unable to stop myself.

She stopped, her bejeweled hand on the bannister that led up to her charge’s apartment. At first I thought she was not going to acknowledge my words, but then she turned so that her face was in profile making me notice how beautiful her face remained well into her senior years.

“You will be working out of Scotland Yard I hear?” she said.

I had only received the letter confirming my placement at the central police station in London two mornings ago, so I wondered at her knowledge of it. Possibly my parents had been boasting? They were very proud, my dad especially.

“Yes, I am very lucky. Only one of my mates from the college will be joining me,” I said, standing tall as I let the pride I felt show. I had after all earned it, topping my class of 22 in the three-month training program.

Her only response was to give me a thin smile before she turned back to continue her journey up the stairs to her destination.

I shook my head before taking my hat off the hook. I wasn’t sure if it was simply a class issue or if she didn’t like me as a person, but Mrs. Jones was not subtle in her dislike of me. I glanced up the stairs as she knocked, and then without waiting for an answer, walked right into the apartment, cheating me of seeing her fascinating charge as the door closed behind her.

I opened the front door to step out into the foggy day, determined to make my own impression on Portia Adams. I was curious about the young Canadian upstairs and eager to learn more about her and her relationship with her grandfather Dr. John Watson and possibly, his flat mate Sherlock Holmes.

Those two men were the reason I had chosen to join the police force and why I had ambitions to become a Detective Inspector as soon as I could. Surely, I thought as I crossed the street heading towards Dorset Tailors, Portia Adams would be willing to share her special insights into the pair.

I would do my best to convince her.