And In Walked Portia Adams

A shared fascination

“I was out on a…” I trailed off, shaking my head, “hang on, how do you know how many dates I’ve been on and with whom? Is my mother talking out of turn?”

“Does your mother know who you are dating?” She challenged,

My mouth gaped and then: “No.”

“Then no, I did not hear about your dating exploits from your mother,” she declared, a small smile coming to her lips.

I must have been radiating confusion because she took two steps down to reach for my collar before she said: “The perfume on this jacket is different than the perfume on the jacket you used on Monday night. I smelled it as I came in that night and remembered it – rose water I believe. This one, from the lady last night is much stronger and more expensive – it’s a Charbert if I’m not mistaken.”

I looked from her hand at my collar to the long trench coat hanging on the wall, and nodded slowly, “You recognized the perfumes?”

“Rose water is very common,” she replied, releasing my collar and leaning back, “but it was the Charbert that stood out, thereby marking the origins as very different women of very different means.”

Julie was the lady I had been out with last night was indeed a girl of some means, her father the manager of a very prominent hat store in the west-end. Marie, was a waitress I had met at the pub on Monday night.

“Your mom prefers lavender I have observed,” she continued with a shrug, her long dark lashes noticeable this close contrasting against her pale skin.

“Remarkable.” I said finally, “And why did you observe all of this?”

Her shoulders came up, surprising me again, her voice defensive: “I didn’t purposely if that is what you mean Mr. Dawes. I did not intend to intrude on your privacy.”

I raised my hands immediately, “No, you mistake me, I’m not at all upset, I’m just curious. It reminds me a little of how Watson described Holmes’ powers of observation.”

Her eyes lit up, “Do you think so?”

“Yes,” I said, coming up a step so that we were eye to eye again, “have you opened any of the journals in your bookshelves? Do you not agree?”

“I have read many,” she said, starting up her stairs again and talking over her shoulder, “and I must admit: when I read the descriptions of how Sherlock Holmes solved crimes I find I am quite inspired.”

She put a key to her door as she spoke and looked back down at me, seemingly surprised that I was still at the bottom of the staircase.

“Will you not come up and show me the journals you are referring to Mr. Dawes?” she said, the excitement evident on her face, “I confess that I would love to have someone to talk to about all of this and you seem interested in the detectives who used to live here…”

“Oh I am!” I said, taking the stairs two at time to follow her into the apartment.

She walked directly to her bookshelf, running her hands over the spines lovingly. “I’ve always been distracted by details. My brain seems to grab at them and focus on them, and sometimes it is so hard to pull my attention away. And people don’t usually react well to being told something about themselves that they did not say aloud. Especially when you refute their claims with actual fact. They can be quite … cruel.”

She said this turned away from me and I could hear the hurt in her voice, making her sound much younger than her nineteen years, even when she raised her chin turning back my way to add:  “Not that I care of course, what other people think of me. But my mother did. It bothered her.”

I stepped the rest of the way into the apartment, not sure what I could say to reassure her. I could see now that the way her mind worked set her apart from others and that could be a lonely existence.

“But if there were a purpose to my …  abilities. If there were a reason I can see things others ignore,” she said, her eyes coming up and meeting mine, their excitement underlining her words, “that would be something would it not? It would justify these parts of my personality that make me an oddity.”

“You are not an oddity.” I said automatically.

She shook her head, “You are wrong. I am. And the more time you spend with me, the more people will point it out to you, I promise.”

I felt a spark of anger that so far in her young life her experiences had been so negative when it came to her intelligence. I suspected that her gender played a large part in the judgments she had suffered.

“Maybe my destiny was to find my grandfather and this apartment for this very reason.” She said, pulling out a journal and opening it.

“To become a detective?” I asked, honestly curious if she had taken her idea this far in her head.

She smiled, making my heart beat a little faster: “Who knows? But what an idea that would be!”