Putting one foot in front of the other seemed very hard. I had been awake for almost 20 hours, having started out the early shift at six in the morning and stuck around when a new theft was reported around suppertime.
If it was the same culprit, this would be their fourth robbery in two months. At least we finally had a suspect in custody. When the call of the a stolen tiara came in Sergeant Michaels divided us up into pairs and it was Whiggins and Port who had apprehended the man running across Waterloo Bridge. When nothing was found on his person, they escorted Mr. Ben Fawkes back to the Yard while we searched for his booty, so sure were we of his guilt. But the grins of success turned to groans of disappointment when the rest of us were unable to turn up any sign of the stolen tiara. Michaels had come straight from the victim’s home to the bridge, and after an hour of directing the search had sent us all home. He swore he would get what we needed in the interrogation room.
I stumbled turning the corner on to Baker Street, nearly knocking into a tall gentleman a step in front of me, his threadbare coat decades out of fashion and his hat pulled low over his head. For a moment I thought I recognized the way he tugged at his collar, but he jerked away from me before I could apologize, crossing to the other side of the street. He was probably a neighbor, though why I would find his mannerisms so recognizable I knew not. Never mind.
I ran a hand over my tired brow and walked the last few steps to 221, to push open the gate with a grimace. It was late, and I was trying to make as little noise as possible. The front door groaned as I closed it behind me and I paused, hoping Portia would not hear and wake. I was less worried about my parents because their ears were less sensitive.
“Brian?” Came the voice of my mother, refuting my assessment of her hearing.
“Mother, what are you still doing up? It’s after midnight.”
“I was just up to get m’self a glass of milk,” she explained, stepping forward to take me by the hand and lead us into our downstairs apartment, “don’t tell me you’ve been out at the pub this late my lad?”
I shook my head wearily, taking her help with my uniform hat and jacket, which she neatly hung on a hanger. “No mu’m. Another robbery today. We thought we'd caught the man in the act but... well, I just don't know to be honest. He had nothing on him, and we couldn't find the stolen item anywhere.”
I had by now made it to my bedroom and was sitting on the edge of my bed, struggling with my boots. My mother kneeled down and despite my protests pulled the boots off with a grunt.
“Well, you’re home now, do you need something to eat?” she said, standing back up with a sigh of pain.
Ignoring my growling stomach I said, “No mum, you get to bed. I’m too tired to take a bite. And I have to be up and back at the Yard in just a few hours.”
She shook her head but didn’t argue, leaning in to give me a kiss on my brow before closing my bedroom door carefully behind her. I swung my legs on to my bed with a barely contained groan and was asleep before my stomach could growl again.
I woke with a start, worried for a moment that I had overslept. But a glance at my clock showed I’d only been asleep a quarter of an hour. I listened carefully and realized that someone had opened the front door. Fully awake now, I slipped off the bed and opened the door in one movement, heading straight out through my living room in my socked feet. I pressed my ear against the door that led out to the shared hallway, and hearing a creaking sound that signaled someone was on the stairs, I slowly opened the door.
Looking up I could see a tall man climbing the stairs, nearing the top where Portia’s door met the staircase. I was a hairsbreadth from leaping into the hallway when I recognized the man from our run-in on Baker Street, where I had almost knocked him over less than a half hour ago. The coat was a dead giveaway – I hadn’t seen its like since I was a young boy.
I heard the figure give a whispered curse as a key fell to the floor and had to be retrieved. The curse gave it away. That was no man. That was Portia Adams disguised as a man!
I held my breath as she turned the key and slid silently into her apartment. What in the world had that girl been up to?
YOU ARE READING
And In Walked Portia Adams
Historical Fiction"Jewel of the Thames" tells the story of young Canadian Portia Adams' arrival in London and follows the amateur detective through her first three cases as the newest owner of the 221 Baker Street offices. You've read her side of the story. Now read...
