Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity

by Natalie Brianne

  Her father brought the book back as a gift for her mother just before they were married. If she remembered right, it had come from Arabia or India. Granted, this information came from her uncle. She was young enough when her parents died that she didn’t remember anything directly from them. The book was small in her hands as she fondled the intricate patterns decorating the cover. She perused the novel, knowing she wouldn’t be able to read it. The symbols on the page were foreign to her, but every so often she came to a word circled in red. Next to each circled word or phrase was a written translation, presumably in her father’s handwriting. Her name was written in the margin on page 79 next to one of the red circles. The page was wrinkled and water splotched, but it was hers just the same. Sufficiently calmed, she set it on her side table.

  It had been foolish to hope the newspaper would have any further information. She checked every diary of her parents, every stray note, asked her uncle as many questions as she had deemed reasonable. Still the same story. No. If she wanted to find any new information about what happened to her parents, she needed to find it herself. She could make the trek back to St. James’ park in the afternoon, but she had already wandered in that direction and didn’t fancy making the journey again.

  She attempted to read, but the man in the grey suit kept entering her mind. She smiled to herself as Nero fell asleep. He might have information too. She likely wouldn’t be seeing the man again, but perhaps she could give him the opportunity. Tomorrow, she would go back to the same cafe and see if he was a frequent visitor. And then, as it was convenient, she would go to the library at St. James’ park. Her plan laid out in her head, she retrieved a new book from the shelf and settled into the armchair again, content to envelop herself in the world of Elizabeth Bennett for the afternoon.

  The sun rose in the sky over London, attempting to beat down through the clouds and fog. Several airships swept through the mist. Mira Blayse sat at the cafe, drinking tea and sketching buildings. She had an excuse ready, just in case the same waiter attended her. Luckily, he didn’t.

  She finished shading the ivy that trailed up the building opposite, and then flipped through the rest of her sketchbook, examining her drawings. Most were portraits, but there were some full figures, some animals, and a few buildings. She came to a stop, looking at the face and chiseled jaw of the man in the grey coat. She looked over the notes she had retrieved the previous day. No scenario made sense in her head for why these notes would be there. She examined his face again. Serious? Yes. Determined? Definitely. Certainly a gentleman, from how he dressed and carried himself. Was there a hint of kindness? Perhaps. She smiled as her eyes roved over the sketch. His eyes looked a bit like her father’s. Piercing and full of life. She looked up at where he was the day before. And there he stood. Wearing a black suit with silver buttons and a red waistcoat. His steady gaze focused on her.

  No. He was looking at the bush behind her again. She looked down at her sketch of him. Dangerous? Maybe. She closed her sketchbook and swallowed. Maybe he was looking at both the bush and her. She bit her lip. He knew she had been following him. It might have not been such a good idea to come back to the cafe after all. She chanced a glance up at him. He was moving towards her. He stopped in front of the table and she held her breath, waiting for him to confront her. She should have just gone to the library. He slipped around the table and started looking through the bush. She furrowed her brow in confusion. Hadn’t he already read the note? This confusion grew more and more as she realized the intensity of his anxiety. He was looking for the note, and the note was in her sketchbook.

  He almost seemed frantic, searching the shrub from one end to the other. He ran his hand through his hair and looked again. When he had retrieved the note the day before, he was so calm and collected, it had seemed normal for him to be preening a bush. No one besides her had paid him any attention. Today he was at the center of it.

  “No. No, no, no! It said it was here,” he murmured, as he checked beneath the planter. He was bound to see her soon and blame her. She decided to beat him to it.

  Clearing her throat, she attempted her best effort at confidence.

  “Um…good morning, sir. I wanted to apologize for yesterday.” She sounded a bit more hesitant than she would like, but it did get his attention. He stopped looking in the bush and turned around to face her, hiding his anxiety behind a facade of composure.

  “Sorry?”

  “First and foremost, I didn’t realize you still needed these.” She extended the three notes to him.

  He released a breath and plucked the notes from her hand, drooping into the seat across from her.

  “Thank you. Apology accepted young lady.”

  He read over each, placing the first note back into the bush when he finished with it. After reading all of them, he looked up at her.

  “You were following me, then?” He asked. She averted her gaze, hiding the pink tinge invading her facial features.

  “Um…yes. You see…” Her mind whirred to formulate an explanatory lie. Perhaps if she just omitted the full truth. “I like to draw people who pass the cafe. I was sketching someone and well, when you walked towards me, I was rather embarrassed. But when you took the note, I realized you hadn’t noticed me at all. I read the note, and it was just too curious. I am terribly sorry if I caused any trouble for you.”

  She looked back up and met his scrutinizing stare. His eyes were blue. It looked as if he was studying every feature of her face. Was that how she appeared when she studied others for her sketches? She looked down and fidgeted with her hands.

  “I probably ought to go.” She stood, picking up her sketchbook.

  “No. Wait.” He fixed a hand on her arm, then dropped it. She sat back down and looked at him.

  “You messed up my usual run, yes. At least I think you did. And it’s nice to have something different happen.” He frowned. “I think. I might not be certain.” He smiled at her and shook his head. “Sorry. What’s your name?”

  She faltered. After all, they hadn’t been properly introduced. However, they were acquainted in some respects. In this case, she decided to keep it formal. “Samira Blayse. Yours?”

  He paused, thinking it over. “Byron Constantine.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Constantine.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Miss Blayse.”

  “Apologies again for taking the notes.”

  “It’s not a problem. You gave them back, and that is what matters.”

  She nodded and stood again. “Good day, then.”

  “Good day.” He stood and started walking in the direction of the Clock Tower.

  She didn’t know what to think of it all. Her theories for the notes all fell to pieces, and she felt more confused than before. She wasn’t sure it was a good idea to ask him any of her bursting questions, and so it was better she left. Besides, he seemed to have someplace to be. She continued to justify herself as she walked to the library. But she couldn’t help but wonder: If she came back to the cafe the next day, would he be there?

  Mira loved the old Beauchamp House that the library was in. It had been owned by a wealthy parliament member, and upon his death it was converted into a library. Because of its long history, it was steeped in mystery and rumor. The stories quickly migrated to the supernatural when a death occurred in the library. She found the tales fascinating and frequented the place as often as she could. But this time she had a specific piece to inquire after. She turned away from the book listings and went straight to the librarian. He was a short, portly gentleman with a well-trimmed mustache and round spectacles.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Yes? May I help you?”

  “I believe you can. I am looking for a specific newspaper from the Central News Agency.”

  “What year and season?”

  “1870, Fall.”

  “Just a moment.”

  He walked back into the library stacks, and she considered the other occupants of the li
brary. Several people perused the library listings. Others meandered back into the reading rooms. A few minutes later, the portly gentleman returned.

  “I’ve set up our bound copy in the fifteenth reading room. Let me know when you have finished.”

  “Thank you.”

  She wandered to room fifteen. It looked like a normal sitting room, except a bit larger and with a few more tables. One other person was reading at a table near the window. Only one other table held a book. She moved over to it.

  The book had a blue leather cover and brass brackets holding it together. Golden lettering shone from the front. “Central News Agency: Fall/Winter 1870.” The leather casing bound hundreds of newspapers together. She opened it up and glanced over the dates until she came to the one she required: October 12, 1870. Morning edition. She skimmed through the paper, looking for any sign of the accident. When she found nothing, she opened to the midday edition. Nothing of consequence. She turned the page to the afternoon edition and found it on the front page.

  Egregious Airship Accident!

  In preparation for its maiden voyage, the dirigible designated as the Daydreamer met a tragic fate at ten o’clock this morning. Authorities are on the scene attempting to determine the cause of the explosion that killed and injured several crew members and passengers. Of interest are the deaths of one of the inventors of the steam powered dirigible, Octavian Blayse and his wife Rose Blayse.

  She wrote down the article in its entirety and then flicked to the evening edition.

  Authorities have ascertained that the explosion originated from the engine room. There are only two confirmed deaths related to the accident and two minor injuries. The Silver Lining Airship Company has commented that this is “A tragedy beyond belief.” The damages made to the dirigible may put Silver Lining out of business for good, especially with the loss of one of their main engineers and inventors. The Vaporidge Steamship Company has expressed interest in obtaining the corporation before, and it is possible with this setback that Silver Lining may be interested in selling. When our correspondent asked the company representative about any negotiations of that nature, he refused to comment.

  She read over each article a few times before closing the bound edition. It was the same story she had always been told, although she didn’t know that Vaporidge had an interest in acquisition beforehand. They must have succeeded, as the Silver Lining Company no longer existed. Which was why she had never been told about it, as her uncle refused to discuss any subject related to her father.

  She walked out of the reading room, paused to tell the librarian that she had finished with the book, and returned to the foggy afternoon. Other than Vaporidge’s interest, there wasn’t any new information to be found. And while the news reports varied one from another, that was bound to happen as different reporters may have been sent to document the scene. But for as much as she tried to justify it, something was off. She trusted her instincts; she just didn’t know what the issue with the incident could be. Something was missing. She strolled through Kensington Gardens, and her thoughts drifted back to the man at the cafe.

  Tall, dark, handsome, mysterious. His demeanor teemed with intrigue and nuance. He must be someone of importance. Or else he was insane. Perhaps both. She laughed a little to herself. Byron Constantine. Where had she heard that name before? It felt vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t pin it down. She toyed with the idea of going to the cafe again the next day. He couldn’t possibly forget her again after their conversation. Maybe she could ask him about the note he made about airships. If by some miracle it related to her parents’ accident, then she would have another source of information. She determined to do so the next day as she sat on a bench to sketch for the afternoon.

  The sun rose in the sky over London, even if the fog obscured it from view. Airships had canceled all flights because of the conditions. Mira Blayse sat in her usual spot, the umbrella at her table open in case of rain. She took a bite of her crepes and hoped the sun would come out so she could sketch properly. She reached a hand out and felt a raindrop. She continued to eat her breakfast and examine her surroundings. At least the waiter had bought another excuse about a nonexistent aunt. She looked across the street and saw Byron. Same place, same time. Looking past her at the bush. Wearing a smashing grey suit with a blue tie. He walked towards her, and she moved her chair out of the way so he could more properly access the bush. He picked up the note, read it, and started to leave.

  “Good morning, Mr. Constantine.”

  He looked at her, confused. “Good morning to you as well…?” He stepped back and cocked his head. He went to move again.

  “You really read these every day?”

  He stopped again. “I apologize, who are you?”

  It was her turn to look confused. “Samira Blayse? We spoke yesterday. And sort of the day before?”

  He swallowed. “Right. Yes. Yes. I see. Well…good day.” He quickly turned and walked away, pulling out his notebook and making a note.

  “Good day?” She was thoroughly confused as he disappeared once again. Had he forgotten her? Except he couldn’t have. She had followed him, taken his notes. Maybe he was a spy. But if he was a spy, why would he come to the same place every day? She grabbed the note from the bush and read it. There wasn’t a single difference, other than a few more smudges and a water splotch or two. None of this made sense. She finished her crepes, escaped the notice of the waiter, and went to the Clock Tower, finding the paper. Only one thing had changed, a note next to “Airship Operator.”

  “See journal.” There’s a journal as well? Is that what all the notes lead to? Perhaps that was the book she had seen him carrying. She put the paper back in the same place Byron had left it as the rain fell in heavy droplets. She would have to investigate further on another day. She held her sketchbook close to her, sheltering it from the rain, and made a mad dash back to her rooms to find shelter for herself. If only he had stayed long enough for her to ask him about the airships.

  She set her sketchbook down on a side table and shivered into the living room. She squeezed the excess moisture from her mess of curls, grimacing at the stringy tangles. Soon enough, she stoked the fire, changed into dry clothes, and set a kettle on the hob. She opened her sketchbook on the floor in front of the fire to dry the damp pages, then sat at her desk. Nero warmed her lap as she wrote a letter to her brother.

  Dearest Walker,

  If I could convince our uncle to forget his anxieties about airships, I would have done so already. However, I shall continue to try to find out more about the accident. Thus far I keep coming to dead ends. The newspaper editor had no further information, besides directing me back to the newspaper article we’ve already read countless times. However, when I went to the library, I did find an article in the evening edition elaborating on the accident. Apparently the Vaporidge company may have been involved, at least in buying Silver Lining. Perhaps you already knew this? No matter. In other news there is a gentleman who has been frequenting the cafe I’ve been drawing at recently. His name is Byron Constantine. Do you recognize the name?

  I am sure that you are doing splendid in your studies and I do hope that Uncle Cyrus will allow you to continue your interest in engineering. If not, I’m sure we can both fly away! It is also quite impossible for me not to be at least a little envious of you. After all, you are in France, of all places! But I am happy for you, truly.

  With Love,

  Mira

  She finished her name with a flourish and placed the letter in an envelope. She would mail it tomorrow on her way to the cafe, and if Byron was there, she would ask him about the airship before he had a chance to leave. Of course, if he didn’t come, then what course of action could she take? She needed information. Maybe she could go to Scotland Yard to see if they had any files on the 1870 airship accident. She doubted that they would have anything, but following any lead was better than nothing. She took a sip of tea and smiled. With any luck, both mysteries woul
d soon be solved.

  The sun rose in the sky over London, and the clouds and fog dispersed. A single airship floated in the sky. The cafe hadn’t opened yet that day, but Mira didn’t mind. She wasn’t there for the cafe. She only cared about the bush behind her chair and the spot across the street. And with it closed she didn’t need an excuse to be there. She was adding color to her sketch of Byron. Why did he forget her the day before? It seemed that she appeared foreign to him, as if they were meeting for the first time. The table jolted as she added blue to the eyes. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and noticed Byron skirting around the outside edge of the table. He grabbed the note, read it and replaced it without a moment’s pause. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.

  “Good morning, Miss…Blayse?” he said, hesitating.

  She smiled. “Good morning. How are you today?”

  “Well enough. I think. How are you?”

  “Very well.” She repositioned her chair as he sat across from her, closing the sketchbook to hide her rendition of him.

  “Is that a journal?” He cocked his head to see the cover.

  “In a way. It’s more of a sketchbook, really.”

  “Do you draw often then?”

  “Yes. Every day.”

  He paused for a moment, mulling something over, then looked up at her. “May I see some of your drawings?”

  “I don’t usually show anyone—”

  “Please?”

  Her fingers gripped the edges of her sketchbook. Then she flipped to the first page and pushed it over to him. He thumbed through the drawings, eyes roaming over each page. She fidgeted in her seat, watching every movement so that she could pull it back before he reached the drawing of him.

  “You are quite accomplished.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled the sketchbook away. He gave her a confused look and then relented.