“About a year ago, a certain Clement Pennington applied for a job with the Vaporidge Steamship Company as an airship operator. He had previous experience as an engineer and ship builder. They hired him. Clement was employed there for several months, happily, with no complaints from passengers or coworkers. Back in March he began to be more withdrawn. In July, a little less than a year after he had started, he quit his job. Nine days ago, September 10, he was found dead in his lodgings in North London.”
“How did he die?”
“He could have been killed by a blow to the head. There was a bit of blood involved and bruising. However, no weapon was found, and the amount of blood wasn’t substantial enough to be fatal. He may have just fallen into a table. But they did find a hypodermic needle, suggesting drug use. The medical report hasn’t been officially released so we can’t be certain on the cause of death.”
“Any signs of suspects or motive?”
“Possibly. The police believe that the burglar that has been terrorizing North London may have been the one to do the deed, if a deed was done at all. His rooms seemed to have been ransacked.”
“They are the only suspect you have?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Of course, the first thing to look for is any familial ties, and Mr. Pennington was all alone in the world, so to speak. His mother died when he was young. His father was a civil engineer and died in an accident a few years ago while Pennington was going to school. Of course, he followed somewhat in his father’s footsteps, only he was more interested in machines. Hence, going to work on an airship.”
“So, he didn’t have any family or connections whatsoever?”
“None at all, at least that have been determined at this point.”
“Perhaps it was suicide then.”
“Perhaps. The body was found by the landlord, and he might have more information on that subject. I shall be interrogating him later today.”
“At 12:30?”
“Yes, indeed. Which means we have ample time for a cup of tea, don’t you think?”
After tea, they hailed a cab and headed off to Scotland Yard. Byron was greeted by several people he didn’t remember, but pretended to remember anyway, as they made their way to Chief Inspector Thatcher’s office. Mira stayed close to him. After climbing a few staircases, they came to an exterior office with a young lady at a desk writing something on a piece of letterhead. She looked up as they entered.
“Hello, Byron.” She chirped sweetly in her slight cockney accent. He cleared his throat.
“Is Thatcher in?”
“Yes, he is. Who’s this?” The girl’s smile went a bit sour looking at Mira.
“Miss Blayse, my secretary.”
“I wasn’t aware you were looking for a secretary.” She scowled.
“I wasn’t aware you were interested in changing positions.” He walked past her towards the door to the main office. “Wait here Miss Blayse. I’d like to talk to the chief inspector alone for a moment.” Mira nodded and waited by the desk. She glanced at the nameplate. Juliet Chickering.
The woman that went with the name was quite petite. She had small hands and wrists that probably could be broken as easily as a pencil. Or perhaps the proper word was delicate. Her blonde hair was pulled into an updo that didn’t suit her at all, and her complexion was so pale Mira couldn’t imagine she had ever seen the sun. She seemed to like neatness as she arranged her fountain pen straight against the paper she wrote on. Juliet’s shrill voice pulled Mira from her thoughts.
“Might I ask why you would be interested in a secretarial position? You don’t look like a working girl.” Juliet moved the paper onto a neat stack on the left side of her desk, refusing to look at Mira, her cockney accent suddenly becoming more prominent.
“Well, he’s helping me solve a case of my own, actually.”
“Oh, so you aren’t interested in him?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ve had my eye on him for a while. Every day he resets, they say. That means every day I get a chance. If I get put down in that journal of his, then soon enough I’ll be remembered and then who knows where we’ll go from there.”
Mira stood astounded. “The thought never even crossed my—” She was interrupted.
“Oh good.” Juliet put the paper she was holding down and opened a drawer. She took out a small piece of rouge colored tissue, licked her lips and pressed them against the paper. When she put the paper away, she had a pinkish tinge to her lip. “But you do have to admit that he is right handsome, don’t you think?”
“I…I suppose…”
The door opened, and Byron came back out. “Miss Blayse?” She hurried into the inspector’s office and shut the door behind her. Byron raised an eyebrow. “You feeling alright? Your face seems a bit red.”
“Quite alright.” She avoided eye contact and turned her attention to the man sitting behind the desk.
Raymond Thatcher was a portly gentleman whose black hair greyed along with his perfectly trimmed mustache. He had laugh lines around his hazel eyes, and a kindly face. He reminded her a bit of Landon, and Mira smiled at the thought.
“You must be Miss Blayse, Constantine’s secretary?” Thatcher stood and extended a hand to her. She shook it and stepped back.
“Yes, I am.”
“I certainly hope you can help him keep his facts straight. He’s brilliant, I’ll give you that, but his deductive reasoning is nothing without memory.”
Mira glanced at Byron and noticed he was taking the compliments with a smug sort of humility. She smiled. “I’ll do the best I can.”
The chief inspector smiled at her response then turned to Byron. “Now, I’m sure you didn’t come for pleasantries, Constantine. You’re here to see the landlord?” Byron nodded. Mira noticed several case files on the desk, some with gruesome photographs she wished she had not seen. The chief inspector picked up the only file without a photograph and handed it to Byron before continuing.
“His name is Doyle Morrison. He’s owned that branch of buildings for the last three years. You’re welcome to question him. He was kind enough to wait for you. You’ll find him in interrogation room three.”
Byron led her through Scotland Yard to the interrogation chambers. A constable stood outside the door. Byron nodded, and the constable stepped aside.
A man sat at a table in the center of the small room, and another constable stood on the opposite end of the room, watching him. The man at the table seemed skittish. He sported a receding hairline and an ill-kempt mustache. His clothing teemed with intricate patterns, but the fabric was obviously cheap. Mira’s stomach tightened watching him.
Byron went to the opposite side of the table and gestured for Mira to take a seat in one of the chairs across from the landlord. She did, and he followed suit. Not knowing what to do with herself, Mira opened her sketchbook and began to subtly sketch the man, pretending to take notes.
“Doyle Morrison?” Byron’s voice cut the tension of the air. At this distance Mira could tell that Doyle was sweating, and she caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath.
“Yes, that’s me name. Who’s the girl? I was told I was getting questioned by a detective, not a detective and a lady.”
“This is my secretary, Miss Blayse. I assure you she is discreet. Anything you can say to me can be said in front of her.”
Mr. Morrison looked her over for a moment, shrugged, then cleared his throat, turning his attention to Byron. “I run a reputable business, Detective. It’s right rude for Mr. Pennington to go and get himself killed. You know how hard it is to rent out a place when someone’s gone and died in it?”
“I’m sure that is very unfortunate Mr. Morrison. However, currently, I am more interested in the facts.”
“The facts? What facts? I come home from the pub after having a late breakfast. It was rent day, it was, so I set down me things in me place and I went up the stairs. I knocked, and the door crept open just a crack, and so
I says, ‘Mr. Pennington,’ and I knock again. When I peeks me head ‘round the door I see him lying there. Right awful business.”
“Do you know what time it was when you came to get the rent?”
“It was in the mornin’ I think. Somewhere ‘round eleven o’clock, it was. Must have gotten himself killed the night before.”
“And then you contacted the police?”
“Right away, sir. Didn’t touch a thing.”
“How often did Mr. Pennington come late on his rent?”
“This was the first time I can remember. I thought it funny that he hadn’t come. Normally he delivers it the day before. That’s why I went to ask him about it.”
“You were worried then?”
“That’s right. I was worried.” Doyle attempted to shift to a more comfortable position.
“You don’t happen to know of any frequent visitors to his apartment, would you?”
“No, I stay pretty much out of my tenants’ business.”
“Except when it comes to the rent?”
“Well we have an agreement, don’t we? If I get the rent, I don’t worry about any other goings on in my establishment. My tenants have the right to privacy, and so do I.”
“And you didn’t hear anything coming from Pennington’s apartment the night before?”
“Not a thing.”
“Hmm…good day, Mr. Morrison. Thank you for your help.” Byron stood, chair legs scraping against the floor, and left. Mira followed close behind.
“Of course, sir! Pleasure to help,” Doyle called after them.
Mira closed the door behind her and ran to catch up with Byron.
“You don’t have any other questions for him?”
“Not currently. He’s told me all the information that could possibly be useful to me.”
“But didn’t we already know when Pennington was found and how?”
“Yes, we did. But now we know that the landlord doesn’t care about anything but the money. That means that he won’t have been paying attention to anything else. Hundreds of people could have been in Pennington’s apartment that night and Morrison wouldn’t have noticed. Why continue to question an unobservant witness?”
“Is he a suspect now?”
“He always was.” He glanced at her before continuing. “But I’d say he doesn’t exactly have a motive. He said himself that a death in the building was bad for business.”
He continued to lead her through Scotland Yard until they reached the front desk. Officer Wensley manned it again.
“Byron! What brings you to the desk of knowledge?”
“Do I need a reason to stop by and say hello?” Byron smiled.
Mira looked at Byron with surprise. Why would he remember Wensley? She looked back at Officer Wensley as he laughed. “No, but you usually only come when you need something from me.”
“Very observant of you Fred. Firstly, I want to introduce you to my secretary, Miss Samira Blayse.” He stepped aside, and Mira stepped up to the desk.
“I believe we’ve met before,” she said.
“Ah yes. You were here the other day asking about a case file. I’m sorry we couldn’t accommodate you.”
“That’s my other reason for coming. Could you possibly retrieve a case file for me?” Byron said.
“Why of course my good man! It wouldn’t happen to be the file for the airship accident of 1870, would it?”
“Once again you’ve read my mind, old chum.”
“Let me get that for you. Won’t be a minute.”
Officer Wensley left the desk and went directly into a records room. Byron leaned against the desk with a smile.
“It really was that easy?” She blinked at him.
“I’m a detective. I work with the Yard. Why shouldn’t I have access?”
“I suppose you would. I just didn’t expect it to be that simple.”
“To be completely honest, sometimes old Fred there bends the rules for me. We’ve known each other since we were young.”
“You grew up together?”
“You could say that. I like to think I’m the one who got him interested in becoming a policeman.”
“Always with the ego, Constantine,” Fred said.
Mira jumped slightly and turned back towards Officer Wensley who had returned from the records room. Byron chuckled.
“You know I’m kidding.”
“I know. Here’s the report you wanted. Let me know if I can do anything else for you.”
“I always do.” Byron reached for the report.
“It was nice to officially meet you, Miss Blayse.” Officer Wensley gave a slight bow.
“You as well.”
Byron bounded down the steps as they left Scotland Yard. He handed the report to her. She furrowed her brow.
“You’re giving it to me?”
“Of course. It is your parents’ case file after all.”
“You aren’t going to look at it?”
“I’m sure I shall eventually, but for now I think you deserve to have the first look.” His voice softened. “You’ve waited long enough. Just bring it with you tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded. “You think you can remember what we learned from Mr. Morrison?”
“I think so.”
“Good. I don’t feel like writing it all down. You can go home, Mira. Look over that report. I need to do some grocery shopping and think about all of this.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Tomorrow we’ll check out his lodgings. See if we can’t find anything. I expect you to come earlier tomorrow, and don’t worry about knocking. You have a key, and you are welcome to use it.”
She nodded as he ordered a cab. They rode in silence back to the cafe. There, he paid the driver before parting from her.
“Good day, Mira.” He smiled.
“Good day, Byron.” She followed him with her eyes until he turned the corner out of sight. Clutching the report tight to her chest, she hurried home. She arrived just as the postman delivered the afternoon post.
“Good evening, miss. I’ve got another one of those letters from France for you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve noticed you’ve received quite a few from there. At least two a week.”
“My brother is a voracious writer, and I try to keep up with him. Thank you for the delivery.” She took the letter from the postman and went inside.
Nero meowed at her feet, asking for fish. She ignored him and brought her papers over to her desk. She looked between the letter and the police report trying to decide which to open first. Picking up the folder she took a deep breath and then opened it.
Officer James Davies
October 12, 1870
As I was walking my beat near the shipyards, I heard an explosion coming from the airship docks. I quickly made my way in that direction. Once close to the location of the incident, it was easy to see that the explosion had come from the engine room of one of the larger airships. As I approached, I noticed that people were evacuating from the main portion of the airship. By the time I reached the main dock, the fire had been extinguished. I entered the area where the explosion had occurred. The main window had been shattered. Several crew members were gathered around a half-melted steam engine. It was still smoldering. I moved over to them first and asked if there had been any injuries. They stated that Octavian Blayse and his wife Rose Blayse had been in the engine room at the time of the explosion, but they weren’t anywhere to be found. I left to send a messenger back to Scotland Yard for additional constables to be sent. While I was gone, the bodies were recovered. They were burned beyond recognition—
She put down the report and swallowed. It was hard to read it in such unsympathetic terms, but even worse to read about their condition. And this wasn’t even the medical report! However, she did find it odd that her parents’ bodies weren’t found until after the policeman had left. What if there were more clues? She took a deep breath
and looked out the window. Was it just her imagination? Her false hope that somehow her parents’ death was more than an accident? She paused in thought. Why would she want her parents to have been murdered? What sort of motive could there have possibly been? She slumped back in her seat again. There had to be more. She took a deep breath and managed to continue.
They were burned beyond recognition, but their clothing positively identified them as Mr. and Mrs. Blayse. Their bodies were found outside the airship. The explosion sent them through the main window and onto the ground below. I hadn’t seen them as I approached because they had fallen behind some scaffolding. Soon enough the additional officers arrived on the scene, as well as some reporters. We brought the bodies back to Scotland Yard to be examined by the Yard physician. The bodies were further identified by a friend of the family, Edward Burke.
She blinked at the professor’s name. How had she never heard about this? If the professor had been there, then he had to know something! Although, he only identified them. He wasn’t at the shipyard. She just needed to find a way of contacting him.
She glanced over the medical report. It was worse than the police report. She set it off to the side when she couldn’t read any more. Pushing away the folder, she picked up the letter from her brother. Thank goodness she saved it for last! At least she would end on a happy note.
My dearest Mira,
I’m happy to hear that you are getting help with this case. It certainly seemed as if every part of it had come to nothing for you.
I’m afraid my previous letter’s news wasn’t exactly meant to be. Fairly soon after I sent that letter, I found out that Henri Giffard died back in 1882. I would have thought his death would be more well publicized. After all, he did invent the first airship, or as the French say “dirigible.” Of course, our father likely would have still invented it if Giffard hadn’t. As you may well have guessed, I am rather disappointed, but not to worry! I’ll find a different apprenticeship soon enough. We’ll be going on a trip to the Alps this next week, and then I’ll start my search again. Of course, being in the Alps means I won’t be able to write you until the beginning of October. Hopefully, my next letter will carry more favorable news.
Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Page 6