Love,
Walker
She placed the letter in the box on the mantle. It wasn’t particularly happy news. But at least it was a letter from Walker. The last one. For over a week. She woke up Nero from his twentieth nap of the day and brought him up the stairs to her room. Tomorrow would be another day, and although the police reports and letter were slightly depressing, nothing could stop her from being excited for it. Another day on the case with Byron was certainly something to look forward to.
The sun peeked through Mira’s curtains, but she was already up, dressed, and breakfasted. Her excitement made it difficult to sleep. The walk to Palace Court through Kensington Gardens was uneventful, and she arrived in front of Byron’s abode before the frost melted from the grass, sketchbook and police report in hand. Piano music drifted out an open window in his sitting room and Mira smiled to herself. Even if he forgot the day to day, muscle memory couldn’t be forgotten. She slipped the key into the lock and entered. The piano stopped playing.
She closed the door and turned to face a pistol. Her smile disappeared. She froze and looked at the owner of said pistol. Byron stared at her, questions playing on his features, scrutinizing her once again. There was something else as well. Anger. Something she had never seen on his face before. She swallowed and took a step back, paling. Her eyes flicked between the barrel of the gun and his face. Muscle memory couldn’t be forgotten. Her heart raced in her chest.
“Who are you and how did you get in?” He cocked the pistol. She tensed and tried to be confident.
“Samira Blayse. You gave me a key. Have you read your journal this morning?” Her voice cracked as she spoke.
“Journal…journal…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Your journal. The one you read every day to help remember what has happened before?” She tried to keep her voice level. He didn’t lower the pistol, but he took his finger off the trigger. He looked entirely confused, and the anger seemed to be dissipating. She took a chance.
“Maybe if we found it…it would help.” She slipped past him and into the sitting room to look for it. He didn’t try to stop her, but he kept his gun trained on her.
The journal sat on his armchair, closed with a fountain pen on top. She picked it up and returned to the entry hall, holding it out to him.
“Read this. It might make more sense.”
He looked at her, narrowing his eyes for a second. Then he lowered the pistol. “I’m trusting you.” He took the journal, opened it and moved into the sitting room to read. She stood frozen for a moment then took a deep breath and followed him. After taking her usual place on the couch, she began to add shading to Doyle. After another fifteen or so minutes he closed his journal and looked up at her.
“Oh…I’m sorry, Mira.”
“It’s perfectly alright,” she said straightening, “as long as you remember now. You do remember now, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking.” He disarmed the gun and placed it back in its case on the side table.
“You didn’t remember me, and I just randomly came into your house. It makes sense, in a way.”
“I suppose.” He watched her for a moment before shaking his head. “Now that that is taken care of, can you remind me of what happened with the landlord?”
She nodded and handed her drawing to him.
“This is Doyle Morrison. He found the body at eleven o’clock, you determined that he wasn’t useful for further questioning as he seemed more interested in money than in people, and we were going to investigate the scene of the crime today.” She finished, and he handed the drawing back to her.
“Is that good enough?” she asked.
“That’s more than good enough. I’ve never had visuals to remind me before. At least I think I haven’t.” He grinned at her.
“Oh! I also brought the police report back. The one for my parents’ case.”
“Ah yes. I read about that. What did you gain from it?”
“The same story again.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Other than I thought it was odd that my parents’ bodies weren’t found until after the constable returned.” She passed the folder of documents over to him.
“Hmm…that could be a clue, or just how it happened. How were they identified?”
“By their clothing. The explosion had, well, made them unrecognizable.” She swallowed and fidgeted with her hands. “And I know the individual who identified them. He’s a family friend. I plan on asking him about it the next time I see him.”
“I see.” Byron scanned over the first page of the report. “I’ll give it a read through. Maybe I’ll find something else of use. And I’d like to know what you find out from your friend.”
He paused a moment more before setting the folder on his side table and standing.
“Let’s go.” He retrieved his satchel and placed his journal into it. He strode towards the door and she followed him out onto the street. He hailed a cab as she locked the door.
“Scotland Yard, if you would.” He told the cabbie as he helped Mira into the carriage.
“Aren’t we going to the victim’s lodgings?”
“One needs an address to do that, Mira, and I believe I forgot to get that from the Inspector yesterday.”
The carriage bumped and bustled over the cobblestones and they swayed with the chassis. They rode in silence for a while until it occurred to Mira that it was rather odd that Byron had relied on her instead of his journal with facts for the case.
“Byron, isn’t it risky not to write down certain facts in your journal?”
“Hmm? Oh yes. I suppose it is.”
“Then why did you ask me to remember what Mr. Morrison had said? I know we didn’t find out much, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.”
“It was a sort of test. Just to see if you truly were up for the job.”
“And what if I wasn’t?”
“I wrote up my own version and put it in one of my drawers. I made a note in my journal that I was relying on you this time, and if your account wasn’t satisfactory that there was another one.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry. You passed.”
He gave her a reassuring smile and, she smiled back. The carriage reached Scotland Yard, and he helped her out. They entered and went up to Thatcher’s office.
“Good morning, Byron! How are you doing today?” Juliet chittered.
“Good morning. I’m doing well. Thatcher in?”
Juliet nodded. “Go on in.”
Mira thought she saw a wink from Juliet as she gestured them into the office. Thatcher looked up from his desk as they came in.
“Constantine! Just the person I wanted to see! Take a seat. We’ve nearly solved the case.”
“You have?” Byron took a seat with a questioning glance towards Mira. She took a seat next to him.
“Definitely. The medical report has come in. The head injury was not the cause of death. There were drugs in his system. He must have administered the drug, it took effect, he fell backwards into the table, causing the head injury.”
“And the fact that the place looked ransacked?”
“There is still the possibility of burglary. We’re still trying to track down the burglar to see if we can’t get any other evidence. However, the landlord did tell us that Pennington’s rooms were hardly ever clean. It is a clear case of suicide. Or death by misadventure at any rate. And it’s a good thing, too. I’ve got several other cases I’m working on and it’s nice to put one to rest.”
“Hm. If it’s all the same to you, could we still look over the crime scene?”
“Be my guest. I’d be surprised if you found anything.”
“Might we have the address?”
“Didn’t I give it to you when I assigned you to the case?”
“I must have misplaced it.”
The chief inspe
ctor nodded and wrote the address down.
“Miss Blayse, if you could ensure he doesn’t lose it this time.”
Mira nodded as Byron took the paper and stood to leave.
“Just a moment Constantine!” Inspector Thatcher called after him. Byron paused at the door. Thatcher picked up a different file folder and walked over to him.
“I think you might also want a copy of the medical examination.”
“Thank you.” Byron took it and left. Mira followed him after offering her own thanks to the chief inspector.
They stopped for brunch at a cafe on the way to the victim’s rooms. Mira added milk to her tea and Byron read over some notes he had taken.
“Shall we look over the medical examination?” She stirred the milk in, watching the swirls die down into a cloudy haze. He nodded and pulled out the file.
“Cranial hemorrhaging near the back of the head, as we already know, and high amounts of opioids in his system. There is a bruise on his left arm and a pinprick suggesting that it was administered through his left cephalic vein. There were a couple of standard bruises on his legs, but those could have come from anything. Nothing else out of the ordinary.”
“Cephalic vein?” She could feel herself getting a bit squeamish, but this report was nothing compared to her parents’.
“Yes. It’s the one that goes up your arm and back to your heart.” He gestured to a place on his inner arm.
“So that didn’t give us anything else to go off of.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He sipped at his tea. She sipped at hers and watched the airships float past. Just a few months ago, Clement Pennington had been flying inside one of them. What was that like? Byron brought her out of her reverie.
“Have you ever been in one?” He glanced up at a blue airship that passed overhead.
“Oh heavens, no. My uncle would never approve. He’s terrified of them. He thinks they’re dangerous.”
“Do you?”
“Well, I suppose they are. But in the same way that sailboats, bicycles, and horse-drawn carriages are dangerous.”
“So only slightly?” He took a sip of tea and searched her face.
“To be completely honest, I’ve always wanted to fly. It somehow terrifies and thrills me at the same time.”
“Hmm.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason.” He jotted down a note in his journal before setting his teacup down. “We probably ought to get going.”
They reached the place in the early afternoon and had no problem gaining access. It was a tall, rundown building holding several apartments belonging to different people. They learned from a rusting nameplate that Mr. Morrison’s apartment was the door halfway up the building. Pennington’s apartment was at the top of the stairs.
Byron went up the stairs first and opened the door. It creaked as it opened inward. Mira peered in. The room was in worse condition than Byron’s when she had first seen it. Papers everywhere. Two bottles of champagne opened, one empty, the other still half full, but no bubbles coming from it. A box of chocolates melted on the windowsill. A glass sat on the piano; a ring left beside it by condensation. Many of the chairs were turned over. A teacup sat on a side table, and another lay in shatters on the floor. A chalk drawing of a body drawn on the floor was near the side table.
They moved into the bedroom where pillows lay on the floor, and the mattress skewed at an angle. Every drawer in the dresser lay open, the clothes all rumpled together and spilling out onto the floor. The desk seemed to be the only tidy space. Letterhead somewhat in the center. Pen on the left, straight beside a pad of paper. A vase of dead flowers on the right. Byron observed everything with deliberate thoroughness.
In the washroom, the tooth powder was upright next to a half-empty bottle of perfume. Byron moved into the kitchen and Mira followed. There was some food left out, but most of the dishes had been done and the counter was clear. All but two of the teacups hung where they should be. They moved back into the main room.
“So, Mira, what do you take from this?”
She looked at him surprised. Why would he want her input? “What do you mean?”
“What do you see?”
“I’m not the master of observation. You are.”
“On the contrary Mira. You’re an artist. Observation is all that you do.”
Mira turned in place, looking around the main room again. Byron picked up two of the chairs, setting them to rights and sat in one. She took a seat in the other.
“Well…” She hesitated.
“I’ll give you a hint. What could you tell from the kitchen?”
“It wasn’t nearly as messy as the rest of the house. Which means he took better care of it or cleaned it most recently.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“He likes to cook?”
“Think Mira. What about the champagne and chocolates?”
“He has expensive tastes?”
“Don’t question me. Question your surroundings.”
She looked around again, thinking. Frowning. “Why would he have chocolate?”
“Two teacups were missing as well.” Byron stalked over to the window.
“Someone was over. A woman.”
“Very good. From what I can gather, they had tea, cooked dinner, ate it, drank champagne, talked for a while, and then she left. Now, how did you know it was a woman?” He turned back towards her.
“Men rarely buy chocolate for themselves, and there is perfume in the bathroom. She must frequent the place, but she doesn’t live here because there are no dresses hanging in the closet.”
“Excellent. I knew you had observational skills.” He smiled and picked up the handle from the broken teacup, examined it, then dropped it. Mira cringed as the china splintered even more.
“Now, Mira, do you know what causes me to believe that this is still a murder case?”
She bit her lip. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
He walked over to the piano, picked up the glass, examined it, then turned back, setting the glass back in its place.
“The kitchen was clean. If a man was going to invite a woman over, the entire apartment would be clean. It was ransacked. The mattress was upended, meaning someone was looking for cash. Drawers opened and rummaged through, indicating a search for jewels.”
“So, you think the woman killed him, and then searched his room?”
“That is a possibility. There is one other thing that points to murder.” He stood up and walked back into the bedroom. She followed. He stopped at the desk.
“Anything strike you as odd about this?” He gestured to the pen.
“No. Nothing.”
“That’s because you are left-handed Mira. You place your pen on the left as well. Easier to grab. To any right-handed person, it would feel uncomfortable and awkward.”
“How does this point to murder?”
“The drug was administered into his left arm. That means someone else had to do it.”
She sat in stunned silence for a few moments. He stepped out of the bedroom, looking over the main room once more.
“We need to talk to his neighbors. See if they noticed that he had a friend who frequented the place.” He strode towards the hall and Mira followed, being careful to close the door behind her.
After knocking on a few doors without response, a door at the end of the corridor near the stairs finally opened.
“What do you want?” a crotchety voice gristled out at them through the crack in the door.
“We’d like to ask you some questions Mr.…?”
Byron looked around for a nameplate. There wasn’t one.
“Graham. And who are you to be asking any questions?”
“I work with Scotland Yard.”
“Those policemen, trampling up and down my stairs at all hours of the day. Can’t give an old man any rest. If they didn’t ask me any questions, why should you?”
“Perhaps I am more thorough. May
we come in?”
“Harrumph.” He breathed heavily through his nose.
“We just want to ask what you have seen recently.”
“And why is that any of your business?” the man asked. Byron sucked air through his teeth and let out a breath.
“A man was murdered in this building not a fortnight ago, sir. If you’ll just cooperate, we’ll be on our way.”
Byron’s voice raised in volume a bit. Mira touched his arm, and he looked at her, a question dancing in his eyes. She stepped into view of the door.
“Sir, if you’d like, we can come back when it’s more convenient. We were just thinking that a man of your experience, and obvious intellect, would have noticed the goings on here more than the average person. Your evidence could be invaluable in helping to solve this case.” The old man opened the door further, peering out at her.
“Mrs. Blayse?” His voice was hesitant and soft.
“Um…no. Miss Blayse. My mother passed away several years ago.”
He pondered on her words for a few moments, then the door opened, fully exposing the old gentleman leaning on his silver-tipped cane. He sighed.
“I know.”
His hair was entirely silver, his eyes dark brown. His skin was wrinkled and weathered. He seemed to have lived a full life; Mira could tell that from the deepness of his eyes. His suit was expensive, but worn, fraying at the edges. He looked them both over.
“You look quite a bit like your mother.” His voice sounded hollow. “Come on in then.” He hobbled off into his living room and took a seat in an extremely overstuffed chair. Byron looked at Mira in astonishment, and then followed her in, closing the door behind him. They both took a seat on a couch facing Mr. Graham, and Byron took out his notebook.
Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Page 7