“There was a court case in 1877 that cleared out the corruption in Scotland Yard. Before then it was entirely possible for policemen to be bribed.”
“Your detective told you that?”
“Indeed, he did.”
“Mira, what if he’s just giving you false hope?” he said, exasperated.
“The evidence is there. Any hope comes from that, not him.”
“Where is the motive? Why on earth would anyone want your parents to be dead?” he shouted before sagging back into his armchair.
She went quiet. She hadn’t thought about that. She went over situation after situation trying to find a reason. She took a breath.
“Well you knew my parents. Did they have any enemies?”
“No, they didn’t. Your father was almost a celebrity. Everyone loved them.”
“But those who run in higher circles always have enemies.”
“Mira, you just have to accept that it was an accident. What happened, happened. There doesn’t have to be an ulterior motive for it.”
“But, Professor, we found—”
“What is the name of this private detective of yours?”
“Byron Constantine. And he’s brilliant.”
“Is he the one without a memory? Mira, how can you expect him to help with this?”
“He’s solved forty-one cases before now without a problem.”
“But if this truly is a mystery to be solved, this case is eighteen years old. No clues, no traces. What could he possibly find or remember?”
Mira’s thoughts sank down around her. Maybe they did have a lead, but where would it even take them? They knew that her parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but without more witnesses they couldn’t determine anything. She felt her hopes falling within her when Landon called them into dinner.
The rest of the evening blurred together. She knew she participated in the conversation, but she couldn’t remember any of the topics. She excused herself early from the evening and walked home, the lulling sounds of the city crashing against her ears attempting in vain to stir her from her thoughts. She went over the events again and again. Nothing. Another dead end. Another blockade. And even though she had Byron to help her now, what help would he be without his memory? She trudged up the steps to her rooms.
He had given her plenty of help. Because of him, she was able to read the reports and meet Mr. Graham. But what else could he possibly do? The words of the professor echoed through her head. She tried to shake it off as she got ready for bed, but the thoughts kept coming back. What if there wasn’t an answer? What if he was right? She lay down and stared at the ceiling, willing the anxiety to cease.
The sun crept through the window, the sharp slit of light beaming on Mira’s face. She stirred and pulled the covers tight over around her. The shifting blankets left her feet in the cold, and she wrestled to get them back under again. Why did it have to be morning? She snuggled further into the blankets, feeling her breath on her face. Nero found his way under the covers and nibbled on her toes, asking for fish. She grimaced at his rough, wet tongue and forced herself to get up. Nero mewed at her feet.
“Alright, alright! I’m up. Apparently, you can’t do anything without me!”
She didn’t care to determine whether she was referring to the cat or to Byron and pushed her frustrated exhaustion to the side as she trudged into the kitchen. She paused to look at the time. Nine o’clock. Byron could wait, couldn’t he? She gave Nero his breakfast and sat down to her toast and eggs in silence. Whether or not she wanted to admit it, she’d fallen into a routine with Byron.
After breakfast, she headed out to Palace Court. Clouds congregated and blocked out the sunlight. It was quarter past ten when she arrived, and she felt a few drops of rain as she stepped into the doorway. She pulled out the key and chuckled. What response would she receive today? To her surprise, the door flung open and Byron jerked her inside, closed the door and pinned her against the wall.
“Byron!” Her key clattered to the floor.
“Where in heavens have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”
“What?”
“You’re late.”
“You remember?” she whispered.
“Er…no. I read up on my journal before you got here.”
“And you were worried about someone you had never met?” She retrieved her key and pushed past him into the living room. Of course, he didn’t remember! It was foolish to think otherwise. The professor’s words rang in her ears. He would never remember. If she knew that, why did it hurt so much? Her eyes stung, as she focused on the room. Papers were strewn everywhere. A rather large address book lay open on the side table.
“I know enough about you from my journal. I know enough to know you are punctual.” He followed her into the living room.
“Right.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have your address, or else I would have called upon you to ensure that you were alright.”
“Well, let’s clean this up, then.” Mira knelt to pick up the papers. Byron stooped to help her. She turned away from him to better organize the notes and hide her eyes.
“You are alright, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Byron. I am.”
“Why were you late?”
“I must have gotten preoccupied. I’m sorry,” she muttered, brushing a stray tear away when he wasn’t looking.
“No, it’s quite alright.” He picked up the last of the papers and put them in the filing system. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked.
She glanced up at him, meeting his sincere blue eyes. She relented. “That would be lovely.”
A few minutes later the kettle whistled, and Mira settled into her armchair as Byron handed her a cup.
“Thank you.” She sipped at it, letting the warmth flow through her. He nodded, sat down, took a sip from his own cup, and opened his journal.
“What we have here are plenty of facts,” he started. “All of his coworkers believe that he was depressed and that his depression is what caused him to leave the Vaporidge company. From what we can tell, he had a love life of some sort. Mr. Graham has told us about Molly Bridges. One burglar that hasn’t been found. Hopefully in the last day or so I have received some sort of answer to that newspaper reply. There is still the question of the cause of death—”
“I see several questions, Byron,” she interrupted.
“Well yes, of course. Which ones are you toying with now?”
“Cause of death, motive, whether the house was searched or burglarized…”
“Yes, that would be two different things in my book as well. Please continue.”
“Where did he go during his breaks, why did he leave the company, and what was the state of his relationship with Molly Bridges?”
“All excellent questions. And surely we shall answer them all!” He set down his teacup and pressed his fingertips together. He looked over at her. “Where should we start Mira?”
“Well, perhaps with the post.” She leaned over and picked up the letters on the table, handing them to him.
“Ah yes. To see if we have received an answer.” He picked up a letter opener from his side table and slid it across the top of each envelope, reading each in turn then setting them to the side.
“Aha! Here we have it.”
“A response?”
“Number 10, Caxton Street. It says we can come between noon and two o’clock on Mondays or Wednesdays.”
Mira glanced up at the clock. “Well today is Monday, and it is nearly noon now.”
“Yes. Indeed, it is. Let’s go.”
They cleaned up their tea things, and Byron grabbed his hat. Soon they were on the street. Byron called for a hansom cab and helped her into it before settling in beside her. They travelled in silence for a while, listening to the beating of the rain on the top of the carriage.
“We probably ought to stop by Scotland Yard on our way back. I haven’t come in for a few days,” he said.
> “Will they worry?”
“Not as much as I worried about you this morning.”
“It was only an hour. For someone you hadn’t met before.”
“You mentioned that earlier. But I had met you. I’ve met you almost every day for twelve days, Mira.”
“But you don’t remember me.”
“And for that I am truly sorry.”
He gave her a soft smile, and the carriage pulled up in front of 10 Caxton Street before Mira could respond. Byron stepped out and offered a hand, which she took, stepping down.
He moved up to the door and knocked. Mira moved beside him as footsteps echoed on the other side of the door. The echoing stopped, and the door opened. There stood a tall, young lady, not more than thirty years old with curly red hair tied back tight against her head and red lips that caused severe contrast with her pale skin. Her brown eyes seemed dark as chocolate. Mira could see the chain of a necklace, but it was hidden underneath her lace bodice.
“May I help you?” Her voice rang out, timid and melodic.
“My name is Byron Constantine of Palace Court and this is my secretary Samira Blayse.” He gestured to Mira.
“Oh, you sent out the advertisement in the paper. You were wondering about Clement?”
“Yes ma’am. Are you Molly Bridges?”
“Yes, I am.”
“In that case, may we come in?” Byron asked.
“Of course. Please do.” She stepped back and allowed them past before closing the door. She led them into a sitting room. It was a simple room. The side tables sat bereft of books, ornaments, or portraits. The curtains hung limp near the window. There were several chairs of various sizes and levels of comfort. Mira did like how the light came through the window, though.
“Do sit down,” Molly said as she took a seat herself. Mira sat on the couch and pulled out her sketchbook. Byron sat beside her.
“I must warn you; I have an appointment in about thirty minutes, but I’m yours until then. What do you want to know?”
“How close were you with the deceased?” Byron began.
“Deceased?” Her eyes widened.
“Yes, Mr. Pennington.”
“You can’t mean…” Molly’s eyes filled with tears. Byron softened his voice.
“I didn’t realize you didn’t know. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“What happened?” Molly’s voice shook, trying to keep her composure.
“His landlord found him dead in his rooms on September tenth.”
“He killed himself?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine. Could you tell us what you know about him?”
“I’ll try.” She stifled a sob. “With Clement, well, we had been courting for several months. Since April.” She fidgeted with her hands and looked down.
“Where did you meet?”
“Well it is rather silly now that I think about it.” She gave a watery laugh and looked out the window.
“We were walking in opposite directions actually, he came around the corner just as I was approaching, and we bumped into each other. We both had papers in our hands, and they went flying everywhere. I accidentally took some of his, and he took some of mine. I was home by the time I realized, so I put an advertisement in the paper. Then we met up to exchange the papers at a cafe. We accidentally bumped into each other again the week after that and purposefully met again the next week, and then we seemed to be meeting almost every day. Until now, that is.” Her voice cracked, and she looked down again. “You see, I was used to Clement disappearing for a few days without warning, even after he quit his job with the company. He’d say he needed to work on something, and I wouldn’t hear from him. If you hadn’t come, I probably wouldn’t have known until it came out in the papers.”
“Can you think of any reason why he would have killed himself?” Byron asked.
“Well, I do know he was melancholic. Working for the airship wasn’t everything he had hoped for. He thought he would travel the world and see the skies, but he was stuck in a stuffy, dark engine room. When he quit, I encouraged him to get another job, but he wouldn’t.”
“Can you tell me what happened the last time you saw him?”
“Yes. He invited me over for dinner. It was the ninth, I believe. We made dinner and talked for a while, and ate and talked some more.”
“Around what time did you arrive at his place, and when did you leave?”
Molly hesitated. “I’m not certain. I think it may have been around eight or so when I got there. I left around nine-thirty.”
“And he bought champagne and chocolates for you?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And this was after he quit his job. How did he pay for all of that?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know where he was getting the money. Every time I asked him, he would get defensive.”
“Did you ask him that night?”
“Yes, I did. When he brought out the champagne. I hate to say this, but I was worried he was stealing, or involved in gambling or some other sordid business. I know he would have told me if he had gotten a job.”
“How did he respond?”
“He got defensive. He told me not to bring it up again, and I asked if he stole the money. He said no, and then was sad that I even thought that. He told me to leave. So, I did.”
“And that is the last time you saw him alive?”
“Yes.” A few more tears formed. Byron took out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She burst into sobs.
“I love him. I know now that I don’t care about where the money was coming from. I just want him back.” She continued to cry into the handkerchief. Byron shifted in his seat, looking between the two women. Mira closed her sketchbook and moved over to Molly, putting an arm around her.
“I’m so sorry, Molly. This must be terrible for you,” she said. Molly cried into her.
“I just, I can’t believe he is gone.”
“It’s going to be alright.”
“And to think if it was that night,” She sobbed. “If I had stayed that perhaps he wouldn’t have done it.”
“It isn’t your fault Molly,” Mira said.
“No. I suppose you are right.” Molly slowly sat up and composed herself. “I’m terribly sorry for causing a scene.”
“No, it is perfectly alright.” Mira pulled her arm back. “This is a hard time for you.”
“Thank you.”
Mira nodded to her and moved back over to Byron. Byron narrowed his eyes for a second and then leaned forward.
“Miss Bridges, I hate to continue questioning, however, do you know of anyone who would want Clement Pennington dead?”
“You think he was murdered?”
“It is a possibility.”
“No. I can’t think of anyone. He must have committed suicide.”
“And there is nothing else you can tell us?”
“No. I’ve told you everything I know.” She handed back the handkerchief.
“You can keep it.” Byron held a hand up, and Molly placed her hands in her lap. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“Of course, let me know if there is anything else that I can do. But before you go, I do have one question.”
“Yes?”
“How did you know about me? Did you find a letter? Something he wrote to me?” Her lip quivered. Byron softened again.
“I’m sorry Miss Bridges, but no.”
Mira spoke up. “It was one of his neighbors, Mr. Graham. We asked him if he knew of anyone that was close to Clement. He mentioned you.”
Molly nodded and sniffled into the handkerchief again. “Mr. Graham has always been such a kind man. I’m grateful that he told you about me.”
“We’ll be in contact as we find out more, but for now we’ll let you get to your appointment.”
Byron’s cogs whirred as he stalked down the wet pavement, the rain gone for the time being. Mira nudged him out of the way of lampposts, puddles, and uneven ground as
they walked in a semi-homeward direction. Just as she thought they were going to cross back into their part of the city, he stopped, examined his journal, then turned and went up a different road. Soon enough they arrived in front of Pennington’s residence.
“Let’s take another look around.” He climbed the stairs two at a time. Mira furrowed her brow, but followed. Hadn’t they seen everything?
The living room was untouched aside from a bit of accumulated dust. Byron poured over everything like a bloodhound. After poking around for a moment, Mira resigned to watch Byron at work. He eventually sat down at the piano bench.
“I might have been wrong about him being murdered, Mira.” He rubbed his hands together.
“Because of what Molly said?”
“Yes. Now, this is all conjecture, but perhaps he wasn’t doing well as an airship operator. He quit and became a thief. She disapproved, he felt rejected, perhaps betrayed, and then he killed himself. If he was in a crime circle, it would be all too easy for him to have gotten those opioids. He could very well have been ambidextrous like you.” He played a couple of notes on the piano. Several of the keys didn’t play, and the ones that did were out of tune. His eyes lit up.
“Hold on a moment.” He stood and walked around the piano.
He picked up the drinking glass from the top and set it off to the side, and then lifted the lid of the piano.
“Aha! I thought as much.” He grinned.
“What?”
“There is a place for a stash in here.”
“A stash?”
“Yes, somewhere to keep your valuables. Don’t you have one?”
“No. I use the bank.”
“I guess it would be more of a criminal-type thing to do. And it seems Pennington wasn’t making use of this one. There is nothing in it.”
“Must have spent it all on champagne.”
“No. It was opened after the romantic evening.”
“How can you tell?” Mira moved over to him. Byron closed the lid to the piano and gestured to a round mark on the top.
“You see this ring on top? It is a condensation ring. These are left when a cold glass gathers condensation on the outside and it drips to the bottom, creating a ring.”
“And?”
Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Page 11