“There’s only the one ring here, and it seems to be fairly recent. It matches the glass I moved exactly. Since the glass wasn’t directly on the condensation ring, it must have been moved after it had dried. I know from my journal entry that I had made note of that before.”
“So, someone got into the piano either just before the murder or just after!”
“Precisely. Whatever was in here was stolen. Find that, and we might find our killer.”
They left the apartment and headed for Scotland Yard; their silence comfortable as they meandered. The leaves on the trees showed the first signs of Autumn; gold, orange, and red fringe framing each green leaf. Mira pulled her coat tighter around herself as a chill wind passed. As she did, Byron reached out, then pulled away, turning towards a news boy on the corner.
“Burglar caught in North London!” the young lad shouted. Byron turned back to Mira and their eyes met. With a nod, they quickened their pace. By four o’clock, they reached Scotland Yard. They went through the marbled halls and found themselves in front of a familiar desk. Juliet lit up when she saw Byron.
“Mr. Constantine! I’ve been worried.”
“Ah yes, Miss…” He looked at her nameplate, “Chickering.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing to worry about, really. Just hot on this case. Is Thatcher around?”
“Just one moment.” She stood and knocked on the door, then entered the other room. They heard mumbled chitchat before Juliet returned.
“He has a few minutes,” Juliet said. Byron nodded, and he and Mira entered the office.
“Well Constantine? I don’t have much time; we’ve got a lead on Whitechapel. Are you here to question the burglar? We caught her, you know. And she confessed to being at Pennington’s apartment.”
“Her? Well, yes now that you mention it, we would. However, I thought I would let you know the latest on the case.”
“And what is that?”
“Clement Pennington had a secret compartment in his piano. It was accessed either after his death, or shortly before it.”
“You have evidence of this?”
“Definite evidence.”
“Then our burglar must be lying. She stated that she didn’t find or steal anything when she came.”
“That’s the other thing. It is highly likely that Pennington was a thief of some kind. It is probable that he helped with a theft and took all the cash for himself. If that is the case, our burglar may have motive for murder.”
“You’ll have to tell me more about the evidence later.” Thatcher stood, picking up his coat. “I’m afraid I am late for an appointment with the superintendent about one of my other cases.”
Mira and Byron stood as well.
“Would you mind if we talked with our new suspect?”
“Not at all.” He picked up his hat and nodded to them both as he left the room. “Good day, Constantine, Miss Blayse.”
Byron left the office by a different door. He was heading to the interrogation rooms. Mira knew the way now. She followed next to him.
“Do you think we are dealing with a den of thieves here?”
“I believe we may be. Two potential burglars involved with one crime? It seems too good to be true,” he teased.
“But do you think that the burglar might have killed him? That Pennington was involved in the other burglaries?”
“Anything is possible, Mira.”
They reached the interrogation rooms and found Officer Wensley there.
“Constantine, old friend!”
“Hello, Fred.”
“Let me guess, you need something again. Or should I say, someone?”
“Did the chief inspector tell you we were coming?”
“Of course not! You think I wouldn’t know you’d be here in no time flat after hearing we caught the burglar?”
“That doesn’t take much deductive power, Fred.”
“I’ll take what I can get as a constable. You want me to get her for you?”
“Please do.”
Officer Wensley nodded and walked towards the holding cells. Byron leaned against the wall.
“I will never regret not going to police school.”
“Why did Fred go?”
“Well there is only a certain amount of leeway that a private detective has. If you move through the ranks of Scotland Yard, you’ll have access to more.”
“You don’t seem to have any problems with accessing things.”
“That’s just because I know how to play the game. If Wensley had wanted to, he could have gone in this direction. Something tells me he’ll still be bending the rules when he becomes a chief inspector.”
Officer Wensley came back down the hall. “They’re bringing her down now. You can go wait in interrogation room two if you want.”
“After you, Mira.” Byron took a step back, and she led the way.
“I’m interested to see who exactly we are working with here,” Byron said as they walked. “I’ve never heard of a female cat burglar before.” Byron paused a moment as they entered the interrogation room and situated themselves. “But I suppose that is part of the beauty of it. It’s no wonder that it has taken the police so long to find her. No one would suspect, and she could get away with all sorts of things.” He leaned back in his chair as the door opened and a woman stalked in.
Mira frowned. The burglar, that had supposedly been terrorizing North London for weeks, was indeed a woman. Two constables led her into the room, forced her into a chair, and then handcuffed her to the table. One constable handed a folder to Byron. The burglar quickly adjusted and sat comfortably, as if she posed for a portrait, without a care in the world. She had dark hair that probably was, at some point, pulled tight back into a bun. Wisps of hair had escaped during the time she had been incarcerated. Her eyes were dark, too. She was of a slim build, probably useful for slipping into tight places. She wore all black and sported tight-fitting trousers instead of a skirt—practical for staying hidden and climbing up buildings, if Mira had to guess. She took out her sketchbook to capture her.
“Selene Vermielle is it?” Byron looked at the case file. The cat lifted her head and examined him for the first time.
“Yes. And you are the detective they brought in to make me talk?” She had a slight French accent. When she pronounced the “r’s” it sounded like she was purring.
“That all depends. Can you think of anything worth talking about?”
Selene furrowed her brow. Mira adjusted her pencil, stretching her fingers.
“Not with you. No.”
“Very well. Then I’ll start the conversation. How do you do?”
“Terribly. I’m being held at Scotland Yard. How do you think I’d be doing?”
“Well, if you weren’t guilty, I’m sure you would have no trouble cooperating with the police. However, your lack of cooperation means you might be hiding something. The more you tell us, the more we can help you.”
Selene paused, pondering the situation. He continued. “Besides, we already know you were burglarizing a different abode. You were caught with the jewels in your paws so to speak. Conclusive evidence. You’ll be locked up for that alone, but why add a murder charge on top?”
“I didn’t murder him.”
“Well that’s a start. Why didn’t you murder him?”
“Because I don’t know who he is! Why would I murder someone without reason? I steal things for money. No one gets hurt, really.” She folded her arms and looked away, almost disgusted.
“The police seem to think that you did.”
“But I didn’t!”
“Here’s the scenario. You climb up the building, slip in through the open window. Move into the bedroom to look for jewels or pocket watches, or anything you can sell. You hear the door open and freeze in place. You pick up the nearest object and hide behind the door. You only mean to knock him out, but you hit a little too hard. He spins as he falls, falling onto his back. You run before he can see your face.” Byron glanced at Mira, and she smi
led, realizing he used her version of the story. Her attention was brought back to Selene when the cat growled in frustration.
“Except that didn’t happen!”
“What did then?”
She rolled her eyes. “Very well Mssr. Detective. I was there that night. I broke into the apartment on Vincent Street.”
“When you entered, how did you go about it?” Byron jotted down a few notes. A glint flickered into the cat’s eye, and she smiled.
“It was simple. The latch on the window was undone, and it was easy enough to scale the alley wall. I didn’t even need my tools.”
“And did you find anything there?”
“No. He had nothing. I checked drawers, under mattresses. Everywhere. No jewels. No cash. There was nothing.”
“You didn’t see anything unusual? A body perhaps?”
“A body? Of course not! If I had seen a body I never would have entered.”
“Around what time was this?”
“I believe it was ten o’clock. I knew the place would be empty then.”
“And how did you know that?”
She went silent for a moment, a flicker of fear in her eyes before she composed herself into a feline state once again. “Trade secret.”
Byron raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been forthright up to now.”
“Ah, but that is because everything I have told you will not harm me more.”
“Then this involves someone else?”
She looked away in silence.
“It does. Well that is good to know.” Byron scribbled something else down, his pencil scratches punctuating the silence.
“I see. Well thank you for your time and cooperation.” Byron stood and left the room as Mira packed up her things in a haphazard fashion and followed.
“There’s someone else involved here. Someone told her when it would be empty,” he said.
“Could it be the landlord, Doyle?” she offered.
“If it were Doyle, she would have told us. No. It’s someone else. Someone more dangerous.”
They walked out of Scotland Yard and hailed a hansom cab.
“Tomorrow, we’ll check the bank. If we can determine when Clement had his influx of money, perhaps we’ll be able to pin down more of what occurred that night. Obviously, someone is lying.”
“Well if everyone was telling the truth we wouldn’t have a mystery to solve, would we?” she teased.
“My thoughts exactly. Once we figure things out at the bank, it would probably be in our best interest to map out a timeline and then we can worry ourselves about finding out who tipped off our friend Selene Vermielle.”
They reached the cafe, and the carriage stopped. Mira began climbing out, but Byron placed a hand on her arm to stop her. She looked back at him.
“May I walk you home?”
“Yes, you may.” She smiled. He stepped out of the carriage and then helped her down. The lamps flickered on above them. He offered her his arm as they strolled leisurely back to her lodgings.
“Is this so you can know where I live for future reference? Or are you simply being a gentleman?”
“You may think what you like about my intentions.” He smirked at her. She started laughing and his laugher soon followed hers. His eyes sparkled with mirth, and she felt a heat creeping onto her features.
“Well then Mr. Constantine, I believe that you are doing both.”
“You caught me.” He grinned. They reached the steps that led up to her place and she stopped.
“Is this where you live?” Byron glanced between the building and her.
“I could be lying to you.”
“I like to think I can detect lies more easily than most.”
“And?”
“You aren’t.” He smiled.
“Well, I suppose this is where we say goodbye.” The white building loomed above her, and she bit her lip. The morning doubts crept back into her mind. She brought her gaze up to Byron again, attempting to steel her spirits before entering her abode.
“Is something wrong, Mira?” He cocked his head, the twinkle in his eye replaced with worry.
“I’ve been thinking about our second case.”
“Your case you mean?”
“Yes.” She looked down.
“What’s the matter?”
“I suppose I’ve been getting discouraged. After all, what kind of clues could we possibly find for a crime that happened eighteen years ago?”
“You’d be surprised. I once solved a case that was over thirty-five years old.”
“How?”
“Patience. Since it happened so long ago, it is highly unlikely that being patient will result in additional deaths. We’ll keep working at it until we find the evidence we need.”
“Patience.” She wrung her gloves together. “I’ve waited practically my entire life to find out what happened.”
“In which case you can certainly wait a few more weeks or months for a solution.”
“I shall work on my patience then.”
“Until tomorrow then?”
“Until tomorrow.”
Byron hesitated for a moment, looking her over. A strange expression came over his face as he looked at her. He stepped forward and grasped her hand, kissing it. She felt her discouragement melt away as her cheeks fully heated. She glanced around the street, hoping no one was watching.
“Goodnight, Mira.” With reluctance, he let her hand drop.
“Goodnight, Byron.”
He tipped his hat and turned to walk up the street. She stayed on the steps, watching him walk away. His shoulders sagged, the farther away he moved. He stopped at a corner and looked back at her before disappearing into the night. She mulled over how he acted at the end of each day. Every time he said goodbye to her it was for the last time. He knew that he would meet her again, but the part of him that had met her today would be gone forever. She took out her key. What would it be like to meet him by accident again? Without him reading his journal at all or her trying to make him remember. Just meeting him by chance on the street. What would that be like? A chill wind hit her, and she came back to herself and went inside. She hadn’t liked his answer to her worries, but at least he wasn’t giving up. And if Byron didn’t give up with day after day of forgetting, how could she?
Mira flew out the door well before her usual time. She hesitated outside Palace Court for a few minutes. The clock hadn’t chimed eight yet. He might not have read his journal yet. Was he even awake? She took a deep breath, ready for guns, confusion, or a fit of worry. Whatever was behind that door, she needed to be prepared. She took out her key and opened the door.
For once, silence greeted her. No piano music, or rustling papers, or confused ramblings. Only simple silence. As she turned towards the living room, she noticed several notes tacked to the walls and littered about the floor. One crumpled beneath her foot and she picked it up. “Remember.” Another. “Remember.” She rushed to a wall to read more. “You must remember.” Note after note, all saying, “remember” in some form or another. In shock, she turned to the couch to sit down, and found Byron sound asleep and undisturbed by her musings. She pulled a blanket up around his shoulders and then went back to the notes, determined to read them all. What part of the investigation was he trying to remember? Was he trying to remember her? She scarcely dared to hope. She felt her heart beating against her chest. What would happen when he woke up? She laid his journal on the table nearest him, placed a note to read it on top of him, and then took a seat in his armchair. She admired her new vantage point and pulled out her sketchbook as the light from the rising sun filtered through the window.
Byron woke after another half hour, turning over to find the crumpling of a paper in his ears. The noise was enough to give him consciousness. He picked up the note and read it, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Mira studied his profile in the morning sunlight. He looked more confused than she had ever seen him. After reading the note, he found the journal and flipped it
open to the first page, still not seeing her. She smiled a little. He poured over each page. At one point he ran his hand through his hair and at another he blushed, then smiled. What could he possibly be reading about? After a while, he closed the journal and set it aside, closing his eyes and leaning back.
“Samira Blayse.” It seemed as if he rolled her name over his tongue to get used to it. For Mira, it was an opportunity. She bit her lip in anticipation.
“Yes Byron?”
His response was more than she could have hoped for, as he let out a startled shout and jumped with such alarm that the couch tipped over. He peeked out from behind it. Laughter bubbled out of her.
“You are here already!” He caught his breath. “Wasn’t…expecting that.”
“Yes, I am. Sorry for startling you.”
“You are not.”
“Perhaps it was a little comical.” She stifled a laugh. Byron’s eyes twinkled. He flipped the couch back to its usual position.
“I might need to take that key back, Miss Blayse.”
“Will you, Mr. Constantine?”
“No, I won’t. But for future reference, if I am asleep, go and get yourself some French toast.” He straightened his rumpled jacket.
“Very well, Byron. Off to the bank then?”
“Er, yes. After breakfast. Let me go put myself to rights first.” He picked up the blanket and left the room. Mira left to investigate his kitchen. It was a lot cleaner than she had seen it before. She set to work preparing breakfast with the few ingredients she found in his cupboards. She set the plates on the table just as Byron came out of his room, hair wet, adjusting his tie.
“I didn’t mean for you to make breakfast, Mira.”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Not make breakfast.”
“You told me to get myself some French toast.”
“I…” he started, then thought better of it. “Well yes. I suppose I did.”
They ate a quiet breakfast and then it was off to the bank. They learned from Inspector Thatcher that Pennington owned an account with the Bank of England. Byron also received a warrant from the department to check Pennington’s bank records.
They reached Threadneedle Street, and she looked up at the large building. Massive pillars extended to at least three times her height. They entered the bank. The wood paneling, marble, and tiles that surrounded them reminded Mira of Scotland Yard. Byron strode up to one of the tellers. His name badge read Elkins.
Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Page 12