“I suppose that isn’t a problem though. Is it?” He took another sip.
“No! It would be awful if I had never met him. I wouldn’t trade these last few weeks for anything!”
“Because of the mystery or because of him?” He set his teacup down.
“Because of…” She trailed off, struck by an epiphany. “That’s actually one of the things that’s been bothering me.”
“Oh?”
“The thrill of the mystery, the chase, tracking down clues, everything; I love it. It speaks to some fundamental part of me. I can’t help but be drawn to it, but I really shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well it isn’t really ladylike, is it?”
“Since when were you interested in being ladylike?” His eyes sparkled.
“It’s just, this is so new to me. Chasing down criminals, sneaking into places I shouldn’t be in, questioning people, solving murders, this shouldn’t be interesting to me. Should it?”
“Perhaps not. But then again, it depends on your reasons for doing it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Motive is a strong indicator of character. Why do people join the military?”
“I don’t see how this is relevant.”
“Bear with me. Why do people join the military?”
“To protect the country?”
“That’s one reason. And an admirable one at that. But that isn’t the main reason I joined the regiment.”
“I didn’t know you were in the military.”
“There are many things you don’t know about me, Mira.”
“Why did you join?”
“There was the promise of adventure. Foreign lands. Scouting missions. Discovering new places. All of that was highly tempting to a brash, young lad like me.”
“Why not become an explorer, then?”
“I didn’t have the fortune to spend on expeditions. But by joining the military, I got my adventures as well as a salary I could send back to my wife. However, joining the military meant the possibility of coming face to face with death. Killing other men. I didn’t enjoy that part at all. If I did, there would have been a major problem. I’m not a killer. But I have killed people. Ask yourself what your motive is, and then you can determine whether it is wrong or right.”
“I just enjoy finding the clues, putting them together, it’s all just so fascinating. It’s as if my artistic observations have a new purpose beyond sketching.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that, as long as you are safe. And aside from that, you are helping people by solving these crimes.”
“I guess that’s true, but…”
“Yes?”
“There’s another part to it. Byron is just so different. In a good way, of course. He’s exciting, and brilliant, and spontaneous.”
“He sounds wonder—”
“But I can’t like him.” Mira interrupted.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Firstly, because it would get in the way. I can’t focus on emotions when I’m around him. He needs me to focus on the mystery. Not him.”
“Can’t you do both?”
“I don’t know. But even if I could, what use would it be? He can’t remember me. It isn’t like he’d fall in love with me.”
“You’d be surprised. But I understand. You don’t want to get your hopes up in case he’ll never remember you.”
“Exactly. It just makes sense to keep my emotions in check.”
“Then, what’s the problem?”
“I can’t convince my emotions of that! Every time I get around him, or look at him, or talk with him, I start getting butterflies. Often enough, I can push them to the side, but other times they are insufferable!”
“Emotions are strong beasts. It is possible to control them, but it can be difficult. Especially when it comes to love.”
“They’re making things too complicated. I can’t be falling in love with him! It’s been less than two weeks.”
“And who is to say that love has a timeline? Two weeks, two years, two days? What does that matter to the heart?”
“Landon, I swear if you got that line from Wordsworth or Keats—”
“Perhaps it is a paraphrase, but does that make it less true?”
“I suppose not.”
“It isn’t wrong to fall in love. Even if it is unrequited. It can certainly be painful, but you can learn a lot. About yourself, and about the world. I wouldn’t worry too much about your feelings. Just let them be what they are. Things will work themselves out.”
“Patience isn’t exactly my strong suit.”
“Then this is the perfect opportunity to learn.”
“There’s another problem, though.”
“And what is that?”
“I’m not sure if my feelings for Byron are actual feelings for him or just a longing for my parents.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He keeps reminding me of someone. I can only assume it’s my dad. The way he smiles and makes me laugh. I think I remember how Dad used to make Mum laugh. But shouldn’t I love him for him, not for what I’ve lost?”
“Oftentimes in life we are attracted to things that are familiar. There’s nothing wrong with that. His familiarity is what made you like him to begin with. If you love him—”
“I don’t love him! I mean, I don’t think. I’m not sure. Maybe I do?”
“If you love him, it will be for him.” He finished his cup of tea and set it on the tray. “Would you like me to leave this for you, or clear it away?”
“You can leave it. Thank you, Landon. I do feel better.”
“I had hoped you might.” He paused, with a twinkle in his eye. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look at someone like that before, Mira.” Mira felt her face reddening. Landon smiled and stood up.
“I’ll keep an eye on him and make sure that he’s worthy of you, just in case anything happens. It will likely be a while before your uncle notices anything, so for now it can be our little secret.” Landon’s eyes crinkled, and he straightened a bit, resuming his stance as a butler.
“Thank you.” She smiled back.
“Can I do anything else for you this evening, Miss?”
“No, I think that is all.”
“Pleasant dreams then.”
He walked out of her room and closed the door softly behind him. She sat there for a moment, nibbling on another biscuit. Her anxiety had lessened just by talking to him. Everything had its own time. She just needed the patience to wait for it.
Waking up in her uncle’s house disoriented Mira. Looking around the room from her bed made her feel like a small child once again. This room was full of wonder, excitement, boredom, dread, sorrow, grief, happiness, and love. She could see all of it in each curve of the woodwork around the doors, in each swirl of the design on the wallpaper, and in every fleck of paint on her desk. She felt every intangible feeling of her life in every tangible picture frame, bedpost, and curtain. She picked up a long-forgotten doll and placed it with reverence on the bed, meeting it like she would an old friend. So many days had been spent avoiding the loneliness that came with the isolation of a small child on a large estate. She moved over to the window and brushed the curtains aside.
A man strolled up the street in front of her uncle’s house. She watched as he nonchalantly turned, keeping a steady eye on the building. Byron had succeeded. A policeman watched the house. Anxiety crept up the back of her neck.
Her appetite was absent during breakfast. She took a few bites and could barely swallow them. She said goodbye to her uncle as he left for the day, then went to the kitchen to fill a pitcher with water. She climbed the stairs to her room, careful not to spill a drop, and watered the mums that she had retrieved from Mr. Graham’s the day before. She hoped Byron was wrong. That Mr. Graham had died in his sleep. But Byron was rarely wrong, and the evidence towards his hypothesis mounted ever higher. She sat on the bed.
&nbs
p; Byron told her that he would be there before noon. She glanced at the clock and lay back, realizing that she still had hours to wait. Well, if she was waiting anyway, she might as well reacquaint herself with her uncle’s house.
Swan Walk had seven landings and a basement. Her room was at the top and had two large glass doors that let in quite a bit of natural light. These doors opened out onto the roof and gave her a wonderful place to paint and sketch when the weather was fair. She had even made a little patio for herself.
The house was filled to the brim with wood carvings and marble fixtures. The main landing contained a library that doubled as her uncle’s study, along with a parlor, sitting room, formal dining room, regular dining room, and a door revealing stairs that led to the kitchen area. The library was lined with shelves full of books and artifacts. Her uncle had a large desk with different odds and ends on it, and a few comfortable chairs. The parlor sat next to the library. The formal dining room was fully serviced through the regular dining room which had a dumbwaiter that went down to the kitchen.
The cook would come and go from an alternate entrance. The one she had known as a child married recently and moved to Wales. Mira didn’t really know the new one, and she and the parlor maids didn’t live with them. Landon on the other hand, lived in a small apartment in the basement and had a separate entrance to the house via a small staircase at the back of the house. On the next landing there was one bedroom and a large area that could be used as a meeting place, ballroom, or studio. Mira liked it because of the small rotunda-like bay window. There was a grand piano, and there were large portraits hanging on the walls. Lacy curtains framed the windows.
The next landing had a small seating area and a door that lead out to an iron staircase. If you took it down, you would come to a lovely little veranda, enclosed and invisible to the outside world.
Following the stairs up would bring you to a guest bedroom, then her uncle’s room, then her brother’s room. Her room was at the top and she had to climb seventy-nine steps just to get there from the main landing. She had counted them when she was fourteen and it always bothered her that it wasn’t an even eighty.
After exploring restlessly, she returned to the library pretending to read, but really looked through the window for Byron. There was a knock on the door and she quickly looked back at her copy of A Tale of Two Cities sitting open on the table in front of her. Landon peeked his head in.
“Will you and Mr. Constantine be requiring tea Miss?”
“No, I don’t believe we will. Not at this rate anyway.” She looked out the window and stood as she saw Byron coming up the steps. She glanced at the clock. It was five minutes past noon. Landon followed her gaze and moved to the front hall to greet him. Mira sat down and picked up her book again. The door to the library opened.
“A Mr. Constantine to see you, Miss.”
“Yes, I was expecting him.”
Byron came in, removing his hat, completely out of breath.
“Sorry, forgot to write down the address.”
She furrowed her brow. “Then how did you find me?”
He regained his breath. “I’m a detective, Mira. It’s what I do.”
Landon left the room hiding his smile.
“May I sit down?” Byron asked.
“Are we staying here for long?”
“Not at all, but long enough I’d like to sit.”
“Then please.” He took a seat across from her and cocked his head looking at her book.
“A Tale of Two Cities?”
“I had to occupy myself somehow.”
“It’s upside down.”
“I’m practicing reading upside down.”
“You didn’t think I would come?”
“Well, you were late.”
“By five minutes. But I came.”
“And I’m glad.”
He paused and smiled softly, then his smile turned to a frown.
“We do need to go to Scotland Yard. I’m sure they’ve looked over the samples we gave them. Hopefully they found some sort of poison.”
“And then on to Caxton Street and Molly?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “We’re getting to the end of things. The light at the end of the mystery keeps getting brighter.”
They took a carriage back to Scotland Yard. Things bustled, but it wasn’t as hectic as the day before. Perhaps they had found something to help with their Whitechapel case, whatever that was. She overheard two constables talking about the witnesses they had called into the station for the day. Things seemed promising on all fronts. Juliet was away from her desk when they reached it, and so Byron simply knocked on the door to the inspector’s office.
“Come in.”
Thatcher’s office was cleaner than it normally was. He finished stacking a group of files before looking up.
“Ah. I wondered when you’d come in. We tested the teacup. You were right.”
“I had thought I was.” Byron tried not to look smug.
“It was poison then?” Mira faltered.
“Most definitely. Arsenic. We’ll be doing the autopsy later today and we’ll check for certain that it was in his system. Of course, that only matters if these truly were his teacups.”
“They were.” Byron straightened his tie. The inspector cleared his throat.
“If these were his teacups, then there is no question. It is murder.”
“Perfect. That was exactly what we needed to know.” Byron stood.
“What, do you have a suspect now?” Thatcher asked.
“Molly Bridges. I have reason to believe that her lip rouge was on one of those teacups.”
The chief inspector stood, his chair nearly toppling from his energy. “Then we can put an end to this case!”
“Indeed, we can. Shall we go on to Caxton street then?”
Raymond Thatcher’s spirits resembled a puppy on the ride over to Caxton Street. He bounced his leg up and down and couldn’t keep his eyes from the window. His mustache hid the start of a smile.
The carriage pulled up to the residence, they all stepped out, and Raymond Thatcher himself knocked on the door. There was a silence for a moment or so before footsteps approached the door. It opened, and a woman with two small children appeared. She had blond hair and blue eyes. Mira’s heart sunk.
“Yes?” the woman stepped onto the front step.
“Are you Molly Bridges?” the inspector asked.
“Molly who?”
“Bridges,” Byron said.
Mira cleared her throat. “It isn’t her.”
Byron and Thatcher turned on her.
“It isn’t?” they said in unison.
“Might I ask what’s going on?” All of them looked back at the young woman.
“I’m terribly sorry madam. It’s just we are looking for a Molly Bridges who used to have residence here,” Thatcher said.
“Well she hasn’t had residence here in five years at least. That’s how long me and my husband have been living here.” Byron closed his eyes and turned away from the door. Thatcher turned to Mira. “You are certain this is where she lived?”
“Positive. She was here, at this address, at twelve-thirty on Monday.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have been here then. The house was empty, so you must be mistaken.” The woman readjusted the child on her hip.
“Where were you?” Byron asked.
“Every Monday and Wednesday from Noon ‘til two o’clock I take a long walk and make visits with my littles. I’d do it on Fridays as well, except that’s my husband’s day off.”
The young woman allowed them to look in the sitting room for confirmation. The only difference from when they visited before were the odds and ends scattered throughout the living room. A child’s teddy bear lay abandoned near a couch. A blanket was strewn over an armchair. There was no sign that Molly even existed.
Thatcher’s mood resembled a drowning duck on the drive back to Scotland Yard. His complexion dulled considerably, and he slouc
hed back in the seat. Byron was contemplative. For once, all Mira wanted to do was talk, but she stayed silent as well. The carriage stopped in front of Scotland Yard and they trudged up to the office again. Juliet sat at her desk.
“Inspector Thatcher! Where did you go? I went to file something, and when I came back, you—” She stopped, seeing Byron. “Oh! Hello, Byron.” She smiled at him. Thatcher rolled his eyes and continued into his office mumbling something Mira didn’t quite catch. Byron nodded to Juliet before following the inspector. Mira met a glare from Miss Chickering before she entered and closed the door behind her.
“It appears that the criminal class has become cleverer. This is the fourth case since April that I haven’t been able to solve.” Thatcher slumped in his seat.
“Except this case is solved, isn’t it?” Mira looked between Byron and the Inspector.
“We don’t know where Molly Bridges is, or where to start looking for her,” Thatcher said.
“But we know she did it. Every piece of evidence points to her,” she said.
“If we can’t arrest her, the case isn’t solved. I’m going to take a break and think this over. I would suggest you two do the same.” Thatcher rubbed his temples and gestured for them to leave.
Byron continued in silence as they walked out. Mira wasn’t sure if she should worry or not. She was used to his absentminded walking at this point, but he seemed tenser than usual. He stopped at a cafe, sat down, and took out his journal.
“Byron, are you alright?”
“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Of course.”
“You don’t seem like it.”
“Then why did you ask if you already knew?” He snapped at her. She went silent. Eventually he relented.
“Alright then. No, I’m not alright.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My memory. That’s what’s wrong. I’m missing something. Something would have fallen into place, two things that are connected, some way to track down this killer. But I can’t remember. I never can. No journal or secretary is going to keep all of the facts straight in my head.”
He closed his journal with a snap, stood up and walked away, running a hand through his hair. Mira stayed sitting, unsure of what to do. She hesitated, then pulled the journal towards herself and looked at the cover. It was made of leather and well-worn. She looked up again. Surprisingly, Byron was nowhere to be found. She looked back at the journal and lifted the cover.
Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Page 20