The pages were thick. The lettering in the journal was much different from the lettering of his notes. Smaller, closer together, neater. There was a loose piece of paper just before the first page.
Your name is Byron Constantine, and you have befallen an accident. Don’t bother investigating. I don’t remember and so you won’t either. You see, this accident has caused you to have anterograde amnesia. I know you think that yesterday you came across a new clue to lead you to the end of the Circe case. You had plans to follow up on it today. Unfortunately, that day was years ago. You’ll find yesterday in the last entry in this journal. If you want to function like a normal human being, I suggest reading through the entirety of this book. Don’t worry, you’ve written in short sentences. For now, it shouldn’t take too long. Eventually you’ll have to choose what to forget so that you don’t spend the entire day, every day reading through this blasted thing. You’ll find earlier journals in a chest in your bedroom. Choose your memories wisely, and if you can, don’t forget.
-Byron Constantine
Mira read over this first page a few times, appalled. Circe. She knew that name. It was the thing Byron didn’t want to talk about. That she didn’t need to know. Obviously, she did need to know.
Aside from that, she couldn’t imagine having to choose what to remember every day. Did he ever skip over parts of his life the way she would sometimes skip over parts in books to find her favorites? How would he know what his favorites were? What was important? Every day he must have such anxiety about what to remember and what to forget. She flipped through the pages.
Every entry had a heading with the date and the word Remember. She imagined that the book must contain hundreds, if not thousands of these. The synopsis told about the things that were important to him from that day. When he worked on a case, the entries were longer. When he wasn’t, they were significantly shorter. She skimmed over each page, trying to find something to help him. Every so often she would look up, expecting him to be there watching her, but he wasn’t.
She found that she didn’t truly read the journal. Just a word here or there until she came to an entry she knew.
The girl at the cafe is named Mira Blayse. Scotland Yard had nothing for me today. I placed an ad in the newspaper to get a secretary. Hopefully they can help you keep things straight. Remember to write a note to remind yourself.
She looked over it with fondness. The first time she was mentioned. The only entry she had ever read before today. She hesitated, placing a finger on the page as she flipped forward to see how many more pages she had. Only a half dozen. She came back to the first entry about her.
The next few entries were of medium length, talking about the fact he had a secretary, about the medical examination, about the evidence at the flat, about Mr. Graham, about her eyes, about putting something in the newspaper…wait.
She went back a few lines. His sentences were getting longer.
In case you never see her again, or you are reading through this after saying goodbye to her for the last time, you should know that Mira has the most beautiful green eyes. I hadn’t noticed them before, but Mr. Graham called my attention to them.
She felt heat rise in her cheeks and her heart rose within her. She closed her eyes. This was his journal. She shouldn’t be reading it. But he had left it. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to keep reading, at least until she found something to help him. Right? She kept skimming. The entries got longer.
The next entry talked about going to the newspaper and everything that had happened on the airship. He had written about how happy he was that she enjoyed her first flight in an airship and about how worried he was about her when the storm picked up. Of course, there was something about Mr. Gill, but that was only the basics.
The next one was shorter.
I didn’t remember her again. She mentioned that I am a little different every day. I think I may be hurting her more than I thought.
She read about his worry at her being late, and then something about Molly Bridges, the stash in the piano, and then Selene. Her eyes widened, and she smiled, reading over a paragraph again.
Person told Sel V would be out at ten.
She knew Sel would be Selene. V was what he used for victim. Someone told Selene that Pennington would be out. Molly knew when he would be out because she left Pennington’s at nine-thirty. He must have left with her. That was their connection. Maybe Selene knew where Molly went. They just needed a clearer timeline of what happened, and then maybe, just maybe they would be able to finish the case once and for all.
She reluctantly closed the journal. She didn’t have time to waste on her vanity. But she knew that Byron had some sort of feeling towards her, even if he didn’t remember her. She picked up the journal and headed back to Palace Court, hoping to find him there.
She knew she was right before her feet reached the door. The dulcet tones of the piano rang out the window. She found the door unlocked and came into the living room. He didn’t look up, completely enveloped by the music.
“Byron.” He shook his head and put a finger up to silence her, before continuing. She sat on her couch and waited impatiently, until she recognized the melody. She stood and moved over to the window, closing it and then stood behind him. He didn’t react. And then she began to sing.
He faltered on the keys for a moment and looked up at her. She kept singing a cappella. His expression flickered between awe and confusion for a moment before he turned back to the piano and continued to play along with her. For a split-second Mira felt intimately and completely connected with him through the music.
The song ended, and she looked over at him. He looked at his hands on the keys. Silent. He took a deep breath and pulled his legs around the piano bench, so he could look at her.
“I don’t think I knew that you could sing.”
“Well, anyone can sing.”
“Not everyone sings well.”
“I usually don’t sing at all when I’m in front of people.”
He cleared his throat and went silent. She set the journal down on top of the piano. “You left this.”
“I know.” He stood up, grabbed the journal and walked to the other side of the room. He threw open the drawer to the side table, put the journal inside and shut it with a snap. She moved over and opened the drawer again.
“I found the connection.” She picked up the journal and handed it to him. He paused for a moment, looking at it and then up at her. He seemed to realize the danger of leaving it with her.
“You read it then?” he stammered.
“Skimmed. I stopped once I found what we needed.”
He paused, nodded, and then brought the journal back with him to his armchair. She stood across from him.
“Did you read about when we were wondering how Selene knew that Pennington would be gone at ten?”
He nodded slowly and then his eyes lit up. He rushed to her, grabbing her shoulders. He was inches away from her and his gaze turned deeper, looking into her eyes.
“What would I do without you?” Her heart skipped a beat before Byron moved into the front hall. She rolled her eyes and moved to the doorway.
“Where are you going?”
“Scotland Yard! We have no time to lose!” His arms flew into his coat and he grabbed hers. He held it out to her so she could slip it on. She found herself smiling and helped herself into it before following Byron out the door. He called for a cab, bouncing on the sidewalk.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so excited before.”
“You’ve never seen me near the end of a case before.” He radiated excitement, and it made Mira glad.
“Are we so close?”
“We know who the murderer is, we have an idea of how to find her, and we know how she did it.”
“You know how she did it?”
He stopped and looked at her. “Well, I have a hypothesis.”
“How did it happen, then?”
He smiled and cleared his
throat. He was in his element. “Imagine the night of the murder. Pennington and Bridges have arranged to have an evening together. Mr. P has used his ill-gotten funds from blackmailing to get her flowers, chocolates, and champagne. They meet, make dinner, eat, and have a lovely conversation. At nine-thirty, they decide to go for a walk. They leave the place together. Previously, Miss Bridges has communicated with Selene in order to have the rooms burglarized.” He trailed off and as his voice dissolved so did his good mood.
“What is it?”
“Molly doesn’t have a motive. And we still haven’t connected it to the smugglers. They knew about his death.”
“Well, why don’t we talk to Selene before finishing this story? She might be able to help us.” Byron nodded, and they continued in silence the rest of the drive.
Only one interrogation room was available for them to use. The rest were full of careworn women chattering to police officers about the Whitechapel case. Mira overheard a conversation about some brown apron chap all the witnesses were talking about. She heard another about a suspect called Jack. They made their way to the one open interrogation room. Byron paced. Mira sat in one of the chairs waiting for Selene to be brought in.
Selene had dark circles under her eyes and red marks on her wrists from where restraints had been cutting in. However, the dress she wore made her look incredibly feminine in comparison to her tight black attire. She came in with a constable who handcuffed her to the table.
“Back again so soon, Detective?” she purred. Byron glanced at Mira, furrowing his brow.
“It’s been several days. We thought we would check in on you,” Mira answered for him, and he relaxed.
The cat sneered. “How thoughtful of you. As you can see, I am doing quite well here. If that is all, I give you leave to withdraw.”
“We do have some questions for you.” Byron sat and pulled out his notebook.
“I had thought you might. Get to it then.”
“Tell us what you know about Molly Bridges.”
The color drained from Selene’s face. “Um. Molly? I’m afraid I don’t know anything about her.”
“Your complexion says otherwise.”
“I don’t think I know what you mean.”
“On the night that the murder of Clement Pennington took place you burglarized his rooms.”
“We’ve already been over this. I did not murder him.”
“We know you didn’t. But you did burglarize his apartments.”
“I did. I found nothing. You know this.” She fidgeted with the handcuffs.
“Someone told you it would be empty at ten. That person was Molly Bridges.” The cat went silent. “So, we are right on that. Excellent. Now if she is the murderer, why won’t you help us bring her to justice?”
“Because it is dangerous!”
“What? More dangerous than being in prison?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“We have ties with the police department. If you help us, we may be able to help you.” The cat quieted. Determining her options.
“I will help you. Under some conditions.”
“Name them and we’ll check to see if they can be done.”
“One: After I help you, I get safe passage to France. Two: While I am helping you, I am under protection.”
“We’ll check with the chief inspector. Those seem like reasonable conditions.”
“You told her what?!” Raymond Thatcher flushed to the color of a tomato.
“Thatcher, her crimes are minor in comparison to murder. And if she wants to go steal things in France, how is that injuring Britain?”
“You can’t just offer a prisoner freedom like that. She hasn’t even been on trial yet! And we don’t even know if she can help you.”
“We have to find this murderer. She’s our only lead.” Byron shrugged.
“My superiors aren’t going to like this.”
“Trust me.”
Raymond thought for a moment then nodded. “Alright, Constantine. I’ll make sure she is released into your care the moment you ask. I’ll have Ms. Chickering take care of the paperwork as soon as possible.”
Byron nearly ran down to the interrogation rooms. Selene reclined in her chair.
“Do we have a deal?” She leaned forward and offered a hand. Byron shook it without a second thought.
“Yes, we do. Now tell us about Molly.”
“That isn’t her real name. Of course, only she knows her real one. Most of her personas have the initials MB. She’s a mercenary for hire. Everyone knows her as the Shadow.”
“So that’s it then,” Byron said.
“She approached me about a month and a half ago about this job. She said that she cased it for a few months and that she knew the patterns of this man. Pennington was it?” Byron nodded, and she continued. “She told me that if I were interested, she would give me more details about it. She said that she would pay me for the burglary and that I could keep anything I found. We met up a few weeks later, and she gave me the exact date and time. You know the rest.”
“Where did you meet, and did you ever get the money from her?”
“I’d have to take you there, and no. I didn’t have the chance.”
“And why did you refuse to tell us who she was before? Is she that dangerous?”
“She is, and the people w—she works with are. I was afraid that she’d find some way to kill me in here. But if this means my freedom, I’ll risk it.”
“We’ll make sure you are protected. Write up a letter to Molly, and we’ll make sure it gets posted. We’ll plan on meeting with Molly the day after tomorrow. That will give her enough time to respond to you and give us enough time to prepare. We’ll come retrieve you before heading out.”
“You don’t mean you are bringing your secretary with you?” Selene narrowed her eyes.
“Miss Blayse is invaluable. She’s coming.”
Mira averted her gaze. The cat looked her up and down.
“No offense, but where I am taking you is no place for a lady. She will be obviously out of place.”
“We’ll manage. Where are we going?”
“Into the Pit.”
“Not a problem.” Byron’s face darkened.
They walked out of Scotland Yard together, and Byron turned his gait down to the Thames. The calm evening caused the water to gently rise and fall. Yellow and orange pastels danced across the waves. Halfway across Westminster bridge, Byron stopped and leaned over the side. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Mira stopped beside him.
“We are so close, Mira. So very close to the end.”
“You think Selene can help us track down Molly?”
“I’m positive. Day after tomorrow this case will be closed.”
She nodded and went quiet for a moment.
“Byron, what is the Pit?”
“A place I haven’t been to since before my accident. That I remember, that is. It’s the very lowest, darkest, filthiest part of this city.” He set his hat on the edge of the bridge and sighed. “She was right. It’s no place for a lady.”
“I’m still coming.”
“The more I think about it, the more I feel like you shouldn’t.”
“Byron—”
“According to my journal, the last time you talked me into letting you come, you got kidnapped.”
“And?”
“You aren’t coming.”
“Yes, I am.”
He turned to her and took her hand in both of his, earnestly pleading.
“Samira, you are an artist. You see the world through a gilded lens. Everything you see has beauty and worth. Even if it wasn’t dangerous, I wouldn’t want you to come. If you go with me into the Pit, your view of London and the world will shift entirely. There are things in this world that are dark, ugly, and impossible to get out of your head, even when you have a memory like mine.”
She paused for a moment, considering his words. She looked out over the Thames.
“Do you think you’ll need me? To remember?”
He let go of her hand and leaned over the edge of the bridge again.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m coming.”
He paused for a moment.
“That’s what I thought you would say.” He gave her a half-smile and then put his hat back on.
“Let’s get you home. We have our work cut out for us if we’re going to disguise the fact that you are an upper-class lady. Would you be able to come tomorrow? I know it’s Sunday, but we have an awful lot to do before Monday’s meeting.”
“I’ll come directly after church.”
He walked briskly back towards Westminster and Parliament. She trailed behind for a moment, looking over the glinting water. She smiled and made a mental note to paint it later. Byron waved down a cabbie, and they were soon rumbling back towards Swan Walk. She could tell something was on his mind. Plenty was on hers. She absentmindedly rubbed the hand he had held. Suddenly, he broke the silence.
“You are planning on continuing this occupation with me after the mystery is resolved, yes?” He avoided eye contact.
“I was planning to, yes. After all, we still have the mystery of my parents to solve. Unless you don’t—”
“No! I mean, I do want you to continue.”
She nodded, and they traveled a bit longer in silence. He turned to her again.
“Mira, how much of my journal did you actually read?”
“Just enough.”
“Enough to know the connection or?”
“Enough to know what you think about my eyes.” She smiled. “No further than that, really.”
He looked away. “I see.”
They rode on in silence until they reached Swan Walk. Once the cab stopped, he stepped out and offered his hand to her. She took it and exited the carriage. He kept ahold of it and left a gentle kiss on the back before letting go.
Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Page 21