Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity

by Natalie Brianne

  “Goodnight Mira. I…” He cleared his throat. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  “Am I coming to Palace Court or are you coming here?”

  “Why don’t you come to Palace Court? We have an awful lot to do tomorrow, and it would be good to get a head start.”

  She nodded. “Goodnight, Byron.”

  He nodded to her, and she went up the stairs to the door. She opened it and looked back. His head turned away from her as he got into the carriage. She went inside and gently closed the door, leaning against it. Her stomach held a mound of excitement and dread for the next day. She went up the seventy-nine stairs to her room.

  After a bit of searching through her things, she found a large, unused piece of watercolor paper and placed it on the desk. She wetted the paper and dropped splotches of color onto it. They swirled and danced into one another, mixing and turning. Tendrils of color slinked across the page, following where the water had been placed. Her brain followed a similar dance, slipping from one thought to another. She tried to grasp hold of her emotions, but they kept slipping away. Based on what Byron had written in his journal, and how he reacted, he must have some sort of feelings for her. But he didn’t know of hers. He couldn’t. After all, she hardly knew how she felt.

  Or did she? She smiled thinking of him. He was brave, and kind, and intelligent. He had a sense of humor. He cared for her, and she cared for him. And they were nearly to the end of the Pennington mystery. By the end of the week it would be resolved and perhaps then they could figure out their own relationship. She captured the bridge and the Thames in watery pigments and then took her thoughts to bed.

  She woke early the next day and spent a bit more time getting ready than normal. She made certain her curls were tamed into submission, and she wore the very nicest of her dresses that hadn’t been shredded. She rode the banisters down the staircase and grabbed a piece of toast from the kitchen, humming to herself. Landon peeked his head out of his quarters.

  “You are awfully cheerful for this time of morning, Miss.”

  “It’s a beautiful day, Landon!”

  “It’s raining. Make sure you take a heavy coat.”

  She was grateful for the coat by the time she got to the church. Her clothes soaked through before she found the sense to call for a carriage. She twitched through the service, mind constantly shifting back to Byron and her feelings. As soon as she could, she rushed to Palace Court. She shivered on the front step as she fumbled for the key. The entry hall welcomed her with a gust of warm air. Still dripping after removing her coat, she stepped into the living room and wrung out her wet hair.

  “Byron?” The living room held an eerie silence. One new note was posted on the wall.

  Examine ‘Pit’ file.

  She cocked her head and went over to the cabinet holding the files. She riffled through them to the ‘P’ section. Pit. She pulled it out and sat on the couch.

  The Pit is the common name for a street on the far east side of London. Usual place for thieves, vagabonds, murderers, mercenaries, slave traders, and smugglers. Connected with Order of Circe.

  Circe? There it was again. First the smugglers, then the journal, now this file. That was the case he was working on before his accident. She put the file back and looked at the C’s. ‘Circe, Order of.’ Her hands shook with anticipation as she pulled it out.

  The Order of Circe connects every case I have solved thus far. It is some underground criminal agency. Little is known at this time. Definite evidence includes th—

  “Enjoying yourself?” Byron came up behind her. Mira jumped and papers flew in every direction.

  “Sorry!” She dropped to the floor to pick up the scattered pages. Byron put the tea tray he was carrying on a side table before moving to help her.

  “Mira, right?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I was just…”

  “Curious. I know.” They gathered up the pages and he looked at the subject matter.

  “Order of Circe, eh? Going right to the deep stuff, I see.” He put the file back in his system, closed it, and locked it, placing the key in his jacket pocket.

  “It was associated with the Pit. Your note said you needed to read it. And the smugglers mentioned it. And it was in your journal.” She gestured to the note and sat on the couch again.

  “It isn’t something you need to worry about.”

  “That’s what you told me last time. I don’t believe you.”

  He sat there for a moment, studying her face. Then he relented.

  “Alright. What do you know?”

  “I know the smugglers mentioned something about it when they kidnapped me. Something about them being a group to consult before murdering someone. And in your journal, it said that you were going to follow a lead on it. And it is related to the Pit?”

  “Yes.” His countenance dimmed. “Circe is a plague that has infested the darkened streets of London for years now. Their members are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It is like trying to stop water from slipping between your fingers. They have control over the murderers, thieves, and smugglers in this country, and potentially others. I was so close to coming to the middle of it all!” He stood and paced in front of the fireplace.

  “And then you had your accident?”

  “That’s what the inspector tells me. All I remember is going to bed the night before. I was going to follow a lead in disguise to find the people at the center of Circe. But I don’t remember what happened. The chief inspector found me half dead, nursed me back to health, and here I am.”

  “You haven’t tried to find them since?”

  “Last time I went after them I was nearly killed. And at least at that point I was in full control of my faculties. Now, I don’t have a memory.”

  “You have me.” Her voice was quiet, but he heard her, nonetheless.

  “No. I’m not bringing you into that kind of danger.”

  “You’re taking me to the Pit.”

  He closed his eyes. “That’s only because you are so stubborn.”

  She nodded with a smile. “I know.”

  He handed her a cup of tea and seemed to make up his mind on something. “Alright then. I’ll take you to the Pit. But we won’t be going after Circe. This time. If you are going to come with me, we must make you unrecognizable. I spent some time last night procuring some items for you. After tea perhaps, we can role play our way through what shall happen tomorrow.”

  “Is it really that dangerous?”

  “Not if we prepare.” He took a sip of tea and then set down his cup and saucer. “Excuse me a moment.” He got up and walked out of the room. As soon as he turned out of sight, Mira slipped over to the cabinet of files and tried to open it with no luck. When he returned with a large bag, she was back in her seat, sipping at her tea.

  “I’m afraid if you want to infiltrate them, you’ll have to look like them.” He set the bag in front of her. She opened the bag and pulled out a raggedy black dress. It had deep tears in the skirt and a low neckline. It looked as if it had been dragged through the shallows of the Thames from the back of a boat and then stuffed up a blocked chimney to dry.

  “You want me to wear this?”

  “There’s a shawl in there as well. It should give you some warmth and coverage. I found you some shoes as well. Why don’t you go try them on to see if they don’t fit? There’s a spare room up the stairs.”

  In slight shock, she did as she was told. She went up the stairs, past Byron’s bedroom, and found a cozy little guest room across from what looked to be his study. She changed into the dress and found that it was far too tight. The shoes were far too big, and the shawl barely covered any of her. Looking down at herself, she could see the start of a blush climbing up her neck. Steeling herself with a breath, she left the guest room. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, a grisly old man greeted her, hunched over in a tattered suit. He turned to her and straightened as she stopped on the last stair.

  “Oh!
Byron. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “I’m glad. Unfortunately, that outfit does little to mask your beauty. Tomorrow we’ll have to use soot to dirty your features.” Byron took a seat in the living room, picking up his journal. He flipped to the last written page before continuing.

  “Now to put the pieces together. I believe we have enough to finish this story.”

  “We know Molly is a mercenary. That doesn’t mean we have all the pieces.” Mira took a seat across from him.

  “Which is why this is still just a theory, but bear with me. We are back to the night of the murder. We had just reached the point where Molly left with Clement Pennington, yes?” He marked a place in his journal and looked up at her.

  “Yes. You just determined that Molly must have talked with Selene beforehand, which she did, but then you stopped.”

  “That’s because we didn’t have motive or a way to tie it together with the smuggling and blackmail. Now we do. If Molly is a mercenary, then she must have been hired by the smugglers to kill him.”

  “Then why didn’t she kill him back in April when they first met? Why kill him in September? Why court him at all?”

  “All good questions, Mira. That would have been the way to go. The only problem is the thing he was blackmailing them with. The blueprints. If he died who knows where they would end up. They might end up in the possession of an honest person who would turn it over to the police. According to my notes, she told us herself that she asked him over and over where the money was coming from. She was trying to get him to trust her enough to show her where he hid the blueprints. But that didn’t happen. And when he quit his job, he was more of a threat.”

  “So, she waited until she knew where the blueprints were?”

  “Not exactly. She created a situation that would make Pennington show her where it was. Burglary. When your home was broken into, what did you think of first?”

  “Nero. I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

  “Very admirable of you. When Palace Court was ransacked, I assume I immediately thought of my journal, and then remembering I had it on me, I thought of my files. You think of what is most important to you. Now if you were Clement Pennington, what would be the most valuable thing?”

  “His livelihood. The blueprints!”

  “Exactly. Selene burglarizes, Molly and Pennington come back, he makes a beeline for the stash in the piano, moving the glass from the piano leaving the ring on top. He sees the blueprints are safe, relaxes, maybe explains it to Molly and puts them back. Molly hits him on the back of his head to knock him out and gives him a syringe full of opioids making it look like an accidental overdose. Pennington is dead, Molly is free to take the blueprints back to the smugglers and get paid. Simple.”

  “Except we found out about her.”

  “Yes. From Mr. Graham. She sees the advertisement in the paper and finds a house convenient for us to meet her in. We go there, she cries and makes a scene and tries to convince us of suicide. She finds out who told us about her. Now she knows that Mr. Graham had been watching. He might be able to tell us or the police that she had come back after leaving with Pennington. He had to go, and so—”

  “Poor Mr. Graham.”

  “Arsenic in his tea. Probably under the guise of thanking him for telling us about her and reminiscing about Clement. He let her in because he recognized her. Now we just hope that Molly takes the bait with Selene.”

  “And if she does? What then?”

  “We will go with Selene to the Pit. From there, you will stay close to me no matter what happens. We probably follow her at a distance, trying to look inconspicuous and blend in. Speaking of which, how is your cockney accent?”

  “My what?”

  “Irish maybe?”

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Mira you are going to have to stop speaking so properly. People will question it. You can’t be a lady of fortune down there. You must look, act, and sound the part. For example.” He stood up and hunched over, stuffing something into his cheeks and furrowing his brow.

  “Wha’ might’ ya be doin’ ‘ere lass?” His voice turned rough and scratchy, something like a ridged coin scraping on pavement. He was unrecognizable. He straightened and pulled two handkerchiefs out of his mouth.

  “Alright. Your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “If you are coming with me into the Pit, you have to play the part. Respond to what I just said.”

  “Alright. Um.” She stood up and hunched over slightly. “I’m…um…just looking. Lookin’ round…‘Ere.”

  Byron hesitated for a moment and looked her over. “You know what, if we cover you in soot and you clutch the shawl around you and keep close to me. Hmmm.”

  “Will it work?”

  “You’ll have to pretend to be mute. We can’t risk your accent.”

  “What?”

  “There is no other way around it. Your voice is too silvery and aristocratic. No amount of soot or practice will hide it.”

  “You want me to be mute?”

  “Yes. I can pretend to be your husband or your brother or—” He glanced at the mirror in the hall and grimaced. “I suppose I could be your father with this makeup on.”

  “I suppose I could be mute.”

  “Perfect. With any luck we won’t have to talk to anyone.” He seemed satisfied with himself and set his journal next to his teacup.

  “Go change out of those clothes. I can tell you are uncomfortable, and you’ll be wearing them for long enough tomorrow.”

  She nodded and went back up the stairs to the guest bedroom. She was speechless, which she surmised was good since she needed to be mute the next day. Her own clothes felt smoother against her skin after wearing what was the equivalent of a giant dead rat.

  She came back down the stairs and found Byron adjusting his tie. He looked entirely like himself again, and she preferred that.

  “You certain you still want to go through with this?” He looked up at her.

  “I…I’m positive. We need to see this through to the end.”

  He slumped again, disappointed. “Very well then.” He came back into the living room and sat down in his armchair. She came and sat across from him. He scrutinized her again, and she looked down. He cleared his throat.

  “And what about after we get to the end? Are you still willing to be my secretary?” She looked up.

  “Of course, I am. I told you that yesterday.”

  “After being kidnapped?”

  “Yes.”

  “After your home was broken into?”

  “Yes.”

  “After reading my journal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. He took a breath and then stopped. She looked down. “This is the first time I have felt like I was truly my own person.” She looked up at him. “I have my own life. I’m making something of it. It’s exciting and invigorating and…” She trailed off.

  “Intoxicating?”

  After a moment she nodded. He cleared his throat again.

  “You must realize that is exactly the reason why I don’t want you to come with me.”

  “Byron, you need someone to be your memory.”

  “I…” He sighed heavily and looked down. “Yes, I do. But you can’t throw yourself into danger for the thrill of it!”

  “Well, isn’t that why you do this?”

  “Of course not! I’m just good at it.”

  “Oh really? You don’t get any enjoyment out of the danger?”

  “Alright. Fine. You got me. But I know what I’m doing.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “You implied it.” She folded her arms.

  “You are more than capable, Mira. I just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Perhaps we can talk more about this after we are safely on the other side of the
Pit.”

  “I can come then?”

  “Yes.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. The quiet of it all was like a blanket, smothering the breath out of Mira. She struggled to find something to talk about. He moved over to the window. She fidgeted with her hands. He turned back to her.

  He broke the silence. “I think we have planned out our disguise, but we still need to determine what we’ll do once we get into it.”

  “Won’t we just be following Selene?”

  “At a distance.” He sat down at the piano bench and began to play chords as he continued.

  “We’ll meet up with Selene at the police station in the morning. She’ll tell us the time frame for when she is meeting with Molly. We’ll get into our attire and follow her into the Pit.” His tune took a minor key and went into a lower register.

  “She’ll take us to Molly, and we’ll arrest her?” she asked.

  “Not yet. We’ll watch what happens with Molly and Selene. From there, we’ll follow Molly. Hopefully she’ll lead us to more of the smuggling ring.”

  “And then we’ll arrest her?”

  “At that point we’ll probably get a message to the chief inspector to bring his constables and arrest the whole lot of them. Then, our job is done, and the case is cracked.” He played a scale and then closed the cover of the piano.

  “That easy?”

  “Well nothing is that easy, but in theory it could be.”

  “When do you want me to come tomorrow?”

  “A bit earlier. I’ll need to remember if we’re going to be able to do anything.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be here. But for now, I need to be getting back to my uncle’s. He’ll be expecting me for dinner.” She stood up to move towards the door. He followed her to the front hall.

  “Mira, for as much as I don’t want you to come with me tomorrow, I am glad you’ll be with me.”

  “Thank you.”

  He helped her into her coat and opened the door. The sun filtered onto the rain-soaked pavement. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Rest up today.”

  “I will. You should as well.”