“You mentioned that you sketch a lot of people who come this way? What kind of people?”
“I don’t know any of their names…except…well…never mind.” She ducked her head.
“Except who?”
“Well…you.”
“Me?”
“I sketch every day and I just choose random people who pass by. You looked interesting so—”
“I did?” he interrupted. She nodded and took a deep breath, feeling a steady heat spreading between her ears.
“May I see?” he asked.
Her eyes dropped to her sketchbook for a moment. She chewed on her lip, then lifted the cover again. Her fingers ruffled against the edge of the pages until she found his drawing. Her eyes darted from the sketch to him. He seemed sincere. Surely, he wouldn’t laugh, would he? The material on the cover grated on the table as she slid it back to him. He studied it in silence. His eyes traced every mark and line on the surface of the page. The autumn wind rustled the papers in the sketchbook and prompted gooseflesh on her arms. Mira swallowed.
She broke the silence. “I’ve never talked to anyone I’ve drawn before.”
“You haven’t? How odd.” He didn’t look up from the sketch.
“I…I know,” she stammered. “I sketch people who pass by me. Until four days ago, no one ever approached me while I was drawing them. Of course, you came over for the note…”
“Right.”
“Speaking of your notes, I do have a question.”
“You do?” He looked up at her at last.
“Well, I did end up reading several of yours and one of them had something about an airship operator on it.”
“Yes?”
“That wouldn’t happen to be about the accident of 1870 would it?” She closed her eyes and waited for his answer.
“No, I’m afraid not. May I ask why?”
“Well—”
Big Ben struck noon, and he whirled in that direction. “Dash it all. Late. I think.” He turned to face her again. “We really must talk again, Miss Blayse.”
“I’m sorry for making you late.” She smiled. “Good day.”
“I’m just late for a crime scene. Possibly. I think. That’s all. Good day to you as well!” He rushed away from the table and around the corner before she even comprehended what he said.
“A crime?”
She furrowed her brow and closed her sketchbook with a snap. He didn’t have any information about the accident. Of course, why would he? She didn’t even know who he was. She felt like she had become Alice falling down a rabbit hole. “Curiouser and curiouser” was the perfect description of what was happening. With any luck her white rabbit, Mr. Constantine, would be back the next day and she could get some more answers about him. Or likely more confusion. She stood and looked at the cafe. Still closed. Perhaps the owner was on holiday.
She picked up her sketchbook and began to walk towards Scotland Yard. They likely wouldn’t have anything either, no one did, but she had to check. On the bright side, it was a lovely walk through St. James’ park to reach Scotland Yard, and maybe she could go to Westminster Bridge and sketch the parliament buildings afterwards.
As she approached Whitehall Place and the police station, she noticed a familiar figure exiting. Byron. Why would he be at the Yard? Didn’t he say he was late for a crime scene? All thoughts of airships and her parents disappeared as she watched him walk up the street. She bit her lip deciding whether to follow him again. He seemed to remember her today, which meant if she was caught, he would likely question her. She watched him turn around the corner. Her curiosity intensified, and she ran to follow him.
When she peeked around the corner, she saw him hailing a cab and getting in. She leaned against the wall. “He must be going to the crime scene he was talking about earlier.” She muttered to herself. “And if he got the information from Scotland Yard…” She looked towards the police station and walked back. His name was so familiar to her so why couldn’t she place it?
She had never been in Scotland Yard before. She hadn’t had a reason until now. The exterior of the building was rather inconspicuous, but the interior gleamed. Marble columns kept the ceiling up, and gigantic crystal chandeliers attempted to pull the ceiling down. The walls were covered in wood paneling and beautiful paintings. Truly the pièce de résistance of police departments. Not that Mira had seen many. She hesitantly approached the first desk. A police constable sat behind it scribbling on some paperwork. He had a large forehead, and a wide, angular nose. His head was top heavy. He looked up at her and smiled when he noticed her.
“Hello, Miss! How can I help you?”
She glanced at his nameplate. Frederick Wensley. She nodded before beginning.
“I was wondering if I could look at the records for a specific case.”
The constable frowned. “That is certainly an odd request. If you tell me the name of it, I can ask one of the inspectors if it’s alright.”
“The Airship Accident of 1870.”
He frowned. “Why that one in particular?”
Mira’s voice caught in her throat.
“My parents died in it.” She kept her gaze to the floor. The constable’s demeanor softened.
“Oh, I understand. Let me go and ask.”
He left the desk and walked up a staircase to her left. He stopped around the middle stair and looked back at her for a moment before continuing. She wilted against the desk. If Scotland Yard couldn’t give her the file, she would be at another dead end. Perhaps the newspaper was all that there was to be had. It probably was just an accident, and no one was at fault. She would just have to accept that. But, how could she? A few minutes later, Officer Wensley returned from the upper offices.
“I’m sorry Miss. Only records that we’ve had for over twenty-five years are available to the public.” His shoulders drooped.
“Is there any circumstance where more recent records can be viewed?”
“Unless you work for or with the police department, or you were directly involved, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”
“If my parents were in the accident, shouldn’t I be allowed to view it?” Mira twisted her gloves.
“I’m afraid not miss.”
“Thank you for trying.”
She walked through Hyde Park, trying to think of another angle she could try. The only other person who knew anything about the accident would be her uncle, and she knew how well that conversation would go over:
“Oh, by the way, Uncle, you wouldn’t happen to have any other information about my parents’ accident, would you?”
“Why would I have any more information other than it was all because of your mother’s ignorant, risk-taking, charlatan husband and his dangerous invention?!”
She sat down on a bench with a huff. Uncle Cyrus hated that topic more than anything in the world. And Walker was right. If she brought up the fact that she was investigating their deaths, she would be back in her uncle’s house in no time flat. Say goodbye to freedom, Samira Blayse! It had been a miracle that she convinced him to let her go out on her own to begin with. She watched as a couple walked in the park with their daughter. She couldn’t have been more than five years old. The little one held tightly to each of her parents’ hands. Mira closed her eyes and saw herself between her parents. Walker holding onto her father’s hand. She between her parents, each of her hands firmly planted in theirs. Laughing and skipping. Was it a memory or just her imagination wanting it to be true? She opened her eyes again. The little family moved on. Mira took a breath.
She turned herself towards home. There had to be some way of continuing the investigation. After reading the newspaper articles, she felt as if something was wrong. Why couldn’t she just push the feeling aside? She opened the door to her rooms and went directly into the kitchen to make some tea. As the kettle whistled, it occurred to her that she had forgotten to ask the constable who Byron was. She pulled the kettle from the stove and drowned a bundle of
tea leaves with the scalding water, chastising herself. She’d have to ask another day. Tomorrow she would go to her uncle’s. And she still needed to find a way to ask him about the accident without him knowing what she was up to.
It was Sunday, and the rain tapped on Mira’s window. She had returned from church several hours before. She felt around the cuffs of her coat to see if they had dried yet and frowned when her fingers touched the damp wool. She moved the coat closer to the fire. Her eyes watched the flames dance, each feathery burst of light creating a story in her head. After a few moments she realized that most of those stories centered around Byron and she pushed those thoughts aside and moved to the window.
Mira watched two raindrops race each other down the windowpane, feeling the cold air sneaking in through the crack between the sill and the window. What if Byron was at the cafe? She knew that it would be closed. Would it hurt anything for her to go and check? A heavy wind hit the house and caused the shutters to rattle. Perhaps she shouldn’t brave the pouring rain until absolutely necessary. She checked the time on the grandfather clock in the hall. It was after noon. Even if she went, he wouldn’t be there at this time. Something about his schedule was even more rigid and predictable than hers. Every day was the same for him, even if it made little to no sense. She didn’t even know who Byron was, but her curiosity intensified with each scenario she played through her head. No. She shouldn’t be thinking about him. She curled up next to the window with her sketchbook and Nero.
The grandfather clock chimed three, causing Mira to roll over. One moment she was dreaming of running through Kensington, and the next she was rudely awoken by the harsh wood floor. She blinked and looked out the window. The rain had stopped. She blinked a few more times, then felt around for her sketchbook. She found the pencil first, pulling it out from under her. She cringed at the broken tip. Her sketchbook lay in a heap at the end of the bench. She opened it up and smoothed out the sleep-caused creases and laughed at a line drawn across it. After setting it to rights she remembered why she had woken up. She jolted up, glanced at the clock to ensure she wasn’t late, and dashed for a mirror, hatbox, and pins.
Her hair went down well past her shoulders and usually did whatever it wanted. Some days she was able to coax her curls into ringlets, but most days it was directly opposed to anything she wanted it to do. It didn’t help that she didn’t like the fashion to put your hair up or to wear ridiculous hats. But if she was visiting her uncle, it was necessary. He wanted her to be a proper lady, a respectable woman, and wearing your hair down was strictly against that. Supposedly. She had decided early on that if her hair was going to fall out of its style anyway, she might as well save herself some trouble by not bothering to try.
After stuffing most of her hair under a hat and pinning it into place, she put on her coat. The sunlight dripped through the clouds like pools of honey on the pavement as she stepped out into the wet afternoon. She paused for a moment to let the smell of the rain overtake her and then started towards her uncle’s house at Swan Walk in Chelsea.
Chelsea was a more affluent part of London. Only the wealthiest members of the population could afford to live there. Swan Walk was a red brick building with a reasonably sized lawn around it and a bit of a garden. When her parents died, her uncle sold their estate out in Yorkshire and used those funds to purchase a new house closer to his work. The house quickly became the home where she and her twin brother Walker grew up, and it was a place she had come to adore.
It wasn’t a long walk, and soon enough she climbed the stairs. The door opened before she could knock, and a familiar face appeared. A long rectangular face, with big, kind brown eyes that held many laugh lines in their corners. The mouth was turned up in a half smile and his greying brown hair was thick upon his head. Mira grinned seeing him.
“Hello, Landon!”
“Good afternoon, Miss! It’s good to see you again.”
“I come every Sunday; you know that.” She teased.
The butler, Landon Tisdale, stepped away from the door, and Mira walked past him into the house. Once inside she stopped for a moment just to take in the smell of old wood and books. Oh, how she loved that smell!
“How are you Landon?” She placed her coat on a hook in the hall.
“I am doing quite well, Miss.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Is my uncle in the dining room?”
“I believe he is in the parlor at the moment.”
“I see. Does this mean he is in one of his…?” Mira paused to find the proper term for her uncle’s brooding habits.
“Nostalgic, melancholy moods Miss? Yes.”
“Thank you for the warning.” She nodded to him and headed towards the parlor. She knocked on the door before entering. Light pink floral wallpaper spread across the room and a darker pink carpet swept the floor from wall to wall. There was a portrait of Mira’s grandparents with her uncle and mother hanging on one of the walls, and a photograph of her mother on a shelf in a sort of memorial. Of course, any images that included her father were entirely absent. Her uncle stood at the window in a daze.
“Uncle Cyrus?”
“Hello, Mira,” he said without turning.
Her uncle was an imposing man. Above six feet tall with a rigid facial structure. He had light brown hair that had greyed for some time, and emerald green eyes that matched hers and her mother’s. His careworn face withered with the reality of life. Landon had told her once that he used to be a jovial and amiable man, but years of grief had taken their toll on him.
“How are you doing?” She moved over to him, hesitant. He glanced at her.
“As well as I ever am.” He looked back through the window. Mira bit her lip. Today likely wasn’t a good day to remind him of the accident. Of course, he was already thinking about it if he was spending time in the parlor. A stillness settled over the room. Mira moved to a vase full of roses and pulled a few out to rearrange them.
“Has Walker written you again?” Her uncle attempted to start the conversation.
“Yes. He’s good about writing frequently. He’s almost finished his preliminary studies.”
“Good lad.”
A knock on the door announced the arrival of the last of the dinner party. Mira’s eyes lit up as he entered the room.
“Professor Burke!”
“Hello, little Mira.” He smiled with kindness in his eyes. If Mira had been younger, she would have rushed to hug him.
Professor Edward Burke had been a friend of the family for years. In fact, he was the link between her parents’ worlds. He met her father, Octavian, when they were going to school at Cambridge, and met her uncle on an expedition to India. He became such good friends with both of them that it was only a matter of time before Rose and Octavian met. Despite her uncle’s dislike of Mira’s father, Cyrus never seemed to lose affection for the professor.
“Good afternoon Edward.” Her uncle nodded to him.
“Cyrus, my good chap! I haven’t seen you in weeks. How are you?” The professor clapped a hand onto his shoulder.
“I’m fine, old friend.” Cyrus forced a smile. “Shall we have dinner?”
“I was promised something along those lines.” The professor grinned and walked out of the parlor. Mira followed him, glancing back at her uncle who took another look at a portrait of her mother. She bit her lip and joined the professor in the dining room.
“I wasn’t expecting you, Professor! Last I heard, you were in France. Is that right?” She stopped herself from bouncing in her seat in anticipation for his account of his travels.
“France, Italy, and Germany, my dear girl. It was wonderful.”
“I’m so glad to hear it.”
Her uncle entered and took his place at the head of the table. Dinner commenced with the usual pleasantries, speaking over this topic or that, moving between politics and personal news with ease. Mira waited patiently for a moment to move the conversation towards the accident.
“Now, Cyrus, I’v
e been hearing that the mercantile business hasn’t been faring too well as of late. Is this true?” the professor said before taking a bite of roast beef.
“For some, I would think. It is still a profitable business from my end, especially since I’ve stopped making the expeditions myself.”
It wasn’t exactly the topic she was looking for, but it could work if she chose the right wording. She could guide the conversation where she wanted without him even noticing.
“I’ve heard that they have almost finished an airship large enough to carry supplies across the continent to Russia. Would that affect the business, uncle?”
There was a moment of stillness at the table. The professor raised an eyebrow. Mira bit her lip in anticipation. Cyrus looked over at her, his voice soft and steady.
“If it stays in the air long enough, then perhaps.”
“They have become incredibly safe in recent years, uncle. In fact, they may become so well-used that you’ll have to work with them!”
“I won’t. They are too dangerous. Men weren’t made to fly.”
She inwardly chastised herself. By the expression on her uncle’s face she had already lost this battle. But it was too late to turn back now.
“Men weren’t made to cross the oceans either,” she said, testing her limits.
“Steamships are far safer than airships.”
“But the last accident was—”
“Why the fascination with airships today, Mira? You haven’t traveled on one since living on your own, have you?” A spark of worry flickered in his eyes.
“Of course not. I just read about it in the newspaper.” She looked down at her plate. The professor cleared his throat.
“It does seem to be an impressive ship, Mira. But your uncle is right. If they don’t manage the weight properly, there could be another accident. It’s a tricky business. Now would either of you like to hear the story of how I rescued someone from drowning in the Seine during this last trip?” Professor Burke diverted the conversation.
The conversation was over. She wouldn’t be getting anything out of her uncle. If she pushed it any further, she would arouse his suspicions. If she was being honest with herself, she was grateful that the professor intervened. So, she played along with the rest of the conversation through the remaining courses of food and dessert. Soon enough, the last plate was gone, and the professor looked over at her.
Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Page 3
