“I’m glad you didn’t get caught.”
“As am I. I’m afraid I’m a little more well-known than you are, and then your French would have been in vain.” He glanced at her before continuing.
“Now then, back to the case. We know Pennington was disappearing to that cargo hold. That’s the only place he could have been going.”
“But why, Byron?”
“You’re asking the right questions. He could have been helping them smuggle. Or he may have just stumbled across it as you did. He could have been curious. But that may have been his fatal mistake.”
“But if he found it in March, that is the time that he started disappearing after all, wouldn’t he have been killed then? Didn’t Mr. Gill say that he didn’t have any family or anyone? No one would have missed him.” She thought back to the woman’s speech about murder and shivered.
“Maybe no one knew he had found it. Or it was just that he was helping them to smuggle the goods. After all that was when the influx of money came as well.”
“But Byron, the money kept coming after he quit. And he had been working for Vaporidge for several months before the influx.”
“Hmm. You are right about that. So where was it coming from?”
“What about that stash in the piano? Could he still have become a cat burglar? He must have known how to use lockpicks to get down to the smuggling hold.”
“I suppose. But that doesn’t fit in with him disappearing, though. The pieces aren’t fitting.” He placed his index fingers on his temples and rubbed them in circles.
“Was he stealing whatever they were smuggling and selling it? That would be a reason for them to kill him off,” Mira said.
“It would, but then why would he quit? That wouldn’t make sense. He’d be away from his supply of goods.”
Mira pursed her lips. They were getting nowhere. Byron yawned.
“Byron, you need to sleep.”
“Mira, if I sleep, I’m going to forget.”
“You were just up all night. And you were up late two nights ago as well.”
“Was I? I don’t feel the strain.” He yawned again.
“You are yawning left and right. The case can wait for the moment. You need to sleep.”
“Alright. I’ll take a nap if you promise me one thing, Mira.”
“Anything.”
“That you will be here when I wake up again. I don’t want you going home alone. Not after what just happened.”
She paused and then nodded. “Very well.”
Byron nodded back, then picked up his journal. He wrote a few things in it and then set it off to the side. “There is a possibility that my memory won’t reset. Usually it is only when I sleep for long periods of time.” He laid back and closed his eyes.
“Then I guess we’ll hope for that.” She pulled out her sketchbook to keep herself occupied.
“Yes, we’ll hope.” Byron went a bit limp. It hadn’t taken much for sleep to overcome him. Mira watched as he breathed deeply. Up and down. Did he dream? Of course, she would never know because he probably never remembered his dreams. She herself seldom remembered hers, and she didn’t have his problem with memory.
She drew for a while and then prepared some food in the kitchen. A famished hunger had taken up residence in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since the evening before, and it had to be midafternoon by this point.
When she was fed, she came back into the living room. He was still asleep. She went over to the filing system and pulled out all his notes on the case that weren’t in his journal. She wrote down the events and then sorted them into chronological order.
September 1887- Clement Pennington started work for the Vaporidge Steamship Company
Early March 1888- He became more withdrawn. Most likely found the smuggling quarters.
Late March- The influx of money appeared in his account.
April- He and Molly Bridges met and started to court.
July- He quit his job. The influx of money continued.
September- I met Byron. Pennington is found dead. His lodgings burglarized. We started solving the crime. I was kidnapped by smugglers.
She looked at these events for a moment and then decided to focus in on the day of the murder. September 9.
September 9
Eight o’clock (p.m.) Molly Bridges comes to Clement’s place.
They make dinner, have champagne and chocolates. Have an argument.
Nine-thirty Molly Bridges leaves Clement’s place.
Ten o’clock Burglar comes. Clement apparently isn’t there.
September 10
Eleven o’clock (a.m.) Landlord finds Pennington dead.
She looked at everything she had written. She had to assume that everyone was telling the truth. Then she would be able to find where things didn’t fit. Was an hour and a half long enough to make dinner, eat, clean up, have champagne and chocolate and then argue? And where did Pennington go if the burglar, Selene, didn’t see him? Maybe he went after Molly to apologize. Perhaps he didn’t pluck up enough courage to actually go talk to her. Perhaps he came back after the burglary and then he checked his stash. He moved the glass from where he had left it after the fight so that he could check inside the piano. Finding whatever was in there missing, then he killed himself?
No. Because the smugglers knew about him and his death. They had something to do with it. How? She wasn’t exactly sure. But he hadn’t killed himself. That much was certain. The woman in the smuggling ring had mentioned that there was a security breach involving Pennington. So, he wasn’t a smuggler himself; he just found the grate and was curious.
But where was the money coming from? She leaned back in annoyance. This puzzle wasn’t coming together. The picture still wasn’t clear. She didn’t know where they would go from what they had discovered. She looked over at Byron who still slept. She yawned. The adrenaline was wearing off. She was tired, too. Maybe she could rest for a while. Byron wouldn’t be awake for a bit. She set her notes on the table and laid her head on the back of the chair.
She was vaguely aware of when Byron woke up. She could hear some rustling, some footsteps towards her, and then away again, and the opening of the journal. Somewhere in her memory all of that was there. She just didn’t remember falling asleep. The sounds of glass clinking in the kitchen woke her. She stretched and then went to investigate the noise.
Byron was tinkering with his chemistry set. From what she could tell he had separated the white particles from the black and brown particles. He had several piles of each and was testing them with different chemicals, she presumed in order to figure out what they were. She came in and leaned against the counter, he saw her, and smiled.
“Hello, Mira.” He frowned for a moment. “You are Mira, right?”
“Yes, Byron. I see you’ve forgotten again. Did you sleep well at all?”
“I don’t quite remember, but I feel generally awake. It would seem we had quite the exciting morning.” He gestured to the journal sitting at the far end of the counter.
“Yes. I suppose we did.”
“I just thought I would check up on what these powders were. There are six distinct solids in this sample.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “I’ve tested several of the particles. I’ve found sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate, opium, silt, and what appears to be bone.” He pointed to each small pile as he went.
“From what I can tell, that cargo hold has been used for several years and over the years it has brought several different things across. The sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate lead me to believe that gunpowder and guns were likely to have been transported. There wasn’t as much opium, which makes sense as the bags would be sealed tight. I’m guessing the silt is simply what clings to the crates as they are being transported. The bone is a bit tricky as well; not as much of it, only a few fragments. I would guess ivory. It certainly isn’t human. My guess here is that it rubbed against the crates on the inside and
the powder fell through the slats.” He looked up at her. She was in awe. He grinned.
“So, then they have transported guns, drugs, and ivory at some point?” she asked.
“Yes. They can get it into the country without worry for customs or taxes because the Horizon is only a passenger vessel. According to the public blueprints it wasn’t even supposed to have a cargo hold.”
“And they unload it under the cover of night so as not to draw suspicion?”
“Exactly. There is a high probability that the captain and the crew of the ship don’t even know what is below them. There is probably a ground crew here in London, and one over in France that come at night and access the hold.”
“And,” She scarcely could bring herself to think it. “This is a motive for murder.”
“What do you mean?” He leaned against the counter.
“My parents’ murder, that is. My father was the inventor. He would be overseeing the building of the airship. Uncle Cyrus, and Mr. Graham both mentioned that he usually worked on several projects at once. If he had left during construction and come back—”
“They could have finished the hold without him knowing. But he was murdered, which means he must have figured something out.” Byron finished.
Mira felt several parts of the puzzle coming together inside her head. A feeling of relief spread over her, but that feeling was quickly overshadowed by more questions.
“Except, what about Pennington? We may have uncovered a crime syndicate but how was he involved?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.” He placed the powders into separate bags. “But what I do know is that I need to escort you home. It’s getting late and Nero must be getting worried.”
Mira looked back into the living room and out the window. The sun was setting. She nodded. “Alright.”
He placed the bags of powder into his satchel along with his journal. He headed for the door, and she followed. He offered his arm to her, which she took, and they walked towards her home.
“Tomorrow I think we should check back at the deceased’s rooms again. There might be something else we missed,” he said.
Mira nodded. He continued, “I’m going to stop by Scotland Yard before heading home this evening as well. It would be good to get a second opinion on these powders, and I’d like to find out if they caught those scoundrels.” He patted the top of her hand and looked deeply into her eyes, his gaze and tone turning serious.
“I’m just glad they didn’t injure you in any way. I’d never forgive myself if they had.”
“Byron, like I said, I’m fine.”
“They threatened to kill you and very well could have. This work is dangerous.” He paused for a moment.
“I want you to seriously consider why you are doing this, Mira. If this is what you really want. According to my journal I’ve been in more dangerous situations than that. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“Promise me you’ll think hard about this?”
She hesitated. “I promise.”
They stopped in front of her rooms. He seemed reluctant to leave her.
“May I walk you in?” She thought a moment and nodded. Then she led him up to the door and unlocked it, going in. He followed.
Everything was as she left it. Pencils and drawing paper on the table in the small front room. Kitchen spotless. Cat mewing at her feet. She picked Nero up and cradled him in her arms. Byron came in warily. He walked into the front room and then into the back. She followed him as he went up the stairs and checked each room. He came back into the living room again.
“No one is here.” He allowed his shoulders to relax.
“I didn’t think there would be anyone.” She smiled at him and put Nero down. He went over to Byron and sniffed at his feet before rubbing up against his legs.
“I forgot to introduce you to Nero, it would seem. Nero, this is Byron, Byron this is Nero.”
Byron smiled and picked the cat up. “Hello, Your Emperorship.” He flashed a grin at Mira, and she laughed. He could always make her laugh. He put Nero down again and smoothed down his fur.
“I probably ought to go.” He started towards the door, stopped once he reached it and looked around the front room again, and then to her.
“Goodnight, Mira.” He opened the door and stepped out.
“Goodnight, Byron.”
She went to the door and watched him go down the steps. He waved from the sidewalk and then hailed a hansom cab. It drove away, and she closed the door. She looked around at her empty rooms and felt isolated. She fed Nero and got ready for bed, keeping the lamps lit for as long as possible. It occurred to her that just twenty-four hours previous she had been kidnapped. She thought about the prospect of not working with Byron anymore. He was right. It was dangerous. But the thought of stopping brought a pang of grief to her heart. Whether it was for her parents or for Byron or for the case, she didn’t know. Maybe it was all three. Her emotions were all tangled and mismatched. How could she decide in such a state? She took a few deep breaths and determined she didn’t have to worry about it at that exact moment. It could wait until the morning.
She woke early again and dashed around her rooms to get ready. She didn’t care if it was dangerous. They had to get to the bottom of everything. She had to get down to the bottom of everything. And aside from that, when had her life ever been this exciting? Sure, she had been kidnapped, but she had escaped. She laughed at the thought.
Working with Byron helped her to find a part of herself she didn’t know existed. And she felt closer to her parents than she ever had before. It was invigorating. It was exciting. It was freeing. And it was the only explanation she could come up with. Why else would she be crazy enough to keep going back?
Byron. He was so strong despite everything. And he had been so worried about her. She smiled to herself as she began her walk to Palace court. Under different circumstances they never would have been acquaintances, let alone friends. She felt her heart leaping again, and she frowned. No. She couldn’t. He just was too…
Too what? Handsome? Brilliant? Forgetful. She sighed. Perhaps she did have feelings for him. But what use were they? He was going to forget her again. And again, and again and again until who knows when. He would never remember her, and that stung like cold steel. A deep-set pain, different from the grief she had for her parents. She knew that now. A surprising pain. She didn’t understand it.
These thoughts accompanied her through Kensington Gardens and up the steps of number 27. They weren’t comfortable companions, but she couldn’t be rid of them. She pulled out her key and entered.
She heard shuffling noise coming from a room up the stairs. Perhaps his bedroom? She closed the door behind her and started into the living room. Byron peeked his head out of his room, straightening his tie.
“Mira! I didn’t know if you’d be coming back. I’ll just be a minute.” His head disappeared again. Mira looked around for any new notes. There were none. She sat down on the piano bench and looked out the window, trying to figure out her jumbled emotions and thoughts.
A few minutes passed, and Byron entered wearing a snappy grey suit. He had a spring in his step. Mira turned back to the window to keep her emotions in check. To her surprise, Byron sat on the piano bench next to her and began to play. He started with a simple melody and then added the second hand. He reached across her to play the lower notes. The music calmed her, and she turned around to watch him play. He was completely engrossed by the music, playing from memory, which she found funny. He must have learned the piece before his accident. Whatever it was, it was beautiful. He finished and turned to her.
“Are you alright?”
“What? Me? Yes, I am.”
“You don’t seem like it.”
“Well, I’m fine.”
“Very well. I assume you are planning on continuing then?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me catch you up on what’s happened.” He
stood and walked over to the side table where he had left his journal. He picked it up and flipped to the most recent page.
“I dropped off the powders at the lab, and they should be analyzed either this afternoon or tomorrow morning. The smugglers weren’t at the butcher shop when the police arrived. They made a clean break. Lastly, I believe that I mentioned that we should check over the scene of the crime again. I was looking over my notes of the objects in the bedroom and realized that I had completely overlooked something.”
“You had?”
“Yes. Blotting paper. He had a desk, writing utensils, and paper. It’s only logical that he would have blotting paper as well. He may have written something before he died. We need to check that.”
He stood and grabbed his satchel, placing his journal into it and then headed for the door.
“Are you coming?” he said over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She stood and followed him out the door.
The landlord let them in without any trouble once they got to Pennington’s place.
“You’re lucky,” Doyle said. “I’m having the cleaners come in tomorrow. The police have given me permission to, and I’d like to get it back on the market as soon as possible.”
Byron nodded to him and took the key. “Lucky indeed.” He then led the way up the stairs and into the rooms themselves. Another layer of dust had joined the first and nothing had been disturbed. Byron looked around a bit before finding the bedroom. He went to the desk and opened the drawer. After rummaging through a few papers, he pulled out a piece of blotting paper with several marks on it. It looked as if Pennington reused it several times. Byron smiled.
Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Page 15
