Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity

by Natalie Brianne

  She held her weapon closer to her ready to strike. She entered the room, and a paper crumpled beneath her foot. She jolted, breath catching in her chest. Carefully, she examined the rest of her room and then knelt to look under the bed. Pitch black. The hissing continued.

  “Come out little one. It’s only me.”

  Her voice shook, and her entire body trembled. Nero didn’t come out, and she couldn’t see well enough to reach for him. Mira moved towards the open window. The vandal must have left through it. She pulled the curtain aside and felt the humid breeze. Her arms broke out in gooseflesh as she heard the door slam shut behind her. She turned around, pulse racing, but no one was there. She took a deep breath. The wind must have closed it.

  She laughed a little and fastened the curtains to stay open. Moonlight trickled into the room. She began to move back towards the bed. Another paper crumpled. She stopped and looked around the room. Someone stood in the corner behind her bed. Dressed entirely in black. She couldn’t see their face or any distinguishing features. They took a step towards her, into the light. Mira swallowed and held the table leg out in front of her, taking a step back.

  “I…I…I don’t know who…who you are…but…” She lost her words.

  The shadowy figure kept silent, advancing. Mira kept stepping back, back pressed up against the wall. Her heart pounded and her thoughts raced. She was going to die. She looked at her table leg, and then at the knife of her assailant, glistening in the moonlight. They were mere steps away from one another. It wasn’t a fair fight, but at least she could try. She took a deep breath and swung with all her strength. The figure grabbed the leg with one hand and twisted it out of her grasp, throwing it to the side. Mira backed into the corner, looking for another way out.

  “Can’t we talk?” Her voice faltered.

  A heartbeat passed, and the shadow pinned her to the wall by her throat. Mira screamed and pulled at their grasp, to no avail. She heard a thud near her ear and turned to face a knife three inches from her face. The world turned hazy, the sound of rushing water filling her ears. Her limbs stung and then numbed. She felt her weight increase, and she fell to the ground. As black splotches clouded her vision, she watched the shadow calmly walk to the window, look back at her, and escape. The world went dark.

  She didn’t know how long she had been out, but her head swam. She felt something wet near her fingertips. She opened her eyes and found Nero licking her. Her breathing returned to normal. She sat up and looked around the room. It was in shambles. Worse even than Byron’s earlier that day. She sat on her overturned mattress, trembling. Just the day before, she escaped from the hands of smugglers. This evening her home and Byron’s had been searched. She understood why they would search Byron’s place. They could steal evidence or notes he had made, thus rendering his investigation useless. But why would they search hers? She felt dizzy again. They had come to kill her.

  Except they hadn’t. And obviously, they could have if they wanted to. They had ample opportunity. But they hadn’t. She heard her heartbeat in her ears. Nero nuzzled up against her hand. At least she could be grateful that he wasn’t hurt in the process.

  She yawned and remembered how late it was. But how could she sleep after escaping death? First, she went through the house again and ensured that each door and window was properly latched. Then she managed to arrange the bed in a way that facilitated sleeping. When she went to find her nightclothes, she found that they, as well as most of her wardrobe had been slashed. She sagged onto the bed. Nero curled up on top of her, and eventually she drifted off to sleep.

  She woke in the middle of the night having the strange feeling of not being alone. Nero lay unmoving at her feet, but that wasn’t it. She felt panic rising within her, realizing that she may have locked someone else in the building with her. She stood and walked down the stairs into her sitting room. She looked around, but saw no one. She came back into the bedroom and investigated the mirror above her bed. She saw a figure behind her, entirely dressed in black. They had come back. Except this one was different. Taller. The figure moved towards her, and she found herself frozen, unable to move. The stature of the figure made her believe it was a man. The moonlight from the window highlighted his intense blue eyes. She couldn’t help but stare at them. When she was able to pull her gaze away, she saw the knife, but it was too late. She saw a glint of light as her assailant’s arm quickly moved around her and the knife went for her throat, missed, and hit her heart.

  She woke up, trembling from the cold, around five in the morning. Her sheets clung to her skin. Nero slept peacefully at her feet, his little chest rising and falling with his breaths. She looked up at the wall. No mirrors or figures to be seen. Her room was still in pieces, but she was alone. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. It was only a nightmare. But it felt palpable. She mused that it was a conglomeration of the events of the day before. After all, she had nearly been killed. Wait.

  She pulled the blanket tight around her shaking shoulders, her throat tightening as memories from the night before flowed into her conscious mind. She stifled a sob, which caused Nero to stir and meow at her. Then she resolved to make herself a cup of tea and try to go back to sleep.

  Most of her dishes were shattered on the floor of her kitchen, but she managed to find one undamaged teacup. She heated the water in a pot and found some salvageable tea leaves. Sitting on the floor of her living room with her tea made her feel better about things. She would go to Byron’s as soon as was proper, and then he could come and examine the evidence. After that, they might be able to determine who did it and then they could get the police involved. Perhaps attacking her was their mistake. They must have left some sort of evidence behind. She sipped at her tea and looked around the room.

  There were pages upon pages of previous drawings and paintings scattered across the room. All ruined. All her furniture had been smashed to bits. She thought that odd, considering that at Palace Court, only the papers had been disturbed. Nero came yawning and stretching out of her room and curled up next to her. All the pictures had been torn from the walls. She stood up and placed her teacup in the kitchen and then came back to examine things more thoroughly.

  She saw that the wallpaper had been shredded. Upon further inspection she found that the paper wasn’t just shredded but cut precisely with a knife. Her heartrate picked up, and she ran into her sitting room. Her books had been strewn from the bookshelf. Some had pages ripped out of them. She knelt and sifted through the mess until she found a familiar tome. A leather cover embossed and lovingly taken care of. The pages and back cover were missing. She clutched the cover to her and searched for any remnants. Eventually she gave up, blinking back tears.

  She came back into her room where the bed had been destroyed. The mattress, though comfortable the night before, had over thirty holes stabbed into it and bedding was coming out. On the wall opposite the bed, she found the knife. It was thrust into the wall halfway to the hilt and was holding a paper in place. She hadn’t noticed the paper the night before. Of course, she was a bit preoccupied at the time.

  The paper had a message on it, pasted together with clippings from the newspaper:

  “We know who you are, Mira Blayse. Leave London immediately. Cease contact with Constantine. You know what we are capable of doing.”

  The note wasn’t signed, and a shiver ran up her spine. It was only half past five, but she took her coat and immediately started back to Palace Court, taking a carriage because that felt somehow safer.

  On the way, several thoughts crossed her mind. They had tried to kill her. They could have killed her. They would kill her if she continued to help Byron.

  Anxiety rushed her senses. Even in the quiet of the morning, the noise around her was almost too much. What would happen if she stopped helping Byron? First, her parents’ case wouldn’t be solved. Not that they had gotten all that far, but still. Secondly, what exactly was it that made her a threat? After all, he had his journal
and—that was it.

  She reached Palace Court, took out her key, and tiptoed into the house. After placing her coat on the hook, she went into the living room to look through his files. She had to be sure of something before waking Byron up.

  She rifled through the papers and notes until she got the B section. The file she was looking for wasn’t there. She checked under M next. No file. Lastly under S. It was gone. The intruders had searched his files and found her address. Her file had been there before and now it was completely missing. She felt another round of tears pricking at her eyes. The rest of the house was quiet. She hated to do this, but she had to wake Byron up. She went up the stairs to the door of his room and knocked.

  There was some groaning and a bit of rustling. Some confused mumbling. Then the door opened. His white shirt from yesterday was rumpled and mostly unbuttoned. His trousers had lost their crease and were also wrinkly. He blearily blinked his eyes.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in my bedroom?” He was surprisingly aware, considering he had just woken up.

  “I’m Samira Blayse, your secretary. I need you to read your journal right now. Please.”

  “My journal? What does that have to do with anything? And how did you get in here?”

  “You gave me a key.” She pulled it out of her pocket. “And you have short term memory loss. Please. Just read your journal.”

  He considered her for a moment, his gaze settling on her watering eyes, and she saw a wave of trust cover his face. He believed her. She watched as he walked further into his room to grab his journal from the nightstand. He walked past her into the living room and sat down to read. She came in anxiously and sat down across from him. Every other time she had watched him read it seemed to only take a few minutes. Now that she was truly waiting for him, it felt like hours. Finally, he closed the book, looked up at her, smiled for a moment and then frowned.

  “Based on my journal you’ve never come this early or woken me up before. What’s wrong?”

  “Did you write down the fact that your rooms were burglarized yesterday?”

  “Yes, I did. And that nothing of consequence was disturbed.”

  “We were wrong. Something of consequence, at least to me, was taken.”

  “What?” He sat forward in his seat.

  “My address. When I got home, everything was completely torn apart. The perpetrator was still there, they attacked me, but they got away and, well, they left a note. Other than arranging my bed and making a cup of tea, I haven’t touched anything.” Her words were shaky, the events of the night playing in her mind’s eye.

  “They came to your rooms?”

  “Yes.”

  “They attacked you?!”

  “Yes, Byron.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, of course I am.”

  “No, Mira. Are you alright?” He looked at her with a mixture of fear, anger, and concern muddling his expression.

  “I’m a bit rattled. But otherwise alright. They didn’t seriously injure me. Or Nero.”

  “Then let’s get back over there. You were right not to touch anything, especially the note.”

  He stood and walked back into his room. Several minutes later he came back fully dressed and grabbed his journal from the armchair. He placed it in his satchel. Then he walked over to the side table and took a pistol from its case, placing it into his satchel as well. Lastly, he opened the drawer in the table and removed a box and a small bottle and placed it with the rest. He looked up at her and nodded.

  “We have no time to lose.”

  The ride over was an anxious one for them both. Of that, Mira was made certain by the tenseness of Byron’s features and the drumming of his fingers on his leg. Once there, they climbed the steps together, and she unlocked the door. Everything was as she left it, other than Nero, who was now mewing at her feet, and the fact that she could see things more clearly now in the light of day.

  Byron came in and gave everything a thorough inspection. Each stick of furniture, every strewn page. He stopped entirely when he saw the cuts made into the wallpaper.

  “You weren’t lying when you said the place was destroyed.” His tone was serious, and his face darkened as he looked at her. Before she could answer, he walked up the stairs into her room to examine the carnage. She followed him as he inspected her tattered clothing, the broken bedstead, and finally the note and the knife.

  After reading the note with a look of great disgust, he took out the box and bottle he had procured from the drawer. He opened it and pulled out a small brush. He turned to her.

  “Hold this for me?”

  She moved next to him. He placed the box in her hand and then opened the bottle, dipping the brush into a fine powder and then brushing it lightly over the handle of the knife. He examined this thoroughly and then brushed it onto the paper as well. He turned to her.

  “No fingerprints. I would guess they were wearing gloves.

  “They were. And they were entirely dressed in black. It was dark enough I didn’t see the length of their stature.”

  “Mira, you are in danger.”

  “I know I am. But I’m not going to stop helping you just because of a note and a death threat.”

  “Mira, this isn’t worth it.”

  “Yes, it is, Byron!” Her voice had risen, but she didn’t care. She was uncertain what she was saying. Thoughts popped into her head and spouted out of her mouth like fire. “This is exactly what they want. They want me to stop helping you, and I think I know why.”

  “Why?” He folded his arms defensively and sat on the remains of the bed.

  “There are only two things between them and a complete wipe of evidence against them. Me and your journal. If I leave, I won’t be able to remind you. If they alter your journal, then they can erase any facts you have written down, and even replace them with new ones that you can give to the chief inspector, corrupting the case. They could steal it and wipe your memory of the case entirely.”

  Byron paused before standing and holding her by her shoulders, eyes roving over her face. His touch stirred her emotions, and it took all her willpower not to hug him or start crying again.

  “You’re right. Of course, you are right.” He turned away in silence for a few moments more.

  “But you are still in danger. I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt.”

  “And I can’t stand the thought of being sent away like a child. Obviously, I can handle myself, Byron. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”

  “Well, it had better be the last.” Byron straightened his tie. “I’m not going to convince you to stand down, am I?”

  When she shook her head, he continued. “You shall continue to work with me, but you need to stay safe. We will get you police protection. You will find a new place to stay in London and I will not put that address into a file. We might also want to meet somewhere other than my rooms.”

  “We can’t do that Byron. If you don’t read your journal you won’t remember to meet me.”

  “Quite right again.” He paced for a few more steps. “We’ll start by getting you settled somewhere else and get you some protection from the police, then we’ll work from there. Alright?” She nodded.

  “I’m sure I can stay with my uncle for the time being.”

  “Perfect.” He hugged her loosely for a moment, and she could hear his heart beating. The rhythm was somehow soothing and melodic, despite the situation. It was short lived, however, as he pulled away almost as soon as he had done it. His cheeks had a tinge of pink in them as he turned, looking about the room.

  “Well. Shall we set you up with your uncle before going on with the rest of the plans for the day?”

  She nodded again and found a suitcase that had been relatively saved from the destruction. She placed things that could be salvaged into it. He helped her, and once they had taken everything that they could, she picked up Nero and they went outside to call another cab.
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br />   “Swan Walk in Chelsea please,” she told the driver. Byron looked at her.

  “Your uncle is that well off?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Anything I should know before I meet him?”

  Mira bit her lip. “He is a bit overprotective. His name is Cyrus Griffon.”

  “A nice name.”

  “Yes. And we shouldn’t tell him that I’ve had death threats or notes or anything like that. He will have a conniption.”

  “Alright. Then what should we tell him?”

  “Um. That there was flood damage or something. While it is getting figured out, I need to have a place to stay.”

  “And if he looks into it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not really good at these sorts of things.”

  “Hm. Well what would happen if we told him the truth?”

  “He would try everything in his power to stop me from continuing my acquaintance with you.”

  “I’ll see what we can do. If we were to lie, how would you explain me?”

  “Just that you are a friend.”

  “Wouldn’t he get suspicious of that?”

  “Possibly. Probably.” She groaned. “And he would probably ask you a lot of questions. Although that will happen either way.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Under no circumstance tell him about the fact that I have flown in an airship.”

  “That makes sense as well. After all, your parents were killed in an airship accident.”