Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity

by Natalie Brianne

  They reached the scene and Mr. Morrison, the landlord, greeted them.

  “This is nasty business, this. First Mr. Pennington, and then Mr. Graham. Of course, Mr. Graham died of natural causes, didn’t he?” He nodded to the chief inspector, the constable, the detective, and the secretary.

  “It could be, it could also not be.” Thatcher led the way into the front room. Looking around, everything seemed to be normal. Nothing was amiss at first glance. Only after venturing into the bedroom, greeted first by a stench, did they find Mr. Graham, in bed. He looked peaceful enough for a corpse, as if he had died in his sleep. The only evidence of him not being asleep was the obvious smell, his blue lips and his ashen skin. There were a few flies buzzing about in an unsettling manner. Mira found it hard not to grimace.

  “Were you the one who found the body?” Byron turned to Mr. Morrison.

  “Oh yes. When he hadn’t given me his rent, I came to check on him. That was this morning. I knocked, and he didn’t answer, so I tried the handle and found it unlocked. I came in and found him like that. Right peaceful. Of course, it’s bad for business. Two deaths. No one will want to rent any of these rooms out. At least neither of ‘em were bloody though. That would be far worse.”

  “It does appear to be natural causes Wensley. Good work. We’ll have to wait for the medical examiner to be certain.” The inspector retreated into the living room, and the rest of the party followed.

  Mira trailed behind, taking one last look at Mr. Graham, feeling ill and despondent, as if she had lost something precious and rare even though she hadn’t known him long. When she followed the others into the living room, she found Byron in his bloodhound state. Stalking about the room, examining everything, each detail, every inch of the minutia. The chief inspector leaned against the wall in deep thought. Wensley examined the door.

  Byron turned back to them. “I can tell right now that this isn’t a matter of natural causes.”

  “It isn’t?” the landlord and inspector said in unison.

  “No. Of course not,” Wensley turned towards the rest of them.

  “Well…? What is it about the room that causes you to think that?” The inspector prompted him to continue.

  “Oh no. It isn’t anything in the room. Although the chrysanthemums do give us some clue as to how long he’s been dead.”

  “How long?”

  Byron moved over to the flowers by the windowsill. They looked under the weather, wilting and shriveling up, the color nearly faded away. He pressed a finger to the soil.

  “Three days at the least. The soil is almost entirely dry. It takes a few days for that to happen, and Mr. Graham was rather fond of these mums.” With that he went to the kitchen and filled up a pitcher, returning and reviving the plants. Mira smiled a little at that. How thoughtful of him to take care of them even though Mr. Graham was dead. She looked back towards the bedroom and her smile disappeared. She was brought out of her thoughts by the Inspector.

  “If it isn’t something in the room, then what prompts you to say it isn’t natural causes?”

  “Mr. Morrison, you said you just found the door unlocked?” Wensley asked.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “From my interactions with Mr. Graham, I have found that he is distrustful of strangers and visitors. He would have the door locked.” Byron moved over to the door.

  “And there is evidence in the room, seeing as there are several deadbolts on this door. Why were none of them used?” Wensley gestured as Byron locked and unlocked one of them for, what Mira thought was, dramatic effect.

  “Well, I suppose we shall see what the medical examiner says,” the inspector said.

  The medical examiner agreed with Byron on the timeline. It was declared that Mr. Graham had been dead for three days. However, in order to determine the cause of death, an autopsy would have to be performed. The medical examiner, chief inspector, Fred Wensley, and the other constables took the body and returned to Scotland Yard. Mr. Morrison returned to his rooms to arrange for the new vacant residence to be cleaned. Mira and Byron were alone in the front room. They sat in silence for some time, she on the couch they had occupied a week or so before, and he in the chair Mr. Graham had taken. He broke the silence.

  “It was nice to deduct with Fred again. He really does have the makings of a chief inspector.”

  Mira remained silent, encased in her thoughts. He looked around from his seat as the vibrations from his voice dissipated. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  “It is a pity. He was a nice old man and probably would have lived several more years if it weren’t for this.”

  “I know.” She stared at her feet.

  “I rather liked him, even if he was grumpy at first acquaintance.”

  “I did too.”

  “I can only hope that whoever did this made a mistake in their haste to cover their tracks from the first murder.”

  “Are you saying it would be worth it then? If we get our evidence, and solve this crime, then that makes up for his death?” She looked up at him in disbelief.

  “Of course not. I would rather neither of them died. Pennington or Mr. Graham. I would love nothing more than for there to be no crime, even if it does mean I’m out of a job. But that’s not the way the world is, Mira. Mr. Graham died, but that doesn’t mean it has to be in vain.”

  She looked down. He softened and moved over next to her on the couch. He placed his hand on hers.

  “I’m sorry. I can see this has really upset you.”

  “This is personal to me. He knew my parents, after all.”

  “I don’t think I knew that.”

  “You did. You’ve just forgotten,” she said, knowing she was twisting the knife. He winced, but for the moment she didn’t care.

  “I’ll write that down.” His voice was softer too. “And I’ll try to remember.”

  She looked up at him, he gave her a reassuring smile and squeezed her hand. She looked down again and composed herself. Then she stood and turned, gazing about the room.

  “Perhaps we should take a look around the place and see if we can find anything.” Her voice cracked as she spoke.

  “Yes. Let’s.” He stood to sleuth again. She watched him for a moment or so before looking around herself.

  She started in the living room. Same overstuffed chair, same couch, carpet completely clean. The mums were looking a bit better with the water, although their colors were still faded from their original glory. She determined to take at least one of them home with her. She looked at the door. No sign of forced entry. Just several deadbolts left unused. She hoped his death was natural, but something in the pit of her stomach told her otherwise. The same something that told her that her parents had been murdered. She continued to search.

  In the kitchen, she found that the counters were mostly clear, other than a tea tray with the usual things. Teapot, sugar bowl, creamer, two saucers. She paused. There were no teacups. She looked at the rack of teacups hanging above the hob. There were two missing. She furrowed her brow. They weren’t in the living room. She checked the cupboards in the kitchen. No teacups. She went to find Byron.

  He was in the bedroom, checking the closets, the dresser drawers, and under the bed. She cleared her throat.

  “Byron.”

  “Yes Mira?” He appeared kneeling behind the bed.

  “I found something that’s off.”

  “Brilliant! Show me.”

  She walked into the kitchen and showed him the tea tray and the missing teacups.

  “They have to be around here somewhere, but they aren’t in the living room or the kitchen.”

  “And I didn’t see any in the bedroom either,” he said.

  “Well if he was entertaining, I would venture to guess the cups would be in one of those two places.”

  “Are you always this observant?”

  “You’ve trained me well.”

  “Then continue. Please. I enjoy watching you conjecture.”

/>   “Alright. He must have been entertaining the murderer, who perhaps poisoned his tea and then helped Mr. Graham into bed before stealing the evidence of the teacups.”

  “Definitely a logical conclusion.”

  “But if the teacups are gone, what do we do?”

  “First, we make sure they are actually gone.” He moved over to the rubbish bin and looked inside.

  “Well, it was worth a shot.” He closed the lid.

  “I think the murderer is smart enough not to leave the teacups at the scene of the crime.”

  “Like I said, it was worth a shot. Let’s talk with the landlord. Hopefully the dust cart hasn’t come recently, and the rubbish will still be around here somewhere. And even if it isn’t, perhaps Mr. Morrison will have seen who came to visit Mr. Graham.”

  “Rubbish? Why would you care about the rubbish?”

  Doyle Morrison was certainly not a gentleman. Even if Mira had never talked to him before, one could simply tell from his living circumstances. Papers here, tables and chairs piled with this, that, or the other, and the distinct smell of mold greeted them. Even though he wasn’t a gentleman he tried desperately to imitate one. The fabrics used in his carpets and furniture looked to be more expensive, but by one touch you could easily tell they were cheaply made. The stains on them didn’t help, either. Mira imagined that this room might have once been nice if it weren’t for the person living in it. It was a matter of irony that the line of questioning went the way it did.

  “We just want to know if the dust cart has come in the last four days.” Byron rubbed his temples for a moment. Mira could tell he was annoyed again. She suppressed a smile.

  “No. It hasn’t. It’s due to come tomorrow. What do you need with it?”

  “We’re just looking for something. But while we are here…we were wondering if you could tell us some information.” His tone became exasperated.

  “Well, I don’t know anything. And you don’t work for the police so there is no reason for me to talk to you.”

  Mira took the helm of the conversation. “Ah, we don’t work for them, but we do work with them. If you answer our questions now, it is more likely you won’t have to answer any more questions later.”

  Mr. Morrison considered the statement, then nodded. “Alright. Ask away,”

  Byron looked at Mira gratefully then took the helm back.

  “Three days ago, did you see anyone come to Mr. Graham’s abode?”

  “No.”

  “Did he mention anything about a visitor coming?”

  “No.”

  “Did you notice anything at all three days ago?”

  “If I did, I’ve forgotten. I have a great deal to look after and no time to pay attention to this and that. I only bother my tenants when the rent is due. I allow them their privacy.”

  Byron took a deep breath.

  “Thank you, Mr. Morrison. Now, where might your rubbish pile be?”

  Mr. Morrison led them to a back alley where the rubbish was kept for the dust cart.

  “Don’t know what your obsession is with it but go ahead and help yourself.”

  He left the alley and headed back into the building. Byron took some gloves out of his pocket and offered them to Mira. She shook her head and pulled out her own gloves. They started by moving the larger pieces out of their way, then sifted through the smaller bits of waste. After a bit of digging, they found one of the teacups. The handle had broken off, but it was certainly one of Mr. Graham’s. It had a chip in the same place as the one Mira had used the week previous. They set it to the side and continued to look for the remaining teacup. It wasn’t long before they found it and reunited the pair.

  “Seems as if we’ve found what we came for.” Byron brushed his hands off.

  “So, it definitely was murder?”

  “Definitely. We just need to get these to Scotland Yard, and hopefully we’ll get some answers.” She nodded. He frowned and picked up one of the teacups, holding it up by the handle. He inspected a spot around the rim. A red one. It looked like some sort of red paste.

  “This looks promising. What do you make of that color Mira?”

  “It looks a bit like lip rouge.”

  “Currently unfashionable, dictated as impolite by the queen, and yet we find it on this teacup. Now, who do we know that uses lip rouge?”

  Mira paused and thought about each woman she’d met while on the case. Juliet certainly wasn’t a suspect, but even if she was, she didn’t use lip rouge. She used the more acceptable tissue paper method. Selene Vermielle didn’t seem to wear makeup at all, and besides, she was locked up. She couldn’t recall if the smuggler woman wore makeup or not. Only one remained. “Molly Bridges.”

  “Precisely.”

  They took a carriage back to her uncle’s together. Byron planned on going to Scotland Yard on his way home.

  “We’ll still need conclusive evidence that it was poisoning. Hopefully there are some traces on the teacup. And I’ll make certain they get you someone to watch the house as well.”

  “I would certainly appreciate that.”

  “My pleasure. Now, for tomorrow I’ll come pick you up from Swan Walk around noon. Hopefully that will stop anyone from knowing you are still working with me and then we can check for the analysis of the cup, as well as go and visit Miss Bridges.”

  “Byron, what if you don’t come?”

  “Well, I’ll write it down and if I’m not there by noon, then come to Palace Court and find me.”

  “And if you aren’t there?”

  “I’ll be sure to make a note of it. Trust me.”

  The carriage stopped in front of her uncle’s house and Byron helped her out. He kissed her hand gently.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Mira watched him drive out of sight before going inside. Dinner was waiting, and idle conversation with her uncle, but she couldn’t stop thinking about poor Mr. Graham. Killed just because he might have known something. She thought of the Whitechapel murders. The photographs she had seen on Inspector Thatcher’s desk. She excused herself early from the table. She went up to her room to find Nero waiting for her. She sat at her desk and pulled out a fresh piece of paper. The events of the day replayed in her head over and over, stopping on the murders and the death threats. She thought about Molly Bridges crying and couldn’t possibly imagine her killing her significant other. Then, her thoughts turned to Byron.

  The way Byron had acted that morning. His easy trust. He was so serious about everything. It made her hope for a moment that perhaps, just perhaps, he was remembering something. Remembering her.

  A knock at the door jolted her out of her thoughts. “Come in.”

  Landon peeked his head around the door. “Miss Mira?”

  “Oh. It’s only you.” She looked back at the drawing she had been working on. Landon placed a tray with tea and biscuits in front of her.

  “Do you want to talk?” He pulled up a chair. She sat up, giving him her full attention. He only breached his butler protocol when he was feeling especially fatherly towards her.

  “What about?” She picked up a biscuit and nibbled at it.

  “Well perhaps we can start with why you’ve been acting so strange these last few weeks. I’d like to believe it was simply your employment, but I’m not certain.”

  “I’ve been acting strange?”

  “Leaving without saying goodbye, being more reserved, not showing interest in your favorite foods. What’s going on?”

  She paused for a moment thinking over it all. “In all honesty I’m not certain. There are so many things in my head now.”

  “Would it help to talk them out?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Where shall we start then?”

  “My parents I suppose. I know now beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Landon pulled back in surprise.

  “We’ve been investigating it. And the evidence points to that. The Vaporidge
company wanted them dead for some reason.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve just felt for so long that their accident was more than that. And now that I know, I thought it would make me feel better somehow. That finding the truth would bring me closer to them. The investigation is by no means over but…”

  “You haven’t found the closure you were looking for?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Closure comes with time. You need to allow yourself the time to grieve.”

  “Eighteen years isn’t long enough?”

  “Sometimes a lifetime isn’t long enough.” He looked down. “I don’t think I ever told you about Mrs. Tisdale. After all, she died before you were born.” He took off the glove on his left hand. A golden wedding band shone in the dwindling light.

  “No, you hadn’t. You were married?” Mira filed away this new information.

  “I am married. Just because she has passed on, doesn’t mean she isn’t here.” He placed a hand on his heart. “Every day I miss her. It’s been over thirty years. She died in childbirth. Which is why I feel so fortunate that I’ve had the opportunity to help raise you and your brother.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It isn’t your fault any more than it is mine. It is something that happened, and though it grieves me every day, I know things will be alright. It may take a lifetime for you to accept the loss of your parents, Mira. Sometimes there isn’t closure.” He put his glove back on.

  “But that’s all I want!”

  “Is it, though? When you close a chapter, that means it is done. You don’t think about it. You forget. It is possible to move past things in life, but if we don’t keep it slightly open in our memory, it will be forgotten.” He paused to pour a cup of tea for himself. “And if you hadn’t kept it open so far, you wouldn’t have met Byron.” He took a sip.

  “Well, I would have. After all, we met at a cafe before I even went looking for a private detective.”

  “But would you know him now?”

  “Probably not.” She blew a strand of hair from her face.