Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity by Natalie Brianne (new ebook reader TXT) 📕

“Perhaps. The body was found by the landlord, and he might have more information on that subject. I shall be interrogating him later today.”

“At 12:30?”

“Yes, indeed. Which means we have ample time for a cup of tea, don’t you think?”

After tea, they hailed a cab and headed off to Scotland Yard. Byron was greeted by several people he didn’t remember, but pretended to remember anyway, as they made their way to Chief Inspector Thatcher’s office. Mira stayed close to him. After climbing a few staircases, they came to an exterior office with a young lady at a desk writing something on a piece of letterhead. She looked up as they entered.

“Hello, Byron.” She chirped sweetly in her slight cockney accent. He cleared his throat.

“Is Thatcher in?”

“Yes, he is. Who’s this?” The girl’s smile went a bit sour looking at Mira.

“Miss Blayse, my secretary.”

“I wasn’t aware you were looking for a secretary.” She scowled.

“I wasn’t aware you were interested in changing positions.” He walked past her towards the door to the main office. “Wait here Miss Blayse. I’d like to talk to the chief inspector alone for a moment.” Mira nodded and waited by the desk. She glanced at the nameplate. Juliet Chickering.

The woman that went with the name was quite petite. She had small hands and wrists that probably could be broken as easily as a pencil. Or perhaps the proper word was delicate. Her blonde hair was pulled into an updo that didn’t suit her at all, and her complexion was so pale Mira couldn’t imagine she had ever seen the sun. She seemed to like neatness as she arranged her fountain pen straight against the paper she wrote on. Juliet’s shrill voice pulled Mira from her thoughts.

“Might I ask why you would be interested in a secretarial position? You don’t look like a working girl.” Juliet moved the paper onto a neat stack on the left side of her desk, refusing to look at Mira, her cockney accent suddenly becoming more prominent.

“Well, he’s helping me solve a case of my own, actually.”

“Oh, so you aren’t interested in him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve had my eye on him for a while. Every day he resets, they say. That means every day I get a chance. If I get put down in that journal of his, then soon enough I’ll be remembered and then who knows where we’ll go from there.”

Mira stood astounded. “The thought never even crossed my—” She was interrupted.

“Oh good.” Juliet put the paper she was holding down and opened a drawer. She took out a small piece of rouge colored tissue, licked her lips and pressed them against the paper. When she put the paper away, she had a pinkish tinge to her lip. “But you do have to admit that he is right handsome, don’t you think?”

“I…I suppose…”

The door opened, and Byron came back out. “Miss Blayse?” She hurried into the inspector’s office and shut the door behind her. Byron raised an eyebrow. “You feeling alright? Your face seems a bit red.”

“Quite alright.” She avoided eye contact and turned her attention to the man sitting behind the desk.

Raymond Thatcher was a portly gentleman whose black hair greyed along with his perfectly trimmed mustache. He had laugh lines around his hazel eyes, and a kindly face. He reminded her a bit of Landon, and Mira smiled at the thought.

“You must be Miss Blayse, Constantine’s secretary?” Thatcher stood and extended a hand to her. She shook it and stepped back.

“Yes, I am.”

“I certainly hope you can help him keep his facts straight. He’s brilliant, I’ll give you that, but his deductive reasoning is nothing without memory.”

Mira glanced at Byron and noticed he was taking the compliments with a smug sort of humility. She smiled. “I’ll do the best I can.”

The chief inspector smiled at her response then turned to Byron. “Now, I’m sure you didn’t come for pleasantries, Constantine. You’re here to see the landlord?” Byron nodded. Mira noticed several case files on the desk, some with gruesome photographs she wished she had not seen. The chief inspector picked up the only file without a photograph and handed it to Byron before continuing.

“His name is Doyle Morrison. He’s owned that branch of buildings for the last three years. You’re welcome to question him. He was kind enough to wait for you. You’ll find him in interrogation room three.”

Byron led her through Scotland Yard to the interrogation chambers. A constable stood outside the door. Byron nodded, and the constable stepped aside.

A man sat at a table in the center of the small room, and another constable stood on the opposite end of the room, watching him. The man at the table seemed skittish. He sported a receding hairline and an ill-kempt mustache. His clothing teemed with intricate patterns, but the fabric was obviously cheap. Mira’s stomach tightened watching him.

Byron went to the opposite side of the table and gestured for Mira to take a seat in one of the chairs across from the landlord. She did, and he followed suit. Not knowing what to do with herself, Mira opened her sketchbook and began to subtly sketch the man, pretending to take notes.

“Doyle Morrison?” Byron’s voice cut the tension of the air. At this distance Mira could tell that Doyle was sweating, and she caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath.

“Yes, that’s me name. Who’s the girl? I was told I was getting questioned by a detective, not a detective and a lady.”

“This is my secretary, Miss Blayse. I assure you she is discreet. Anything you can say to me can be said in front of her.”

Mr. Morrison looked her over for a moment, shrugged, then cleared his throat, turning his attention to Byron. “I run a reputable business, Detective. It’s right rude for Mr. Pennington to go and get himself killed. You know how hard it is to rent out a place when someone’s gone and died in it?”

“I’m sure