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

stopped in front of Scotland Yard and they trudged up to the office again. Juliet sat at her desk.

“Inspector Thatcher! Where did you go? I went to file something, and when I came back, you—” She stopped, seeing Byron. “Oh! Hello, Byron.” She smiled at him. Thatcher rolled his eyes and continued into his office mumbling something Mira didn’t quite catch. Byron nodded to Juliet before following the inspector. Mira met a glare from Miss Chickering before she entered and closed the door behind her.

“It appears that the criminal class has become cleverer. This is the fourth case since April that I haven’t been able to solve.” Thatcher slumped in his seat.

“Except this case is solved, isn’t it?” Mira looked between Byron and the Inspector.

“We don’t know where Molly Bridges is, or where to start looking for her,” Thatcher said.

“But we know she did it. Every piece of evidence points to her,” she said.

“If we can’t arrest her, the case isn’t solved. I’m going to take a break and think this over. I would suggest you two do the same.” Thatcher rubbed his temples and gestured for them to leave.

Byron continued in silence as they walked out. Mira wasn’t sure if she should worry or not. She was used to his absentminded walking at this point, but he seemed tenser than usual. He stopped at a cafe, sat down, and took out his journal.

“Byron, are you alright?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Of course.”

“You don’t seem like it.”

“Then why did you ask if you already knew?” He snapped at her. She went silent. Eventually he relented.

“Alright then. No, I’m not alright.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My memory. That’s what’s wrong. I’m missing something. Something would have fallen into place, two things that are connected, some way to track down this killer. But I can’t remember. I never can. No journal or secretary is going to keep all of the facts straight in my head.”

He closed his journal with a snap, stood up and walked away, running a hand through his hair. Mira stayed sitting, unsure of what to do. She hesitated, then pulled the journal towards herself and looked at the cover. It was made of leather and well-worn. She looked up again. Surprisingly, Byron was nowhere to be found. She looked back at the journal and lifted the cover.

The pages were thick. The lettering in the journal was much different from the lettering of his notes. Smaller, closer together, neater. There was a loose piece of paper just before the first page.

Your name is Byron Constantine, and you have befallen an accident. Don’t bother investigating. I don’t remember and so you won’t either. You see, this accident has caused you to have anterograde amnesia. I know you think that yesterday you came across a new clue to lead you to the end of the Circe case. You had plans to follow up on it today. Unfortunately, that day was years ago. You’ll find yesterday in the last entry in this journal. If you want to function like a normal human being, I suggest reading through the entirety of this book. Don’t worry, you’ve written in short sentences. For now, it shouldn’t take too long. Eventually you’ll have to choose what to forget so that you don’t spend the entire day, every day reading through this blasted thing. You’ll find earlier journals in a chest in your bedroom. Choose your memories wisely, and if you can, don’t forget.

-Byron Constantine

Mira read over this first page a few times, appalled. Circe. She knew that name. It was the thing Byron didn’t want to talk about. That she didn’t need to know. Obviously, she did need to know.

Aside from that, she couldn’t imagine having to choose what to remember every day. Did he ever skip over parts of his life the way she would sometimes skip over parts in books to find her favorites? How would he know what his favorites were? What was important? Every day he must have such anxiety about what to remember and what to forget. She flipped through the pages.

Every entry had a heading with the date and the word Remember. She imagined that the book must contain hundreds, if not thousands of these. The synopsis told about the things that were important to him from that day. When he worked on a case, the entries were longer. When he wasn’t, they were significantly shorter. She skimmed over each page, trying to find something to help him. Every so often she would look up, expecting him to be there watching her, but he wasn’t.

She found that she didn’t truly read the journal. Just a word here or there until she came to an entry she knew.

The girl at the cafe is named Mira Blayse. Scotland Yard had nothing for me today. I placed an ad in the newspaper to get a secretary. Hopefully they can help you keep things straight. Remember to write a note to remind yourself.

She looked over it with fondness. The first time she was mentioned. The only entry she had ever read before today. She hesitated, placing a finger on the page as she flipped forward to see how many more pages she had. Only a half dozen. She came back to the first entry about her.

The next few entries were of medium length, talking about the fact he had a secretary, about the medical examination, about the evidence at the flat, about Mr. Graham, about her eyes, about putting something in the newspaper…wait.

She went back a few lines. His sentences were getting longer.

In case you never see her again, or you are reading through this after saying goodbye to her for the last time, you should know that Mira has the most beautiful green eyes. I hadn’t noticed them before, but Mr. Graham called my attention to them.

She felt heat rise in her cheeks and her heart rose within her. She closed her eyes. This was his journal. She shouldn’t be reading it. But he had left it. Perhaps it