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

was better than nothing. She took a sip of tea and smiled. With any luck, both mysteries would soon be solved.

The sun rose in the sky over London, and the clouds and fog dispersed. A single airship floated in the sky. The cafe hadn’t opened yet that day, but Mira didn’t mind. She wasn’t there for the cafe. She only cared about the bush behind her chair and the spot across the street. And with it closed she didn’t need an excuse to be there. She was adding color to her sketch of Byron. Why did he forget her the day before? It seemed that she appeared foreign to him, as if they were meeting for the first time. The table jolted as she added blue to the eyes. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and noticed Byron skirting around the outside edge of the table. He grabbed the note, read it and replaced it without a moment’s pause. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.

“Good morning, Miss…Blayse?” he said, hesitating.

She smiled. “Good morning. How are you today?”

“Well enough. I think. How are you?”

“Very well.” She repositioned her chair as he sat across from her, closing the sketchbook to hide her rendition of him.

“Is that a journal?” He cocked his head to see the cover.

“In a way. It’s more of a sketchbook, really.”

“Do you draw often then?”

“Yes. Every day.”

He paused for a moment, mulling something over, then looked up at her. “May I see some of your drawings?”

“I don’t usually show anyone—”

“Please?”

Her fingers gripped the edges of her sketchbook. Then she flipped to the first page and pushed it over to him. He thumbed through the drawings, eyes roaming over each page. She fidgeted in her seat, watching every movement so that she could pull it back before he reached the drawing of him.

“You are quite accomplished.”

“Thank you.” She pulled the sketchbook away. He gave her a confused look and then relented.

“You mentioned that you sketch a lot of people who come this way? What kind of people?”

“I don’t know any of their names…except…well…never mind.” She ducked her head.

“Except who?”

“Well…you.”

“Me?”

“I sketch every day and I just choose random people who pass by. You looked interesting so—”

“I did?” he interrupted. She nodded and took a deep breath, feeling a steady heat spreading between her ears.

“May I see?” he asked.

Her eyes dropped to her sketchbook for a moment. She chewed on her lip, then lifted the cover again. Her fingers ruffled against the edge of the pages until she found his drawing. Her eyes darted from the sketch to him. He seemed sincere. Surely, he wouldn’t laugh, would he? The material on the cover grated on the table as she slid it back to him. He studied it in silence. His eyes traced every mark and line on the surface of the page. The autumn wind rustled the papers in the sketchbook and prompted gooseflesh on her arms. Mira swallowed.

She broke the silence. “I’ve never talked to anyone I’ve drawn before.”

“You haven’t? How odd.” He didn’t look up from the sketch.

“I…I know,” she stammered. “I sketch people who pass by me. Until four days ago, no one ever approached me while I was drawing them. Of course, you came over for the note…”

“Right.”

“Speaking of your notes, I do have a question.”

“You do?” He looked up at her at last.

“Well, I did end up reading several of yours and one of them had something about an airship operator on it.”

“Yes?”

“That wouldn’t happen to be about the accident of 1870 would it?” She closed her eyes and waited for his answer.

“No, I’m afraid not. May I ask why?”

“Well—”

Big Ben struck noon, and he whirled in that direction. “Dash it all. Late. I think.” He turned to face her again. “We really must talk again, Miss Blayse.”

“I’m sorry for making you late.” She smiled. “Good day.”

“I’m just late for a crime scene. Possibly. I think. That’s all. Good day to you as well!” He rushed away from the table and around the corner before she even comprehended what he said.

“A crime?”

She furrowed her brow and closed her sketchbook with a snap. He didn’t have any information about the accident. Of course, why would he? She didn’t even know who he was. She felt like she had become Alice falling down a rabbit hole. “Curiouser and curiouser” was the perfect description of what was happening. With any luck her white rabbit, Mr. Constantine, would be back the next day and she could get some more answers about him. Or likely more confusion. She stood and looked at the cafe. Still closed. Perhaps the owner was on holiday.

She picked up her sketchbook and began to walk towards Scotland Yard. They likely wouldn’t have anything either, no one did, but she had to check. On the bright side, it was a lovely walk through St. James’ park to reach Scotland Yard, and maybe she could go to Westminster Bridge and sketch the parliament buildings afterwards.

As she approached Whitehall Place and the police station, she noticed a familiar figure exiting. Byron. Why would he be at the Yard? Didn’t he say he was late for a crime scene? All thoughts of airships and her parents disappeared as she watched him walk up the street. She bit her lip deciding whether to follow him again. He seemed to remember her today, which meant if she was caught, he would likely question her. She watched him turn around the corner. Her curiosity intensified, and she ran to follow him.

When she peeked around the corner, she saw him hailing a cab and getting in. She leaned against the wall. “He must be going to the crime scene he was talking about earlier.” She muttered to herself. “And if he got the information from Scotland Yard…” She looked towards the police station and walked back. His name was so familiar to her so why couldn’t she place it?

She had never been