Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Natalie Brianne (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📖

“Hm. If it’s all the same to you, could we still look over the crime scene?”

“Be my guest. I’d be surprised if you found anything.”

“Might we have the address?”

“Didn’t I give it to you when I assigned you to the case?”

“I must have misplaced it.”

The chief inspector nodded and wrote the address down.

“Miss Blayse, if you could ensure he doesn’t lose it this time.”

Mira nodded as Byron took the paper and stood to leave.

“Just a moment Constantine!” Inspector Thatcher called after him. Byron paused at the door. Thatcher picked up a different file folder and walked over to him.

“I think you might also want a copy of the medical examination.”

“Thank you.” Byron took it and left. Mira followed him after offering her own thanks to the chief inspector.

They stopped for brunch at a cafe on the way to the victim’s rooms. Mira added milk to her tea and Byron read over some notes he had taken.

“Shall we look over the medical examination?” She stirred the milk in, watching the swirls die down into a cloudy haze. He nodded and pulled out the file.

“Cranial hemorrhaging near the back of the head, as we already know, and high amounts of opioids in his system. There is a bruise on his left arm and a pinprick suggesting that it was administered through his left cephalic vein. There were a couple of standard bruises on his legs, but those could have come from anything. Nothing else out of the ordinary.”

“Cephalic vein?” She could feel herself getting a bit squeamish, but this report was nothing compared to her parents’.

“Yes. It’s the one that goes up your arm and back to your heart.” He gestured to a place on his inner arm.

“So that didn’t give us anything else to go off of.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He sipped at his tea. She sipped at hers and watched the airships float past. Just a few months ago, Clement Pennington had been flying inside one of them. What was that like? Byron brought her out of her reverie.

“Have you ever been in one?” He glanced up at a blue airship that passed overhead.

“Oh heavens, no. My uncle would never approve. He’s terrified of them. He thinks they’re dangerous.”

“Do you?”

“Well, I suppose they are. But in the same way that sailboats, bicycles, and horse-drawn carriages are dangerous.”

“So only slightly?” He took a sip of tea and searched her face.

“To be completely honest, I’ve always wanted to fly. It somehow terrifies and thrills me at the same time.”

“Hmm.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.” He jotted down a note in his journal before setting his teacup down. “We probably ought to get going.”

They reached the place in the early afternoon and had no problem gaining access. It was a tall, rundown building holding several apartments belonging to different people. They learned from a rusting nameplate that Mr. Morrison’s apartment was the door halfway up the building. Pennington’s apartment was at the top of the stairs.

Byron went up the stairs first and opened the door. It creaked as it opened inward. Mira peered in. The room was in worse condition than Byron’s when she had first seen it. Papers everywhere. Two bottles of champagne opened, one empty, the other still half full, but no bubbles coming from it. A box of chocolates melted on the windowsill. A glass sat on the piano; a ring left beside it by condensation. Many of the chairs were turned over. A teacup sat on a side table, and another lay in shatters on the floor. A chalk drawing of a body drawn on the floor was near the side table.

They moved into the bedroom where pillows lay on the floor, and the mattress skewed at an angle. Every drawer in the dresser lay open, the clothes all rumpled together and spilling out onto the floor. The desk seemed to be the only tidy space. Letterhead somewhat in the center. Pen on the left, straight beside a pad of paper. A vase of dead flowers on the right. Byron observed everything with deliberate thoroughness.

In the washroom, the tooth powder was upright next to a half-empty bottle of perfume. Byron moved into the kitchen and Mira followed. There was some food left out, but most of the dishes had been done and the counter was clear. All but two of the teacups hung where they should be. They moved back into the main room.

“So, Mira, what do you take from this?”

She looked at him surprised. Why would he want her input? “What do you mean?”

“What do you see?”

“I’m not the master of observation. You are.”

“On the contrary Mira. You’re an artist. Observation is all that you do.”

Mira turned in place, looking around the main room again. Byron picked up two of the chairs, setting them to rights and sat in one. She took a seat in the other.

“Well…” She hesitated.

“I’ll give you a hint. What could you tell from the kitchen?”

“It wasn’t nearly as messy as the rest of the house. Which means he took better care of it or cleaned it most recently.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“He likes to cook?”

“Think Mira. What about the champagne and chocolates?”

“He has expensive tastes?”

“Don’t question me. Question your surroundings.”

She looked around again, thinking. Frowning. “Why would he have chocolate?”

“Two teacups were missing as well.” Byron stalked over to the window.

“Someone was over. A woman.”

“Very good. From what I can gather, they had tea, cooked dinner, ate it, drank champagne, talked for a while, and then she left. Now, how did you know it was a woman?” He turned back towards her.

“Men rarely buy chocolate for themselves, and there is perfume in the bathroom. She must frequent the place, but she doesn’t live here because there are no dresses hanging in the closet.”

“Excellent. I knew you had observational skills.” He smiled and picked up the handle from the broken teacup, examined it, then dropped it. Mira cringed as the china splintered