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

“Now, Mira, do you know what causes me to believe that this is still a murder case?”

She bit her lip. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

He walked over to the piano, picked up the glass, examined it, then turned back, setting the glass back in its place.

“The kitchen was clean. If a man was going to invite a woman over, the entire apartment would be clean. It was ransacked. The mattress was upended, meaning someone was looking for cash. Drawers opened and rummaged through, indicating a search for jewels.”

“So, you think the woman killed him, and then searched his room?”

“That is a possibility. There is one other thing that points to murder.” He stood up and walked back into the bedroom. She followed. He stopped at the desk.

“Anything strike you as odd about this?” He gestured to the pen.

“No. Nothing.”

“That’s because you are left-handed Mira. You place your pen on the left as well. Easier to grab. To any right-handed person, it would feel uncomfortable and awkward.”

“How does this point to murder?”

“The drug was administered into his left arm. That means someone else had to do it.”

She sat in stunned silence for a few moments. He stepped out of the bedroom, looking over the main room once more.

“We need to talk to his neighbors. See if they noticed that he had a friend who frequented the place.” He strode towards the hall and Mira followed, being careful to close the door behind her.

After knocking on a few doors without response, a door at the end of the corridor near the stairs finally opened.

“What do you want?” a crotchety voice gristled out at them through the crack in the door.

“We’d like to ask you some questions Mr.…?”

Byron looked around for a nameplate. There wasn’t one.

“Graham. And who are you to be asking any questions?”

“I work with Scotland Yard.”

“Those policemen, trampling up and down my stairs at all hours of the day. Can’t give an old man any rest. If they didn’t ask me any questions, why should you?”

“Perhaps I am more thorough. May we come in?”

“Harrumph.” He breathed heavily through his nose.

“We just want to ask what you have seen recently.”

“And why is that any of your business?” the man asked. Byron sucked air through his teeth and let out a breath.

“A man was murdered in this building not a fortnight ago, sir. If you’ll just cooperate, we’ll be on our way.”

Byron’s voice raised in volume a bit. Mira touched his arm, and he looked at her, a question dancing in his eyes. She stepped into view of the door.

“Sir, if you’d like, we can come back when it’s more convenient. We were just thinking that a man of your experience, and obvious intellect, would have noticed the goings on here more than the average person. Your evidence could be invaluable in helping to solve this case.” The old man opened the door further, peering out at her.

“Mrs. Blayse?” His voice was hesitant and soft.

“Um…no. Miss Blayse. My mother passed away several years ago.”

He pondered on her words for a few moments, then the door opened, fully exposing the old gentleman leaning on his silver-tipped cane. He sighed.

“I know.”

His hair was entirely silver, his eyes dark brown. His skin was wrinkled and weathered. He seemed to have lived a full life; Mira could tell that from the deepness of his eyes. His suit was expensive, but worn, fraying at the edges. He looked them both over.

“You look quite a bit like your mother.” His voice sounded hollow. “Come on in then.” He hobbled off into his living room and took a seat in an extremely overstuffed chair. Byron looked at Mira in astonishment, and then followed her in, closing the door behind him. They both took a seat on a couch facing Mr. Graham, and Byron took out his notebook.

“You knew my mother?” Mira glanced at Byron.

“Not as well as your father. We worked together on a few projects. He was a brilliant inventor. And your mother was a wonderful woman. The accident was heartbreaking. I had wondered what had happened to their twins.”

“My uncle, Cyrus Griffon, took us in.”

“Ah yes. Your uncle is a good man.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Mr. Graham cleared his throat.

“Let me get a pot of tea going.”

He stood, his back cracking, and went into the kitchen. There was the clamoring of tea things, and a few minutes later they sipped at some excellent Earl Grey. Although there was a chip in her cup, Mira didn’t mind. She’d found a family friend she didn’t know she had.

“Sir, can you…” Byron barely started before the old man interrupted him.

“No, I can’t. Now Miss Blayse, what is it that you are wanting to know?” Byron sat silent.

“Well sir, we were…”

“Now don’t start with calling me sir. Just call me David. After all, I was friends with your parents.”

“Al…alright…David,” she stuttered. “We were wondering how well you knew Mr. Pennington.”

“Not very well at all. I keep to myself mostly. I leave in the morning, go and get a newspaper, read it in the pub with a pint, and then come back here to tend to my mums. They’re over there on the windowsill.” He gestured with his cane to a few flowerpots brimming with beautiful red and orange chrysanthemums. “I take a nap after lunch. After my nap I usually sit here and smoke my pipe, read the paper, have some tea, and watch people come and go. In the evenings I go out with a few old friends to get a bite to eat and talk about the old days. I keep out of my neighbors’ business, and they keep out of mine.”

“So, you are home quite a bit then?” Mira bit her lip waiting for an answer. Byron wrote feverishly.

“Most of the time. I don’t like to wander far from where I’m planted once I’m there. Course things were different a half a dozen years ago, but times have changed and so has the