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

in Scotland Yard before. She hadn’t had a reason until now. The exterior of the building was rather inconspicuous, but the interior gleamed. Marble columns kept the ceiling up, and gigantic crystal chandeliers attempted to pull the ceiling down. The walls were covered in wood paneling and beautiful paintings. Truly the pièce de résistance of police departments. Not that Mira had seen many. She hesitantly approached the first desk. A police constable sat behind it scribbling on some paperwork. He had a large forehead, and a wide, angular nose. His head was top heavy. He looked up at her and smiled when he noticed her.

“Hello, Miss! How can I help you?”

She glanced at his nameplate. Frederick Wensley. She nodded before beginning.

“I was wondering if I could look at the records for a specific case.”

The constable frowned. “That is certainly an odd request. If you tell me the name of it, I can ask one of the inspectors if it’s alright.”

“The Airship Accident of 1870.”

He frowned. “Why that one in particular?”

Mira’s voice caught in her throat.

“My parents died in it.” She kept her gaze to the floor. The constable’s demeanor softened.

“Oh, I understand. Let me go and ask.”

He left the desk and walked up a staircase to her left. He stopped around the middle stair and looked back at her for a moment before continuing. She wilted against the desk. If Scotland Yard couldn’t give her the file, she would be at another dead end. Perhaps the newspaper was all that there was to be had. It probably was just an accident, and no one was at fault. She would just have to accept that. But, how could she? A few minutes later, Officer Wensley returned from the upper offices.

“I’m sorry Miss. Only records that we’ve had for over twenty-five years are available to the public.” His shoulders drooped.

“Is there any circumstance where more recent records can be viewed?”

“Unless you work for or with the police department, or you were directly involved, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

“If my parents were in the accident, shouldn’t I be allowed to view it?” Mira twisted her gloves.

“I’m afraid not miss.”

“Thank you for trying.”

She walked through Hyde Park, trying to think of another angle she could try. The only other person who knew anything about the accident would be her uncle, and she knew how well that conversation would go over:

“Oh, by the way, Uncle, you wouldn’t happen to have any other information about my parents’ accident, would you?”

“Why would I have any more information other than it was all because of your mother’s ignorant, risk-taking, charlatan husband and his dangerous invention?!”

She sat down on a bench with a huff. Uncle Cyrus hated that topic more than anything in the world. And Walker was right. If she brought up the fact that she was investigating their deaths, she would be back in her uncle’s house in no time flat. Say goodbye to freedom, Samira Blayse! It had been a miracle that she convinced him to let her go out on her own to begin with. She watched as a couple walked in the park with their daughter. She couldn’t have been more than five years old. The little one held tightly to each of her parents’ hands. Mira closed her eyes and saw herself between her parents. Walker holding onto her father’s hand. She between her parents, each of her hands firmly planted in theirs. Laughing and skipping. Was it a memory or just her imagination wanting it to be true? She opened her eyes again. The little family moved on. Mira took a breath.

She turned herself towards home. There had to be some way of continuing the investigation. After reading the newspaper articles, she felt as if something was wrong. Why couldn’t she just push the feeling aside? She opened the door to her rooms and went directly into the kitchen to make some tea. As the kettle whistled, it occurred to her that she had forgotten to ask the constable who Byron was. She pulled the kettle from the stove and drowned a bundle of tea leaves with the scalding water, chastising herself. She’d have to ask another day. Tomorrow she would go to her uncle’s. And she still needed to find a way to ask him about the accident without him knowing what she was up to.

It was Sunday, and the rain tapped on Mira’s window. She had returned from church several hours before. She felt around the cuffs of her coat to see if they had dried yet and frowned when her fingers touched the damp wool. She moved the coat closer to the fire. Her eyes watched the flames dance, each feathery burst of light creating a story in her head. After a few moments she realized that most of those stories centered around Byron and she pushed those thoughts aside and moved to the window.

Mira watched two raindrops race each other down the windowpane, feeling the cold air sneaking in through the crack between the sill and the window. What if Byron was at the cafe? She knew that it would be closed. Would it hurt anything for her to go and check? A heavy wind hit the house and caused the shutters to rattle. Perhaps she shouldn’t brave the pouring rain until absolutely necessary. She checked the time on the grandfather clock in the hall. It was after noon. Even if she went, he wouldn’t be there at this time. Something about his schedule was even more rigid and predictable than hers. Every day was the same for him, even if it made little to no sense. She didn’t even know who Byron was, but her curiosity intensified with each scenario she played through her head. No. She shouldn’t be thinking about him. She curled up next to the window with her sketchbook and Nero.

The grandfather clock chimed three, causing Mira to roll over. One moment she was dreaming of running through Kensington,