Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace

by Patricia Marcantonio

  With as much haste as she could manage, she would be in London by early evening.

  * * *

  The horses pulling her carriage couldn’t go fast enough for Felicity. She had asked her driver, Matthew, to hurry, and he did, but her concern about Jackson Davies seemed to lengthen the minutes into intolerable hours.

  She had not talked with her friend for several months. Her frequent notes to him to join her for dinner at Carrol Manor or tea when she visited London had gone unanswered. She had even stopped by his office at Scotland Yard on occasion. Every time, she had been told he was out on a case, and so she had left him another note. She was curious about what crimes had kept him busy and why he hadn’t told her about them. She was also vexed because he seemed to be shutting her out of his life.

  They had met during the King Arthur Affair. During their earlier encounters, they sparred each time they talked. He attempted to keep her out of the investigation, and she wanted him to listen to her theories. He wanted evidence. She had deductions and science. They were pugilists with words.

  When she solved the case, Davies apologized and promised to trust and listen to her from then on. Afterward, they met regularly. When she worked on her own investigations to locate murderers and needed his help, he supplied support and information. Sometimes he came to her and presented facts of a case and sought her insights and whatever data she could obtain thanks to her financial resources. She learned much about police procedures from him and taught him new investigative methods, though he remained skeptical of them. Yet they came to trust each other. Despite their vastly different stations in life, they found a comfortable state in between. They had both lost their fathers and were strident about obtaining justice for victims of murder and other crimes.

  When not working on their own inquiries into lawbreaking, they met for lunch or dinner, where they discussed events of the world and England or merely laughed at each other’s bad jokes. When he visited Carrol Manor, they walked out to the private lake on the estate and sat and listened to the night.

  Felicity believed Inspector Jackson Davies resembled one of those handsome actors in Shakespearean plays she had seen: the squarest of jaws, features that could have been chiseled by Michelangelo or even one of the lesser Renaissance sculptors, dark-amber eyes hinting of a hidden forest. When she had finally confessed this to him, he had taken offense. To prove her point, which she was prone to do, she had taken him to a production of Hamlet at St James’s Theatre on King Street. He had never attended a play before, and she had the greatest pleasure in knowing what a teacher must feel giving a student a basic lesson in life. Davies’s mouth opened in awe at the Louis XIV–style interior of the theater, and throughout he smiled at the play’s action.

  “Well?” she asked him afterward.

  “That Hamlet fella should have just had his uncle arrested for the murder of his father,” Davies said in an accent suggesting his East End roots. “Let the law deal with the killer, I say.”

  “Ah, but testimony from the ghost of Hamlet’s father isn’t admissible in court,” she said.

  He blew out a laugh. “You’re right. I did like the sword fighting, although half the time I couldn’t understand what in blazes they were talking about.”

  It was her turn to laugh.

  “And I still think I look more like a Scotland Yard inspector than an actor in those ruffles and tights,” he added.

  “That, Jackson Davies, is your opinion. Come on now. I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “Good. You have more money than I do.”

  Felicity’s mind didn’t change, however. She believed her friend much better looking than the thespian who played the mad Dane on the stage.

  Then, last August, Davies had told her he had been assigned to the case of a prostitute who had been brutally mutilated in Whitechapel, a district of the East End known for its poverty, crime, and congestion.

  “We’ll have this nasty fellow caught in a week,” Davies said to her at lunch at the Crown’s Place, which had become one of their spots to meet. Located near the London coroner’s office, the tavern sold good food and ale at a reasonable price. She was more at home there than at any of the expensive restaurants where she and her father had dined.

  A month later, she and Davies were meeting for tea at the Café Royal on Regent Street. Davies had arrived wearing a rumpled shirt, and his face held on to a shadow of a beard. This was quite out of character for the inspector, who usually took great care with his appearance. His eyes were liquid with anger and lack of sleep as he talked about the hunt for the Whitechapel killer.

  “This man, Felicity, this man is insane,” he said.

  “From what I read in the Times, you don’t have to convince me,” Felicity replied.

  “The way he damages the women.” He closed his eyes and grimaced, as if seeing the bodies.

  She placed her hand on his. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks, Jackson.”

  “Too much to do,” he said, almost to himself, then downed his tea. “I can’t stay, Felicity.”

  “You’ve barely gotten here.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll be in touch.” And he hurried out of the restaurant.

  They hadn’t talked since that day. Over the following months, more prostitutes had become the victims of the grisly homicides thought to be the work of this maniacal killer.

  The murderer was never apprehended.

  Instead of reading about a new method for criminal investigation, Felicity sometimes sat in the library at Carrol Manor or in her bedroom at the London house and thought about Jackson Davies. After months without contact, she had begun reviewing their many conversations and wondered if she had said or done anything to cause him to break off contact with her. Felicity missed her friend. She had so few that his loss was akin to facing the tempestuous English Channel with a canoe and a spoon to paddle across. Her other good friends in the world were Helen and John Ryan. But she couldn’t talk about crime with them. Jackson Davies made her think, and she cherished him for it. She admired most his desire for justice, which was as potent as her own.

  On the carriage ride to see him, Felicity bit her upper lip. She should have told him how much his friendship meant to her. Yes, he was intelligent and attractive, humorous and generous. He treated her with regard and as an equal. Although they still verbally jousted, they could talk about anything, and just as important, he accepted her aptitude for solving crimes. She had never seen him through the haze of one of those misty-colored romantic lights. That’s because she didn’t dream of a Prince Charming as much as she did catching a heinous criminal. She also doubted Jackson thought of her as a princess to be rescued. Theirs was a relationship of mutual esteem. Perhaps that was a type of love. She hadn’t decided. She just knew she was worried about him.

  “Please, Matthew, hurry on,” she shouted up to her driver.

  She hoped she wasn’t too late.

  CHAPTER 3

  Inspector Jackson Davies’s flat lay on the border between the East End and the rest of London. The East End’s poverty faded close to his doorstep but could still be seen from a distance. Children in rags, working men, dismal streets. Shocking despair.

  He resided on the second floor of a standard brick building appearing much like the ones on either side. Felicity rushed up the stairs as soon as Matthew stopped the carriage.

  Joanna Davies answered Felicity’s knock. Davies’s mother appeared as her son had described her: a tall, handsome woman. Her friend must have inherited some of his looks from her—same thick black hair, same green-brown eyes. As soon as Felicity stepped into the parlor, Joanna hugged her, which made Felicity taste rising tears.

  “My dear Miss Carrol. I’m so grateful you came.” Joanna’s voice was as warm as fresh bread from the oven.

  “Jackson is my friend. I’ll always come to his aid.” Felicity hugged her back.

  Joanna wiped at tears with her ironed apron.

  “And please cal
l me Felicity.”

  “Joanna.”

  Felicity nodded.

  “Jackson will be so happy to see you.” Joanna motioned for her to sit.

  Davies’s flat was tidy and masculine, with a dark rug, dark curtains, and dark furniture. A short shelf held books, a majority of them about police procedures. He had once told Felicity his place could fit into her library at Carrol Manor, and he had been absolutely correct. Four boxes stacked in one corner of the room drew her attention.

  The room smelled of him—the sweet tobacco she had bought him for his birthday, with a little bay rum thrown in for good measure. Felicity sat down on a small dark-blue couch, while Joanna took a seat across from her.

  “What’s wrong with Jackson?” she asked his mother.

  The woman’s eyes shifted to a closed door to the left. “My son is very ill. The doctor says he has fluid in his lungs.”

  “But when did this happen? How did this happen?” She was also upset that he hadn’t informed her of his illness

  Joanna’s hands balled up her apron. “His physical condition has been worsening over the last months, Felicity. He’s almost worked himself to death investigating that ghastly case.”

  “The Whitechapel murders.” The words dried Felicity’s tongue.

  “Aye. He didn’t eat or sleep well while he tried to find the man who butchered those women.”

  “Those killings halted in early November.”

  “But Jackson didn’t.”

  “That’s not surprising. Your son is a driven young man.”

  “He thought of nothing else but catching that killer. He’d work his regular shift on other cases and then go prowling throughout Whitechapel searching for evidence.” Joanna pointed to the boxes. “His papers are there. I picked them up when he fell sick. They were scattered all over the house, along with shocking photographs of the victims. They are dreadful, my dear. Dreadful. To think my son lived with that horror for months.”

  “No wonder he became ill.”

  “Jackson seemed to be getting better until one week ago. Then he collapsed and took to his bed.” As she talked, Joanna’s voice fractured with sadness. “I’m afraid for my boy.”

  Felicity clenched her hands to maintain her emotion. A display of worry would do no one any good, and she was worried. “May I see him now, Joanna?”

  With a brave smile, Joanna got up, knocked on the door, and looked in. She nodded to Felicity and lightly touched her back when she entered the room.

  Felicity had a lot of experience with a splintering heart: the death of her mother and then her older brother, the neglect of her father ever since she could remember, his death after their row over her independence.

  But nothing had prepared her for the ache that rose in her when she saw what had befallen Scotland Yard inspector Jackson Davies.

  He was lying flat on his bed, his head turned toward the windows. His whole being seemed to withdraw into the bedcovers. Felicity walked over to his bed and sat on a chair next to it. She took his hand, which was cool and insubstantial to her touch. She recalled when he had taken her hand at her father’s funeral. There had been such strength within his grasp.

  He turned his face toward hers. His deep-set cheeks and the shading around his eyes attested to a loss of more than twenty pounds. His color reminded her of old paper. His thick black hair lay limp against the pillow, and his white bed shirt was rumpled and sweaty. Most painful to see were his eyes. Once animated with intelligence and drive, they were now dull with defeat. She wanted to weep. Be resilient for him, she told herself.

  Felicity smiled. “Inspector, are you trying to annoy me?”

  Throughout their meetings, he had told her she annoyed him with her all her questions and theories. This time she hoped to make him smile. At this moment she wanted that more than anything in the world.

  He did smile, through lips looking as if they had not tasted water in years. “Bless me, Felicity Carrol.”

  She leaned over to kiss his cheek. The intimate gesture was natural and at the same time astounded her with a new realization. This man was important to her.

  He sat up a little, though he struggled in the attempt. She aided him and placed a pillow at his back.

  “I suppose my mother contacted you. I wish she hadn’t.” He looked at his hands.

  “I’m very angry you didn’t let me know about your condition. Then again, you’re always very proud and stubborn.”

  “Guilty.” He coughed up what sounded like phlegm into a handkerchief. With watery eyes, he looked up at her and smiled once more.

  She was happy he could do so. “Your mother says you’ve labored way too hard on this horrendous Whitechapel homicide case. So much so that you’ve driven yourself to exhaustion, and now what sounds like a bout of pneumonia.”

  “Just a cold.” What color remained in his cheeks paled even more, and he shook with a chill.

  Pulling up the blanket, she tucked it around him. “Remember I have a degree in medicine, so no more of that. You’ve never lied to me before, so don’t start now, Inspector Jackson Davies.” She gripped his hand tighter. “I know you. Once you undertake an investigation, you don’t stop until it’s settled.”

  “This one certainly wasn’t.”

  “And because of that, you’re wallowing in loss and consider yourself a failure because you haven’t found the killer who preyed on Whitechapel. Your record of arrest has been superlative until now, and you can’t accept the disappointment.”

  “That your diagnosis, Dr. Carrol?” he said with bitterness.

  “It is. You possess a commanding sense of justice and there has been none in this case, which has literally sickened you. But, Jackson, spending so much time on this particular crime smacks of mania. A fixation that has poisoned your mind and harmed your body.” She half hoped her truthfulness would snap him back to health, if for no other reason than to argue with her.

  But he laid his head back on the pillow and sighed so deeply, Felicity feared he might not have any breath left.

  He stared at her. “As usual, you’re right.” He spoke quietly.

  A tear ran down his cheek. Felicity had never seen a man cry before, and her spirit wept with him. She took out her handkerchief and dotted at his face.

  “To hear out loud what I’ve been thinking all along is very disturbing,” he said.

  “And aren’t you glad I was the one who said it?” She smiled.

  “Your ability to aggravate me beyond any reason hasn’t faded.” He sat up a little more.

  “Now that’s the Jackson Davies I know. Sarcastic, proud, and self-righteous.”

  “I’m not self-righteous.”

  “Jackson, there have been other cases you haven’t solved. Why is this one so different?”

  “Because the killer is a madman and he’s still out there. During the course of my career, I’ve encountered many bad things in London and in the East End in particular. But the horror of these crimes … they chill my very core.” He placed his hand on hers and squeezed. “They make me question how good can survive in a world that produced such a fiend. It is as if heaven has moved even farther away from us.”

  “There will always be good in the world with men like you.”

  “Felicity, you don’t realize how much work the Yard put into tracking down this maniac.”

  She made a clicking noise with her tongue. “I do read and I do remember. Teams of policemen went house to house in Whitechapel. More than two thousand people were questioned, three hundred people seriously investigated, and some eighty men held under suspicion.”

  He sat up even more.

  “Surgeons, physicians, and even butchers were considered suspects because of the types of mutilations made with a knife and the removal of organs from some of the victims. Police surgeon Thomas Bond even consulted on the killer’s character. After reviewing the postmortem reports and other facts, Mr. Bond called the Whitechapel killer a lonely man with episodes of homicidal and eroti
c mania. All in all, these crimes have called forth all the vast resources of the Metropolitan Police. Despite that, the murderer remained at large.” She placed her hand on his. “See, Jackson. I have kept up on the case.”

  “I should’ve known.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  He laughed and began to cough again. Rough and wet sounds emanated from his lungs. His face reddened.

  “Joanna, come quickly.” Felicity stood up and called.

  The woman rushed into the room, holding a small glass container.

  “Jackson, breathe slowly.” Felicity took his hand again. “That’s brilliant. Now hold that air. Command it to fill your lungs.”

  “Take this, my love.” His mother placed a dropper full of liquid from the glass into his mouth. She turned toward Felicity. “The doctor said this will help his lungs.”

  His breathing steadied.

  “There now,” Joanna said and kissed the top of his head. “I’m making broth for the both of you. Go on with your chat now, and I’ll let you know when it’s ready.” She left.

  “I like your mother very much, Jackson,” Felicity said.

  “She’s my heart.”

  “Then you’re fortunate.” Felicity dotted away perspiration from his head and chest.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “To have made myself sick this way … I’m ashamed, Felicity.”

  “You shouldn’t be. No other man I know would care so much, Jackson. You gave almost everything—even your health—to solve terrible crimes. I greatly admire that.”

  His smile filled with gratitude.

  “Your mother said you took a turn a week ago. What caused this?”

  From underneath his pillow he took out a folded newspaper story and handed it to her, his hands shaking.

  BIZARRE KILLER STRIKES IN MINING TOWN

  The prosperous and wild mining town of Placer, Montana, is home to thousands of souls who labor at the several mines and smelters on its outskirts, all for the prize of silver, gold, and copper.