Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace

by Patricia Marcantonio

  She held up her teacup, which had Chinese markings.

  “Ever visited China, Dr. Lennox?”

  “No.” His reply was stern.

  “Afternoon tea is what I do miss about home. I served a cup to the sheriff, but I don’t believe he liked it much.” Mentioning Pike’s name again couldn’t hurt, since talking with Lennox was akin to crowding herself into a corset three sizes too small. She sipped her cup and looked around the room. The wall decor consisted of two paintings. One depicted a castle in a green field. Another was of a woman’s hands in repose.

  “Fine paintings. Did you do them, Doctor?”

  “How did you know I paint?”

  “The easel.”

  “Of course.” He glanced at his pocket watch and then replaced it in his vest pocket.

  “Whose hands are they?”

  “My mother’s.”

  “Is she here? How lovely to meet her.”

  “She died seven years ago from typhus,” Lennox answered with vexation.

  “I’m very sorry. I suppose you trained in Edinburgh?”

  “Miss Carrol, I’ve had enough of this line of questions. They’re unbelievably personal and entirely irrelevant to the issue at hand. I don’t wish to discuss my history with you any further.”

  She set down her cup. “So enough pleasantries.” Though he had been anything but pleasant. “I examined Mattie Morgan’s wounds but require more information about Lily Rawlins’s injuries.”

  “Everything was in the postmortem report.” He took out his pocket watch again. After a glance at it, his eyes fixated on what seemed to be an object a great distance from the sitting room.

  “The sheriff was kind enough to share a copy, but reports can’t necessarily give you the entire picture. Please indulge me, Doctor. My writing will greatly benefit from your expertise.”

  A distinct grumble emitted from the man. “You prone to fainting spells? Many women are. I daresay it appears to be a prerequisite of the gender.”

  “I’ve never fainted in my life, Doctor.”

  “Always a first time.” He tugged at his beard and tapped his feet as if counting out the seconds he had to tolerate her.

  “Your report did brilliantly describe the site of the several stab wounds on Lily Rawlins’s body, but you didn’t note the length or depth of them.”

  “They were not important, since she died from the severe cuts to her throat.”

  “Did they measure about an inch wide?” She held out two fingers to demonstrate the length.

  “Perhaps. Yes.”

  “Did the wounds taper at each end?”

  He put his head down for the answer. “Now that you mention it.”

  “And the depth of the wounds?”

  “Six inches or thereabouts.”

  “I’m particularly interested in the mutilations.”

  “Quite horrific.” He stood. “This is all in my report.”

  His glasses reflected sunlight right into Felicity’s eyes. She adjusted her position so she could see his eyes. “In other words, were they comparable to those of Mattie Morgan?”

  He nodded sharply. “Except the most recent murder was even more brutal.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dotted his forehead. “The most appalling sight I’ve ever beheld.”

  Felicity lifted an eyebrow. The physician could have been lecturing on the growth of mold. She folded her hands on her lap. “Did the killer also stab Lily Rawlins—well, to put it delicately, in her womanly parts?” His neck muscles bulged at the question. “Doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “Six.” More irritation from him. “Very few people are aware of those unnatural wounds, which is why I didn’t record them. That, and they were indecent. Why do you ask?”

  “In crimes against women, the question seems logical. Anything else?”

  “An act completely vulgar and beastly.” He coughed into his handkerchief. “Are you quite finished with this inquisition?”

  “With your patience, Doctor, a few more questions. Is it your opinion that the same man killed the two women?”

  “I don’t have enough information to make that assumption.”

  The data was all there, Doctor. You failed to make the connection, Felicity thought.

  “Given the meticulous removal of the organs, do you believe the killer had knowledge of anatomy?” she asked in a nonchalant manner. A book by a former Scotland Yard inspector counseled that the best way to catch a person off his guard was to surprise him with an unexpected line of inquiry in an unexpected manner. The result: his mouth would say what his mind wouldn’t.

  The physician remained stoic. “Perhaps a butcher, someone who deals with animals.”

  “Even a doctor?” She wanted to elicit any emotional response from this statue of a man. Finally, his eyes were on her. Shakespeare had written about the eyes being the windows to the soul, but even the Bard might have been confounded by those of Dr. William Lennox. His green eyes were the portals to an abyss.

  “Absolutely, a physician. I must point out, my dear Miss Carrol, there are only two within one hundred miles, including me. Consequently, your supposition is as empty as it is asinine.”

  She could have sworn his hair bristled.

  “You appear to be well acquainted with anatomy yourself, Miss Carrol. Maybe you’re the murderer.”

  “I did study medicine at the University of London. Alas, I have a good alibi.”

  “Droll, I’m sure.” Lennox poured another cup of tea for himself.

  “Forgive me for all the questions, Doctor. The curiosity of a writer. May I have another cup of this delicious tea?”

  “As far as this visit is concerned, teatime is over.” Dr. Lennox placed his watch back in his pocket.

  Felicity left the physician’s office and glanced back. She didn’t give much credence to intuition because it wasn’t scientific or rational, but she felt as if a cool hand brushed over her back. She turned around. Dr. Lennox looked at her through the window. He closed the curtains. She had met many unfriendly men in her short life, but Dr. Lennox ranked high among them. He cared for the health of people, but the doctor apparently didn’t like them very much.

  Back in her laboratory, Felicity reviewed what she had collected and admitted the evidence amounted to very little.

  The only clear fact, though an important one, emerged out of the unknowns. The wounds on Mattie Morgan and Lily Rawlins were similar, made by the same knife, probably wielded by the same man.

  She pivoted in her chair at the counter to face the opposite wall. Faces of dead women in several photographs were pinned up in a nightmarish exhibit. The facts of their deaths created a puzzle to be solved.

  Spending the afternoon reading, she fell asleep in a chair in her laboratory. She dreamed she was a young girl playing near the lake on the estate at Carrol Manor. A storm rose, rivaling a biblical tempest. The winds threw her into the swirling water, where she thrashed about with panic in the wet gloom. A hand plunged into the water and dragged her to the shore. Mattie Morgan had rescued her. The wounds on Mattie’s neck flapped like the gills of a suffocating fish.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sue the Madam leaned against a pine bar in a large ornate parlor. Amber-colored curls piled atop her head like a decadent dessert. Her lips stood out as the reddest red on a plump powdered face. In a lacy, revealing nightgown over a white corset and underthings, the madam’s body was a series of puffed pillows. She reminded Felicity of a grand dowager of the carnal.

  “Harry, a glass of beer for me and one for my guest. You like beer, don’t you, honey?” Sue asked.

  “Simply love it,” Felicity lied.

  Never before had Felicity met a madam or visited a brothel, which was not unusual for a young woman of means in England. She wasn’t shocked to be there. Nor did she judge the women who chose to make a living selling themselves. If they had the education and resources, she was sure they might have selected
jobs requiring them to make more use of their minds and talents than their bodies.

  The brothel decor was gaudy, with bright-red wallpaper, strands of beads in doorways, gold tassels, statues of naked women, and more trappings to entice and excite the male visitors. She wondered if the British counterparts looked the same. Over the bar hung two large paintings of naked and rather heavy women lying in suggestive positions. Felicity had seen nudes before in museums, but the sensuality of these two left her a bit embarrassed. She sipped the beer, which was heady. It was her first taste and somewhat sour.

  “Those paintings arrived from San Francisco,” Sue said with pride. “The men love them.”

  “No doubt.”

  Felicity had examined the body. Now she wanted to learn about the personality and habits of the latest victim. The killer might have spotted the girl in this very establishment. “I’m here about Mattie Morgan.”

  Sue took a noisy sip of beer before answering. “Damn shame. Makes me want to cry every time I think of her.”

  Before going into business for herself as a girl of the line, Mattie Morgan had worked at Sue’s Place, according to an article printed in the Gazette. However, the story didn’t say how long Mattie Morgan had worked there or when she had left. Located in the middle of the Red District, Sue’s Place had earned a reputation for employing the prettiest and most thieving prostitutes in town. That was according to Robert Lowery, who had blushed when Felicity asked him what he’d heard about the brothel.

  “Men visit the place with lush yearnings and depart with empty pants pockets. Sheriff Pike’s arrested a few of the girls caught stealing, but Sue paid their fine and made them return the money,” Lowery had said. “’Course that’s what I heard.” He blushed one more time.

  Sue the Madam took a seat on a red-and-white-striped silk sofa. “This came all the way from New York City. No one can sit on it but me, and woe to anyone who tries.” She ran her fingers along the fabric.

  “It’s very beautiful.” Felicity took a seat across from the madam, who said she was happy to talk with a woman writer. Sue said she had read all of Jane Austen’s books and loved the romance. Such a pleasing revelation that an owner of a brothel in Montana read Austen.

  “When was the last time Mattie worked here?” Felicity asked.

  “Been months and months.”

  A disappointment. “What kind of person was she?”

  The madam moved her bottom to sink deeper into the couch. “Mattie was a real sweet girl and a good seamstress who used to make beautiful dresses for the girls here. Mattie said she was saving up to go back to San Francisco. That’s where she was from.”

  “Was she popular with the men who visit here?” Felicity hoped that was a polite way to ask the question.

  “She used to be darn pretty when she worked for me. Men paid up to five, six dollars for her any time of the day. All that changed when she started smoking too much opium. The drug wears away at prettiness like water on a rock. Finally, I had to let her go.” Sue had an airy and syrupy voice.

  “Did she favor any particular opium den?”

  “Heard from the girls that Mattie was a regular at Lo Han’s off of Viceroy.” The madam’s eyes went to the door, and her red mouth hitched into a corpulent smile. “Why, Tom Pike.”

  Felicity took another sip of beer.

  Pike walked over to the women. Sue rose to her feet and greeted him with a formidable embrace about his chest.

  “You’re breaking my ribs, Sue.” He panted theatrically and gently extricated himself from her mutton arms and vast bosom.

  “Tom, I haven’t seen you here since Max Freed shot that Frenchman over my best dove.”

  “How could I forget?”

  Sue pinched one of his cheeks. “You get better looking every day. Have a beer, Tom.” She signaled for the barman to bring one. “I’m just talking to Miss … Miss … Honey, I forgot your name.”

  “I know Miss Carrol. This young woman is like a stone in my boot,” Pike said.

  “Sheriff.” Felicity gave a nod and wished he would go away.

  “Leave her be, Tom. She’s just asking about Mattie, poor thing,” Sue said.

  The barman brought him a beer. Pike sat in a chair next to Felicity. “If Miss Carrol doesn’t mind, I also have questions for you, Sue.”

  “I’d love to hear yours, Sheriff,” Felicity said.

  His eyes stared up to heaven for a moment, then to the madam. “Sue, any of your girls complained about customers who got rough or pulled a knife?”

  “What a good query, Sheriff,” Felicity interjected.

  “Thanks. Well, Sue?”

  “My girls shout like pigs if any of them so much as gets a scratch. Earl back there deals with any brigands.” She addressed a beast of a man cleaning glasses behind the bar. “Earl, you run into anybody like that? Somebody mean? Somebody with a knife?”

  “No, Miss Sue. Can’t say I have.” Despite his bulk, Earl had a voice high and melodious as a woman’s.

  “When was the last time you saw Mattie?” Pike asked the madam.

  “I already asked that. She said months ago,” Felicity volunteered. “Miss Sue, in your establishment, have you noted a man dressed in a long black coat, gold chain in his waistcoat, gray gloves, white spats? A man wearing a black bowler hat and new shiny shoes?” Felicity tried to discount Pike’s stare at the specifics, but the question was essential. No one had ever seen the face of the Whitechapel murderer, but one witness had described the clothing worn by a man talking with Mary Jane Kelly the night of her death.

  Sue shook her head in the negative. “He sure sounds like a dandy.”

  “Do you have any more questions, Sheriff?” Felicity asked.

  “No,” he replied with a severe look. He turned to the madam and smiled. “Thanks, Sue.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  With effort, the madam rose from the sofa, hooked her arm in Pike’s, and walked him to the door. Felicity followed. “How come you never want to spend time with any of my girls, Tom? I got the best house in Placer, the best doves, the best prices. Like the sign out front says, ‘All the comforts of home.’” She blinked eyelashes to tempt him.

  Felicity smiled at his discomfort.

  Pike put on this hat. “Us lawmen just don’t make that kind of money, Sue.”

  The madam pinched his cheek again. “Well, quit getting so dang handsome.”

  Outside, Felicity enjoyed the clean air. The stench of cheap toilet water, stale beer, and tobacco had made it hard to breathe inside.

  “I should throw you in jail for meddling in this case,” he told Felicity.

  She had heard the threat before.

  “And what was all that with the clothing?” Pike said.

  Her lie had to be quick, maybe not good, but fast. “In my book, the killer will dress as a gentleman, and I wanted her reaction. Her dandy remark was very clever. I’ll add that description.”

  His rigid face told her he didn’t believe her. He walked off, leaving his horse hitched in front of Sue’s Place. Felicity hurried to catch up.

  “Where you going now, Sheriff?”

  “To Mattie Morgan’s crib.”

  “I’d love to go along.”

  “No.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll just go on my own. But I’d rather have your company.” His cooperation was better than not. And like Jackson Davies, he challenged her and she loved it. For example, his good question about whether a man had threatened any of the women at the brothel with a knife.

  Pike grunted a “Fine, then.”

  “Madam Sue mentioned Mattie Morgan had an opium habit and was a regular at Lo Han’s,” Felicity said. “We should talk with him.”

  “Already went. Lo hadn’t seen Mattie in three days. And I also checked with a barman at the Mineral Palace Saloon on Prospect Road, where Mattie went most nights. But she didn’t show up there the night she was murdered.”

  “I appreciate you sharing the inf
ormation. And I’ll wager the blacksmith’s shop is somewhere between Mattie’s shack and the saloon.” He grunted again, which told Felicity she was right.

  They walked toward Viceroy Street. Even without a solid line of demarcation, Felicity could tell they had crossed a border between the higher-priced prostitutes in the so-called joy houses and the cheaper women of Viceroy Street. The buildings became shabbier. She glanced up at Pike. His eyes fixed on the face of every man they saw. As he did, he placed his hand on the gun at his hip, as if an enemy might appear at any moment.

  Pike caught her looking at him and stared straight ahead. “More than fifty girls live in the cribs,” he said, as if directing her attention elsewhere.

  “How fascinating.” As interesting was who Pike was searching for among those faces.

  They stopped at a block of shacks. A handwritten sign proclaiming DO NOT ENTER BY ORDER OF THE SHERIFF had been posted on the door to Mattie’s room. He opened a lock on the door. “I had a deputy do this on the front and back door so no one would disturb the place before I had a chance to inspect it.”

  “A good way to preserve evidence,” Felicity said.

  “How do you know so much about a sheriff’s work?” he asked.

  “I read.”

  He gave her a harder stare.

  “I mean I read all the time.”

  “I suppose that explains a lot.”

  She smiled. “I hope so.”

  Inside the crib, torn lace covered the front window. An unmade iron bed stood in one corner and a hickory chair in another. A washbasin and lantern topped a beat-up chest of drawers. A hat with a red ostrich plume hung on a hook. Felicity watched as Pike rummaged through the chest, which held three dresses, underclothing, and stockings. He picked up a brush next to the chipped washbasin and pulled out a long blonde hair he let drop to the floor. A shabby black suitcase lay under the bed.

  Felicity moved, and a floorboard squeaked. She lifted the board.

  “Sheriff.” She held up more than one hundred dollars tied with a black ribbon. “This rules out robbery as a motive.”

  Pike took the money. “Since Mattie didn’t have any family, this’ll go to the county poor fund to help other unfortunates.”