Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace

by Patricia Marcantonio

  “Go inside now. It’s cold,” he said when they reached her house.

  Gathering her crossbow and quiver of bolts, she watched him ride away.

  Inside, Helen slept in a chair in the sitting room. Tremendous humiliation seized Felicity as she watched the older woman. She had caused a fitful night for her friend.

  The older woman stirred and woke. “Thank God you’re here, Miss Felicity. Even though the sheriff’s deputy told me you were safe, I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to make sure you made it home, even with that awful weapon in your hand.” Helen drew her robe around herself.

  Felicity placed the crossbow on a hallway table. “I apologize for worrying you so, Hellie. Sometimes I’m very careless and forget that you do worry about what happens to me. You’re the only one who ever has all these years.”

  “Nonsense. Everyone at Carrol Manor cares for you.”

  Felicity smiled and pressed her lips to Helen’s cheek. “Hellie, this has been a rather eventful night. Actually, make that quite extraordinary. But I’m famished. What do we have to eat?”

  “I have bread, cheese, and a bit of lamb from dinner.”

  “That sounds absolutely superb.”

  “I’ll bring it to you in the dining room.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll come into the kitchen.”

  Helen stared at her as she sat at the table. “You do seem different, Miss.”

  “Do I?” Felicity had forgotten to pin up her hair, which lay in waves about her shoulders. She smothered a fat piece of bread with butter. Never had anything tasted so delightful. Despite desperate weariness, her senses vibrated and her mind zipped from possibility to possibility. The realization of almost being stabbed by the two unpleasant men in the alley. The decision to share the truth about the trip to Montana. Her exhilaration at surviving the night caused everything to feel vivid and stimulating. The taste of the coffee. The smell of the lamb on the plate Helen served her. The air itself. Felicity’s fingertips pulsated as she ran them over the wooden table. Then there was the upsetting response to Pike’s touch. And her thoughts about Jackson Davies back home.

  Steady girl. Sip your tea, she admonished herself.

  Helen gave her another slice of bread. “You always did have a good appetite, especially when you’re so involved in your investigations.”

  “A bit disquieting, I know.” Felicity wasn’t going to tell Helen about what had happened in the Red District alley. She had already caused too much worry that day and would save the story until the morning.

  Under the modern electric lights, Felicity was comfortable in the house on Bullion Boulevard. When she was younger, Carrol Manor had seemed as inflexible as the stone from which it had been constructed. She had considered herself an interloper there because the manor belonged more to her father and grandfather. The place reflected little of herself, except for her first laboratory, the one she had accidentally set on fire. With simple cabinets and gingham curtains, this small kitchen so far from England was infinitely more congenial.

  “Hellie, you must be tired as well. Please pour yourself a cup of tea and sit with me.”

  “Anything wrong, Miss?” She did take a seat and cup.

  “This reminds me of how you used to tuck me in at night. The circumstances are different, but the feeling is not.” She placed a hand over Helen’s. Her friend gave the smile Felicity loved. One of gentleness and complete acceptance.

  “Yes, it does feel like that.”

  They drank tea in silence until they both were yawning.

  “It is frightfully late. We both should get to bed.” Felicity stood up.

  Helen wrung her hands together. “Miss, do you really think we should have come here?”

  Felicity placed her hand on Helen’s shoulder. “More than ever, my dear.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Judging by his face, Sheriff Tom Pike might have been staring perdition squarely in the eye. “Lord Almighty. What is this?”

  “Murder,” Felicity replied.

  In her crime laboratory, Felicity stood by the exhibit like a teacher of death. Using string, she had divided one wall into five separate spaces. In each space, she had pinned newspaper clippings about the five Whitechapel murders as well as copies of the police photographs of the bodies. Under the information about the earliest victim in London, Mary Ann Nichols, Felicity had posted the newspaper clippings about Lily Rawlins’s murder and photographs of the alley where her body had been discovered in Placer. Next to that were clippings and photographs of the second Whitechapel victim, Annie Chapman. Underneath were the grisly photographs of the deceased Mattie Morgan, along with the drawing Felicity had sketched indicating the placement of wounds.

  In the three remaining spaces were the Times clippings about the other Whitechapel murders, along with coroner photographs of victims Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes and the gruesome photograph of the remains of Mary Jane Kelly at Thirteen Miller’s Court. Beneath sat a long shelf holding five neat stacks of papers.

  On another wall was a map of Whitechapel with hat pins where the bodies had been discovered. Red ink dots on a map of Placer illustrated the sites of the murders of Lily Rawlins and Mattie Morgan.

  “Over the course of four months last year, five prostitutes were savagely murdered in or near an area of the East End of London called Whitechapel,” Felicity said. “The whole of Scotland Yard focused on the crimes. Hundreds of people and suspects were interviewed, but the killer was never apprehended. He vanished like a London fog.”

  “My God.” His eyes didn’t leave the photographs on the wall.

  “Sheriff.”

  He faced her.

  “You should know there’s another name for the Whitechapel killer.”

  “What?”

  “Jack the Ripper.”

  He said nothing, which made her nervous.

  “You have heard of Jack the Ripper?”

  Pike crossed, then uncrossed his arms. “Placer may be remote, but we’re not the end of the damn world.”

  “Good, then you are familiar.”

  “You’re talking about the Jack the Ripper?”

  “The same.”

  “What does this have to do with my town?” His hand shot out toward the photographs of the London victims.

  She took a breath before answering. “I believe Jack the Ripper has come to Placer.”

  His eyes again went to the wall.

  “I’ve uncovered solid correlations between the slaying of Mattie Morgan, Lily Rawlins, and the five victims in Whitechapel, England.” She had said out loud what she suspected and feared.

  Pike shook his head so hard, strands of his longish dark hair fell into his eyes. He shoved them back behind his ears. “It can’t be.”

  “I assure you it can.”

  “Why are you so dang sure it might be him?”

  “Because of the manner in which the crimes were committed both in London and in Placer. For each of the Whitechapel murders, I have copies of reports from the Scotland Yard investigations, postmortems, and inquests.” Felicity held up one stack of papers. “I also have photographs of the letters written by Jack the Ripper.”

  “How in God’s name did you get all this?”

  “Through a solicitor in London. The payment of pounds provides all manner of opportunities.”

  “You rich or something?”

  “Very something.” She unpinned a small photograph from the wall and held it out to Pike, turning her head away. “This is what Jack the Ripper did to Mary Jane Kelly, his last victim.”

  Pike’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “His barbarism increased with each killing, but Mary Jane was his sick masterpiece.”

  He placed the photograph facedown on the counter. “Hold on. Hold on, Miss Carrol. I’ve got suspects in my jail. The Midline Gang. They used a knife to threaten you and the other woman. That makes them very good suspects,” Pike said with an antagonism Felicity knew wasn’t directed a
t her.

  “They had no motive for killing the two women.” Her voice was calm.

  “The gang made examples of the women who didn’t want to be a part of their plan.”

  She began to speak, but he held up his hand to stop her. “Sure, they carried the wrong type of knife, as you claim,” he continued. “That’s not to say they didn’t have more than one blade.”

  “What of the mutilations?” Felicity pointed to a photograph of Mattie Morgan’s body behind the blacksmith shop.

  “They’re animals. I’ll get a confession or enough evidence to hang them.”

  “Prostitutes murdered in the same fashion thousands of miles apart? Mathematically, the odds are staggering.”

  “If you’re correct—and your assumption’s as large as the Rockies—then why the hell did Jack the Ripper come to Placer?” His voice became gruff as the roads leading to town.

  “Because this place has one of the largest red-light districts west of the Mississippi. I even heard that while on the train from New York.” She held out a stack of papers to him. “Here are the reports on Jack the Ripper’s first victim and Dr. Lennox’s report on Lily Rawlins. You’ll find the type of wounds are almost identical. There are also striking similarities in the wounds between the Ripper’s second victim, Annie Chapman, and Mattie Morgan. In each case, the murderer demonstrated he is thorough, an expert in human anatomy and removing the organs, and he is absolutely barking mad.”

  She held out one photograph. “Jack the Ripper laid out coins in a semicircle at the feet of Annie Chapman. He did the same with coins with Lily Rawlins. He also left a ring at the feet of Mary Ann Nichols and Mattie Morgan. All part of his ritual. Just read the reports.”

  “Wait a minute. What ring?”

  “The one I picked up.” Felicity retrieved the ring from her packet of clues. “The only fingerprints on it belonged to Mattie.” She anticipated his irritation. He didn’t disappoint.

  He held out his hand for the ring and closed it tight in his fist. “You should have told me. You can’t hide evidence.”

  “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

  “You mentioned a Scotland Yard inspector as the reason you came here,” Pike said.

  “Inspector Jackson Davies put his soul into solving this case. And when he couldn’t discover the identity of the Whitechapel killer, he became seriously ill. He gave me a New York Times article about the killing of Lily Rawlins and how it resembled the work of Jack the Ripper. Inspector Davies is convinced her death and the London murders are connected.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “I promised him I’d make the trip to Placer and find the murderer. But I came not only because of a promise to my friend. This killer must be stopped.” The truth of it broke in her voice.

  “So you’re hoping if you track down Jack the Ripper that your inspector will be healed?”

  “I believe he will. But as important, a murderer will be captured and tried for his crimes.”

  Pike stood in front of the exhibit on the wall. “You’re obviously rich and a society girl; why the heck didn’t your inspector send the Pinkertons or other professional detectives to chase this killer? Why you?”

  “I have indeed inherited a fortune and have been privileged to gain a good education in science, medicine, and other disciplines. In the past year I’ve been using those resources to help solve murders that have gone unsolved. I work with Scotland Yard on such cases and can provide references from the Metropolitan Police. Would you like for me to send for them?”

  He waved his hand and went back to studying all the work she had put on the wall. “For once I think you’re telling me the truth.”

  “Sheriff. Tom. We want the same thing. Justice. We can work together to find this madman. He butchered women in England. He did the same to Mattie Morgan and Lily Rawlins in Placer. Unless he’s caught, he’ll continue killing. This is his nature. And when he is done here, he’ll move on to other towns.”

  “I’m going to have to ponder what you told me.”

  “That’s all I ask. Well, that and to please keep my real reason for coming to Placer a secret.”

  He gave a nod of agreement. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “You ever play with dolls when you were a little girl?”

  “Yes, but I took them apart.”

  He laughed. “That figures.”

  After Pike departed, Felicity returned to her laboratory. Sitting at the counter, she reread reports from Scotland Yard about Mary Jane Kelly’s death in Thirteen Miller’s Court, although the facts were embedded in her remarkable memory. While the other killings were shocking, the killer had saved his worst for last. It was as if the Ripper had wanted to leave London something to remember him by before he left. The case also stood out to her because of its inconsistencies—more than with his other killings.

  No one had been seen entering or leaving Mary Jane’s room at Miller’s Court. No sounds woke neighbors, although police estimated the killer must have spent two hours at his grisly work. At the inquest, a female neighbor testified she had seen Mary Jane the next morning, hours after Mary Jane was killed. The woman recognized her dress and bonnet. Was it merely the ramblings of a hysterical neighbor or clues not yet explained? Why had the Ripper stopped after five killings? Why had he treated Mary Jane’s body with more cruelty than the others?

  Simply, why?

  * * *

  Felicity cursed the squeak in the hallway floorboards.

  “Where you off to, Miss?” Helen came out of the kitchen, hands on hips and resolve on her usually friendly face. Robert Lowery followed, holding a mug of morning coffee.

  Felicity didn’t want to tell Helen her destination to spare her friend another day of concern. “I’m going to find a doctor to examine me after my encounter with the ruffians from last night.” To help with her story, she pointed out the purplish bruises on her upper arms from where the smelly man had held them behind her back. She considered the marks her welcoming memento of life in the West. “Know of a good doctor, Robert?”

  “Well, there’s Doc Lennox.”

  “A disagreeable man.”

  “Yeah, he is. There’s also Doc Phillips. His office is on Main. A good sort. Want me to drive you, Miss?”

  “I can find my way. You two have a good time.” She winked at Helen, who blushed.

  “Be careful,” Helen said.

  Felicity smiled. “Always, Hellie.”

  While Sheriff Tom Pike deliberated on the information she had given him—she hoped, anyway—Felicity would continue her investigation. She set out for the Red District again, this time to interview Mrs. Albert, the brothel madam she had met at Reverend Phoenix’s church. Mrs. Albert had obviously known Mattie Morgan well enough to attend her funeral and therefore could have important information about the victim.

  Before that, Felicity wanted to check with Pike to make sure he realized the men he held in jail had nothing to do with the murders.

  At his office, Pike sat at his desk, his face the color of the gray walls behind him.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “My stomach is coiled as an old bedspring from what you told me and what’s in those postmortem reports. I close my eyes and see those murdered women. But darn if your train might not be on the right track.”

  “Does that mean you believe me?” A small smile involuntarily came to her lips.

  “Maybe,” he said. “The wounds and mutilations on the victims in England and Placer were pert near the same. The deceased were all prostitutes. The blade used thin, long, and smooth. The evidence left behind, nonexistent.”

  On his desk lay a knife.

  “Isn’t that the one taken from the Midline Gang?” Felicity picked it up.

  “A Springfield Armory hunting knife, a standard issue to soldiers. A single-edged blade two inches wide and …”

  “One that couldn’t have made the smaller cuts on th
e bodies of Mattie Morgan and Lily Rawlins,” Felicity finished.

  Pike tasted brew in a cup, scrunched up his face, and threw the liquid out his open window. “My coffee went cold.” He stood up. “I’m going to talk to those men to see what they know.”

  “I’m going with you. They almost killed me. You owe me that.”

  “No good arguing with you, I can tell.”

  “No good at all.”

  “The man who attacked you calls himself Hank Ransom. The other is Ben Jenkins,” Pike said as they walked. “And please, don’t interrupt. I have my ways of interrogating a suspect.”

  “I look forward to observing your methods.”

  The two prisoners were eating breakfast. Pike stepped into their cell but motioned for her to wait outside.

  “Nice grub you serve here,” said Ransom, whose chest appeared even broader in the day. He sopped up gravy with a biscuit on the tin plate and brushed crumbs from his mustache. “And such nice company.” He tossed Felicity a lusty wink.

  Jenkins sat on the other bunk. Slimmer with a doltish way, the man ate with care as if trying not to spill.

  “Your partner hasn’t said anything since we locked you up.” Pike had his back to the cell’s metal door.

  “Ben is a man of few words.” Ransom continued chewing.

  “I can see that. Well, you both better say something; otherwise I’m charging you with the murders of Lily Rawlins and Mattie Morgan, two girls of the line.”

  “We didn’t finish off no soiled doves, nowhere, no how. Me and Jenksy were thinking about opening up our own joy house in town. That’s why we were talking with them girls. We politely asked them to join our business.”

  “Yeah,” Jenkins said.

  “You threatened two women with a knife,” the sheriff said.

  “That young British gal shot at me with some contraption. Don’t that count for anything?” Ransom pointed at Felicity with his fork. She nodded at him in return.