Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace

by Patricia Marcantonio

  Felicity dipped her head in approval of the arrangement. “We’re going to stimulate the nerves in the retina of the eye and simultaneously shine a light at the back where the retina is located. The victim’s last image will be projected onto the photographic paper. Such is the scientific theory.”

  “How do we get a dead woman’s eye working again?”

  “I’m going to break one of the lightbulbs, dislodge the filament, and place the carbon rods against the eye. The electric current will travel through and fire up the nerves.”

  “Makes sense, I think. Wait. I once read a book about this kind of thing.”

  “Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. Reanimation of the flesh.”

  “I thought you called this science, not storytelling.”

  “Why can’t it be both?” She rolled up her sleeves. “The metal funnel will concentrate the light. If you don’t mind, I’ll stimulate the eyeball.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Don’t touch the ladle; otherwise you’ll receive a little shock.”

  “All right, Miss Frankenstein, let’s get this over with.”

  Closing the black curtain around the darkroom, Felicity lit the candle under the protective yellow lantern to provide enough light to see what they were doing while preventing exposure of the photographic paper. On the lip of the counter, she broke the glass bulb of one of the lights and lifted out the delicate filament with a thinly rolled piece of paper. Underneath the ladle holding the eye, Felicity placed a piece of photographic paper.

  Pike held the remaining lightbulb in the funnel and pointed the tip at the eyeball to concentrate the light.

  “Let’s turn on the power.” With her free hand, Felicity flicked the switch. She touched the broken bulb to the left side of the eye. After ten minutes, she hit the power switch.

  Both let out a breath as if they had held all the air in their lungs.

  “I hope it’s enough time to expose the paper,” she said.

  “Me too. It’s beginning to smell like fried eyeball in this cellar.”

  While Pike reattached the electrical lines to the ceiling, Felicity set about developing the photograph. Pike rewrapped the eye to return to the undertaker to bury with the victim. Finished with his work, he watched over her shoulder as an image started to appear on the paper floating in the developer bath.

  “I’ll be damned,” Pike said as the photograph took form.

  The grainy figure of a slender man standing at what appeared to be the top of Digger’s Lane formed on the paper. A streetlight from Ore Avenue illuminated his back and muddied his face. From his outline, he wore a long coat and bowler hat.

  “We can’t see his face.” Felicity dried her hands on an apron she wore.

  More than anything, she had wanted to see the face of Dr. Lennox, or should she say, Dr. James Drury of London, England. Without a clear identification, she had to go to her alternate plan. Shadow the physician at night to obtain proof enough to have the man arrested. She was as sure of his guilt as she was of anything.

  “I’m afraid our experiment failed, Tom. We can’t see his face.”

  Pike held the photograph, his stare intent. “But you’ve exposed a real man and not a phantom. The trouble is, he’s turning my whole town into a damn slaughterhouse.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The next morning as Felicity put her hair up with pins, she heard Helen’s hurried steps to her room. She bade her enter before Helen could even knock. The older woman’s face flushed with apprehension.

  “What’s wrong, Hellie?”

  “A young man from London.” She handed Felicity his card. “It can’t be good news. He’s green as a fish.”

  Felicity read the card.

  RICHARD FRANKLIN

  JAMESON & SONS, SOLICITORS

  “Hope nothing’s wrong at the manor,” Helen said. “Hope no one is hurt.”

  “Nonsense. He probably has some papers for me to sign. Mr. Jameson loves for me to sign papers.”

  Still, Felicity hid her nervousness from her friend. Martin Jameson wasn’t the kind of man to send a colleague all the way to America for paperwork or on a whim. Something was wrong.

  Downstairs, Felicity watched Richard Franklin through the glass library doors. He stood stiffer than a guard at the palace. His dark walrus mustache made the young man look more like an aged senior partner. His face held uneasiness. Now Felicity became worried, too. She must hide her own nerves.

  She entered the library and extended her hand. His handshake was taffy. “We’ve met before, Mr. Franklin.”

  “At your father’s funeral.”

  “Oh yes.” Felicity motioned for him to sit and shut the door. “Nothing wrong at Carrol Manor, I hope.”

  “No, Miss Carrol.”

  “The mills and shipping company still running at optimum efficiency and profitability?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Then why, Mr. Franklin, have you traveled so far to see me?”

  He glanced around the room.

  “We’re quite alone, Mr. Franklin.”

  “Two weeks ago, our office received a communication that has caused Mr. Martin Jameson, Senior, much discomfort. He immediately asked me to make the trip, given he hates sea voyages.” His voice was crisp as a new pound note. “The subject proved so sensitive, Mr. Jameson didn’t want to send a telegram or letter and believed a personal visit was in order.” He held out an envelope.

  FOR THE EYES OF MARTIN JAMESON had been typed on the front.

  The letter inside was also typed.

  Mr. Jameson,

  It has come to my attention Miss Felicity Carrol is delving into murders in America not unlike those committed by the infamous Whitechapel killer. If she continues, her business enterprises shall be in great danger. I have in my possession information linking her late father Samuel Carrol to those horrible crimes in the East End. Disclosure will insure she loses all her assets and income. Unless she terminates this careless endeavor, I will not hesitate distributing the material to The Times of London and other newspapers. I trust you will see to this matter.

  Yours truly,

  I. W. Beck

  There was no signature.

  “Who is I. W. Beck?” she said.

  “We don’t know. We made inquiries but could locate no such man. Obviously an alias.”

  “Exactly what’s the danger to which the unknown Mr. Beck is referring?”

  The young man cleared his throat. “I am speaking as Mr. Jameson.”

  “I understand, and what does he have to say?”

  Patches of red expanded on his thin cheeks. “You see, your late father was a good friend of one of the Whitechapel suspects.”

  Felicity closed her eyes. “Dr. James Drury.” Each letter scraped her tongue.

  “Quite so. Mr. Carrol and this person were regular visitors to the women in those, ah, establishments for which Whitechapel is famous.”

  “The man in the top hat and coat.” The man she had seen getting in the carriage with her father the night she had followed him on one of the visits to the brothels.

  “Pardon me?” Under his mustache, Franklin nipped at his lower lip. He had the subtlety of a marching band.

  “What else do you have to tell me?”

  “The fact that Mr. Samuel Carrol befriended such an infamous man is worrisome enough. But Scotland Yard also interviewed your father about the Whitechapel murders.”

  “As a suspect?”

  The luster of perspiration appeared on the young solicitor’s forehead. “Mr. Jameson didn’t say, but I’m sure this threat only reflects your father’s association with Dr. Drury. However, release of the information could damage the name of Carrol Mills and Shipping. The companies could lose their clients, and you would lose the greatest source of your wealth.”

  “I thoroughly researched the Whitechapel case …”

  “Your father and Mr. Jameson made sure his name did not appear anywhere in connection with the case.” Franklin swall
owed hard.

  Which explained Martin Jameson’s weird behavior when she had mentioned Whitechapel before she left England.

  “In other words, my father and Jameson bribed police officials to keep his name out of their reports and therefore out of the newspapers.” Felicity stood and gazed out the window.

  For so long she had witnessed the worst in her father. Since he died, she had been accepting the pain he had imposed on her. Yet somehow the fact that others knew his weaknesses caused a new and different kind of misery.

  “Mr. Carrol ceased to become a suspect when he proved he had been out of town at the time of the last murder.”

  “How fortunate.”

  “Mr. Jameson urges you to return to England straightaway and set aside these matters.”

  “My work is not complete here.”

  “If that’s your decision, I’m afraid all will be gone upon your return. Your family’s businesses will be ruined by this man Beck if he follows through on his threat.”

  Her wealth had been a burden all her life, but it had also allowed her to learn what she pleased and work on murder investigations. Was she prepared to have nothing? A faint smile crept over her face. She could always teach school or become a private detective for the Pinkertons.

  Franklin must have guessed her thoughts. “Miss Carrol, consider the hundreds of people who work for your mills and shipping line. And the money you set aside for your older servants could also be in jeopardy.”

  “Helen. Mr. Ryan.” Her real family could be in jeopardy.

  “For a start.”

  “You’ve given me a lot to contemplate, Mr. Franklin.”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll begin the journey back to England, Miss Carrol. What shall I tell Mr. Jameson?”

  “That I thank him. May I keep the letter from Mr. Beck?”

  Franklin handed it to her.

  “By the way, how did this arrive? There’s no postage mark.”

  “It simply appeared on the desk of one of our clerks.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar this Mr. Beck asked for no money? This has all the markings of blackmail. Yet he demanded nothing.”

  “Mr. Jameson thought it singular as well. He suspects Mr. Beck meant the note as a warning and may only have the family’s best interests at heart.”

  “Then Mr. Beck has the most extraordinary way of showing concern.”

  Richard Franklin took his leave politely and silently, as most English gentlemen did.

  Though not meaning to, Felicity had crushed the letter in her hand. Returning to her laboratory, she straightened the paper on the counter. A good-quality stock, but nothing unique.

  Still, the letter carried another message. In England, she had told no one about her reason for visiting Montana except Jackson Davies, and he wouldn’t have told anyone, she was sure. This proved one thing. The killer believed she was close to identifying him.

  Dr. James Drury knew about her father’s nightly activities. He lived, and his name was now William Lennox. Lennox knew about her interest in the Placer murders. Somehow he had had the letter delivered to Jameson’s office in London. Lennox must be tied to the murders, and soon. He had already killed four women. If he held to his pattern, he would take his fifth victim and leave for another town to begin his wicked ritual all over again.

  A soft rap at the door disturbed her thoughts.

  “Miss Felicity, do you want supper? You’ve been in here for hours.” Helen peeked in the door.

  “Come in, Hellie. I’d like to ask you something.”

  The older woman did but kept her eyes on the rug.

  “You knew about my father’s visits to Whitechapel, didn’t you?” Felicity hoped her voice did not betray disappointment.

  Helen kept silent.

  “Please tell me.”

  Helen clenched her hands together. “We just heard stories, Miss. When you followed him that night in London, I realized you had discovered his secret too.”

  “Did he go to those houses while my mother still lived?”

  “No, Miss.” Her answer was impassioned. “He loved her so. Only after she passed on, years after.”

  “I’m sorry, Helen. I had to know.”

  Helen touched the doorknob to leave but stopped. She turned back to Felicity. “It pains me he’s still hurting you, Miss.” She went through the door.

  Helen understood her heartache, and that comforted Felicity.

  In case the threat of I. W. Beck was real, Felicity had to wrap up this investigation quickly. Starting tomorrow, she would watch the doctor’s house each night and follow him when he ventured out. She’d have to observe him stalking another prostitute and stop him before he could murder the girl or her.

  The word perilous didn’t quite cover this endeavor, because how did one detain a madman? Her mind hustled through the pages of the medical and chemistry books she had read in school. An ethyl alcohol derivative, chloral hydrate, would render him unconscious at once. But she had to get close enough to inject him. There might be another way to deliver the sedative. Perhaps a blowgun like those used by the Maya? The ever handy Robert Lowery could make her one at her direction.

  The day’s illumination had died, and she hadn’t noticed she now sat in a dark room. She switched on the electric light. By nightfall, Felicity had formulated the drug to tranquilize the killer. But her fingers had been turned to metal by what she faced.

  He wants you to fear him. He wants you to run home. He wants …

  CHAPTER 27

  Tugging the shawl tighter around her shoulders, Felicity stood in front of the house. Her body was slow with fatigue following the visit from the London solicitor and preparation of the chemical to capture a killer. She should have been sleeping, but as the killings continued, she had found sleep difficult. Perhaps because of the ashen faces in the photographs hanging in the room next to hers and the madness she couldn’t grasp. The murderer she could not stop. She now understood why most women preferred refuge behind lace curtains, children, and afternoon tea. Malevolence, chaos, and death hid beyond in the night.

  Crickets clicked in the bushes. Smoke from the smelters’ stacks puffed white in the dark sky. How could she ever sleep well again after everything she had seen? Since her father died, she had not experienced the same compression of loneliness on her soul, but she felt it tonight.

  “Miss Felicity!” Robert Lowery rode up to her.

  “What happened, Robert?”

  “I was playing poker with the jailers in the courthouse when Tom Pike ran in and told the deputies he needed them to get to the Red District. Another girl was killed. This one in her own crib. I hurried on back here.” Breathing hard, he got down from the horse.

  “Did the sheriff mention the victim’s name?”

  “Someone called Beth.”

  Grabbing the reins from the older man, Felicity leapt on the horse. She dug her heels into the animal’s sides. She couldn’t hear the horse trot through the streets nor the shouts of men as the galloping threw dirt into their faces. She didn’t see the dog snapping at the hooves. She only heard a reverberating clamor rolling in her ears.

  In front of the cribs, she slid off the horse and didn’t bother to tie it up. Pike stood on the porch lined with lanterns. When he saw her, his jaw muscles tightened. Felicity charged to the door. Pike caught her by the waist and held firm. “No.”

  She struggled.

  “You don’t want to see this.”

  The struggling didn’t stop. “Let me go.”

  He released her.

  More lanterns had been placed on the floor of the crib. The killer’s insanity was manifest in the wild spatters spotting the walls and ceiling. What remained of Beth Ray lay on top of the bed. The naked body appeared to have been carved away to misery, muscle, and mortality. The whites of her eyes appeared stark and condemning. They were the eyes of all the victims of murder.

  Felicity noticed the open carpetbag on the chest. Beth had intended to leave town with t
he money she had given her. Beth could have been saved. Felicity peeked inside the carpetbag. At the bottom sat a liver.

  Tearing outside, Felicity saw Dr. William Lennox walking up to the shack. She charged the doctor and slapped his face so hard her hand stung. “You did this, you murderer! You butchered Beth and all the others.” Her fists beat on his chest. “You preyed on the weak. Monster! You sent that letter. But I won’t run away.”

  Lennox put his arms up against her fists but remained silent. As she pulled her arm back to strike again, Pike grabbed her and dragged her away.

  She shook off his hands. “Tom, he slaughtered them all. What more do you want?”

  “The doctor was delivering a baby outside of town and only just arrived back,” Pike said. “He didn’t kill Beth Ray. He didn’t kill any of the women.”

  For the first time in her life, Felicity Margaret Carrol of Surrey, England, fainted.

  * * *

  Felicity awoke and blinked. Her eyesight blurred. Two invisible iron vices wedged her head between them. When she could see clearly, Dr. Lennox was holding her wrist and counting heartbeats on his watch. He set her hand on the bed, addressing Pike and Helen, who stood nearby. “She’ll be fine. Just needs bed rest.” To Felicity, the physician said, “By tomorrow, you’ll be your old inquisitive self again.”

  When Felicity tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness compelled her back down on the bed.

  “Please, Miss Carrol. No sudden movements.”

  “All this talk of death and murder, I’m surprised we’re not all sick in our beds,” Helen said protectively while she patted Felicity’s forehead with a moist cloth. She threw a stern stare at the sheriff and the doctor.

  “Hellie, help me to sit up, please.” Helen’s touch was so familiar. The older woman’s hand on her back. Fluffing the pillow. Her soothing nature, giving love beyond her wages. The immense care of a mother. As Helen pulled back, Felicity kissed her cheek as she had so often as a little girl. “Thank you, my dear, dear Hellie.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Felicity. Always has been. Now I’m going to fix you a bowl of broth.” Before she left the room, Helen addressed the men with, “If you gents cause my lady any additional upset, you’ll have to deal with me.”