“Free now, honey,” the woman said.
“Pardon me?”
Her thumb shot back at the privy. “I’m done with my business if you need to use the outhouse.”
“Oh, no thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” The woman began to walk away.
“Excuse me, but were you acquainted with Beth Ray?”
The woman halted and turned around. “I knew the poor girl. What relation are you?” She gave Felicity a going-over with her eyes. “You ain’t no soiled dove, are you?”
“I was her friend.”
“That makes you my friend, too.” The woman extended a tiny hand with silver rings on several of her fingers. “The name’s Kate. I live next door. Pleased to meet you.”
“Felicity, and the pleasure is all mine.”
Taking paper, a tobacco pouch, and matches from the front of her tattered dress, Kate rolled a cigarette and lit up. “I saw what happened to Beth. It was terrible.”
Felicity blinked hard. “Yes.”
“The sheriff already asked me lots of questions.” The cigarette dangled off one side of her mouth.
“What did he want to know?”
“If I heard any noise coming from Beth’s place the night it happened.”
“Did you?”
Kate scratched under her arms. “Not a damn thing except that squeaking bed of hers. Not one scream from poor Beth.”
“What else?”
“About the time of this and that.”
“Time?”
“The sheriff said Beth left a saloon about ten. I didn’t hear her come back to the crib because I was entertaining a gentleman, who left about eleven or so. Trouble is, the handsome sheriff must have had his times all mixed up.” Kate sat on the step of Beth’s back door.
“Why?”
Kate took a long drag before answering. “See, I got this stomach ailment, and when my innards say I must go, then I must go. Anyway, my stomach starts tossing, which is a sign to git to the outhouse in a hurry.”
“What time?”
“Way past midnight. On my way back from the outhouse, I heard someone behind me.”
“The killer?”
“Beth.”
“Are you certain?”
“Didn’t see her face. It was dark. But I could tell it was Beth because she was wearing her favorite green dress and green velvet bonnet. She was also in a hell of a hurry. She had something under arm, a parcel like. I called, ‘Where you going, gal?’ But Beth didn’t answer and ran into the back alley behind the privies.”
“Positive about the time?”
Kate’s chin lowered with a nod. “Yes, ma’am. When I went back into my room, I asked another of my gentlemen about the time, and he said twelve thirty. I thought that was a little late for Beth to be going out. But she must have come back and that’s when someone done her in.”
Felicity’s face scrunched with bafflement. “That’s odd.”
“About twenty minutes after I saw Beth out back, a man must have come looking for her company. Then I heard him yelling, ‘Murder, murder, murder.’ We go outside and he’s running down the street calling for help.”
“What did the sheriff say when you told him you had seen Beth in back of the cribs?”
Kate stood and stretched. “He said one woman looks like another when it’s dark outside.” She tossed off her cigarette. “I did drink a tad too much whiskey that night. But I could have sworn I saw little Beth.”
“Kate, did Beth ever own a jasmine scent?”
“Don’t know, but we can’t afford such niceties.”
Felicity gave the woman a ten-dollar gold piece. “For your troubles.”
Kate bit the coin and appreciated its authenticity. “Poor Beth. Maybe I saw her spirit running to heaven is all.”
Returning to the shack, Felicity combed through Beth’s clothing for the green bonnet and dress. There weren’t there. Like the other evidence Felicity had gathered, Kate’s story added up to another mystery.
On her way out, Felicity saw the vase she had given Beth had been knocked to the floor. Rose petals were scattered about. Someone had torn them from the stems.
* * *
Marcus Quigley made good on his promises.
A black carriage with two striding horses transported Beth Ray’s white coffin to Placer Cemetery. Wearing a fine black coat and hat, Quigley drove the carriage himself. An old preacher with a bulbous nose and squinting eyes behind wire-framed glasses sent Beth off with soothing words for the dead and prayers of resurrection. Standing across the grave from the preacher, Felicity held a bouquet of roses from her garden. Tears irritated her eyes, but she dared not close them because images of Beth’s torn body flashed in waiting. Those images had already occupied her dreams.
No one else attended the service.
“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, so shall we all return, but our spirit is eternal.” The preacher could have been a grandfather burying one of his own. “And so we bid goodbye to the body of Beth Ray and pray her spirit is already in heaven. Amen.” He closed his Bible. As he passed, the preacher shook Felicity’s hand. “Sorry for the loss of your cousin.”
Felicity looked at Quigley, who shrugged his shoulders. That answered her question as to how the undertaker had managed to bury Beth Ray in Placer Cemetery. The minister boarded his small buggy and drove off.
“Did we do right by her?” Quigley had his black hat in his hand.
“The service was lovely, Mr. Quigley.”
He gave an appreciative nod, placed his hat back on, and left.
Yes, Mr. Quigley had done right by Beth Ray, but she had not. The woman’s killer remained free and unpunished. Felicity tossed the roses onto the coffin.
CHAPTER 29
When Felicity opened the door to Sheriff Tom Pike, his face went tender with admiration.
“You’re the most beautiful woman in Placer, maybe in all of Blackwood County or Montana.”
“Such an exaggeration, but thank you. If I may offer a compliment, you’re incredibly handsome tonight.”
He wore a black evening coat, dress shirt and vest, bow tie, and polished shoes. “The man who sold me the suit said I needed a top hat. I told him I did not want to be no undertaker at Quigley and Son.”
She smiled. “Don’t you feel exposed without your gun?”
“My Colt is under the seat of the carriage. Never know when you might have to arrest somebody, especially when I’m with you.”
Felicity rushed about gathering her purse and wrap. She didn’t want to tarry, even though she had made sure the trunks they had packed were out of view.
On the street stood a black carriage headed by two black bays. A brawny man with a gray mustache and bald head held the reins.
“Felicity Carrol, this is my friend, Magnus Cunningham,” Pike said.
“A pleasure,” said Cunningham. “Tom here says he wanted to demonstrate he could be a gentleman like the ones running around back in England. I told him best not be wishing for too much.”
“Good ol’ Magnus. He loves fooling about.” Pike tossed him a threatening look and helped Felicity into the carriage.
“I do ask one thing tonight, Felicity.”
“What?”
“No murder talk during dinner.”
“We can save it for dessert.”
They dined at the restaurant in the Regent Hotel, a newer building of red brick and white stone on Main. Like the Grand Hotel, the Regent boasted luxury. Waiters in pristine aprons. Candles in cut-glass vases. Fresh flowers.
“The cook came all the way from Denver.” Pike had one eye on the menu. “That’s what he told me when I put him in jail for cheating at poker last month.”
“Let’s hope he cooks better than he plays cards.”
Pike ordered wine to go with their roast-beef dinners. Despite the good food, Felicity had little appetite, thinking ahead to how she would end the evening by telling him she was going to leave. What she had observed at
Beth’s shack also continued to bother her.
During dinner, they talked about the politics of their respective countries. He asked about living under the rule of a queen. She asked about President Benjamin Harrison. The conversation was trite compared to their most recent talks about homicide.
They walked to the theater after dinner. Pike asked his friend to pick them up after the play ended at about ten.
The soft lighting from the four-story brick theater welcomed them. Felicity had purchased two seats in one of the boxes. Their entrance warranted the attention of many in the audience, with nods and twinkles from opera glasses. As Pike lifted off Felicity’s satin dolman wrap, his lips brushed her shoulders.
“I still wouldn’t mind another kiss,” he said.
“I’m not sure one would be enough for either of us,” she added.
The town’s wealthiest were in attendance. The theater neared capacity with men in expensive dress clothing and women on their arms wearing the latest fashions from New York and San Francisco.
“This appears to be a sold-out performance.” Felicity pointed out the box next to theirs, which remained empty. “Except for that one.”
“Belongs to Mrs. Albert. The theater manager says she reserves the box no matter the play. Sometimes she comes, other times not. I met her a few times when she showed up for performances.”
“What do you think of her?” Like it or not, his instincts were good.
“She’s different.”
“How?”
“Most madams are either very businesslike or overly sociable. But Mrs. Albert is more like the headmistress of a girl’s school. Rigid as a tree.” His eyes already were on the stage.
“Think she has secrets, Tom?”
“A barnful. And she’s the type who won’t tell you a damn thing unless it benefits her.”
Before Pike could say anything more, Mrs. Albert swept in wearing an elegant black evening dress with a high collar. “Sheriff.”
“Ma’am.”
“And good to see you again, Felicity. A friendly face in an unfriendly crowd.” Mrs. Albert glanced at the audience below. A few females in the lower rows didn’t hide their distaste. “Some of the women in this town don’t usually welcome my presence.”
“Anyone who appreciates the theater deserves esteem, Mrs. Albert,” Felicity said.
“I don’t have the opportunity to attend every play, but my dear beloved husband adored theater productions.” She sat. “This is one of my favorites.”
“‘This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; The words expressly are “a pound of flesh,”’” Felicity recited in her best theatrical voice.
“The best of currencies.”
Before Felicity could ask what she meant, the curtain went up.
The company, which had traveled from New York, presented a lavish and enjoyable production. Felicity had read all of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets during a prideful attempt to soak in English literature. She had attended many of Shakespeare’s plays staged in London. His words belonged on the boards. During the production, Felicity often glanced at Pike, who appeared to have been conveyed to the Venice streets of Shylock.
At the beginning of Act III, Felicity smelled jasmine.
Felicity shifted in her seat. The scent originated from the box next to them. With a delicate gesture, Mrs. Albert held a black lace handkerchief to her nose. In the dim lights of the theater, her eyes were black things. Pike’s assessment had been correct. Mrs. Albert had a distance to her. The sides of the woman’s mouth turned up in superiority, as if everyone else had no meaning on this earth.
On the stage, the character of Portia took on the disguise of a young man to defend Antonio, the merchant of Venice. Shylock had threatened to collect the “pound of flesh” after Antonio defaulted on his loan. The tall, red-headed actress who played Portia delivered her dialogue with a commanding deep-toned voice, never more so than in Scene IV.
“And twenty of these puny lies I’ll tell, that men shall swear I have discontinued school above a twelfthmonth. I have within my mind a thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, which I will practice.”
Felicity’s flesh quivered at the lines. Her clothes rubbed her raw. She glanced to the side. Mrs. Albert had left her box. The play continued.
“My God, your hand is freezing, Felicity,” Pike said.
She didn’t realize he had even touched her.
The curtain at last dropped to an appreciative audience.
“Thanks again.” Pike kissed her cheek.
“Delighted you enjoyed the play, Tom.”
“You must have seen lots of plays in London. My God, the very center of Shakespeare’s world.” He placed her wrap around her shoulders.
“My beloved father could never get enough of the theater.” Her voice lifted with sarcasm.
Her beloved father not so beloved.
Mrs. Albert’s beloved husband.
The scent of jasmine.
Bruises on the prostitute at the White Rose brothel.
Drury’s missing wife.
A female in man’s clothing.
Someone wearing Beth’s dress.
A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks.
All the air seemed to evaporate from Felicity’s body. She had been duped.
Pike touched her hand. “About dessert and maybe that kiss.”
“I must return to the house.”
“I love your spirit. These evening clothes must have stirred up your passions like a wind on the plains.”
“Tom, please. Let’s go.” Her voice conveyed only urgency and grit.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“I have to leave now.” Picking up her dress, she hustled past him, out of the box, and to the stairs of the theater.
In the carriage, Pike concentrated on his folded hands. His face muscles were taut. She had noticeably angered him with the way she had acted at the theater and her silence since then. But she couldn’t mention her new theory. He wanted to kiss her but not believe her. Not after what had happened with Dr. William Lennox. Pike no longer trusted her deductions or methods.
When they arrived at her house, she charged out of the carriage before Pike could get out to help her down.
“Wait.” He jumped out, caught up to her, and took her arm. “What’s going on with you? Something’s under your saddle.”
“I’m ill.”
“You’re lying again.”
Felicity gnashed her teeth at what she needed to do next. “How dare you. I have had enough of your vulgar suspicions and uncouth behavior. You’re no gentleman. You’re a primitive with a badge.” She slapped his face. “Leave me alone.”
Lifting the fabric of her gown, she dashed inside and up the stairs. She didn’t want to see how she’d hurt Pike, who remained on the street. Slamming the door, she glanced back through the window as he drove away in the carriage.
She had already packed her equipment in one of the trunks and had to dig out the vials, microscope, and books. At the bottom were the newspaper clippings she had taken off the wall. She dug into the piles of papers and pitched aside the ones she did not need. At last, the article she wanted, though the words were already stored in her formidable memory. The Times of London report about the suicide of Dr. James Drury, dated November 20, 1888:
RENOWNED SURGEON VICTIM OF SUICIDE DROWNING
Dr. James Drury forged a name as a talented surgeon who befriended a prince. Later in life, however, he suffered under infamy as an unofficial suspect in the shocking Whitechapel murders that plagued the city’s East End.
On the morning of November 20, Mr. Martin Rossell, a bricklayer, was walking along St. Katherine’s Way when he noticed a piece of paper under a rock less than five feet from the edge of the Thames. Curious, Mr. Rossell picked up the note, on which was written, “I die, but I am not at fault. J. Drury.” Mr. Rossell, however, did not see a body floating in the river and summoned police to the location. After a
thorough search by the Metropolitan Police, the body of Dr. Drury was not recovered from the river, and authorities abandoned the effort by early evening.
Thirty-five-year-old Drury worked as a surgeon at the Royal London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. He had lived what appeared to be an extraordinary life. A successful doctor, he cultivated a friendship with His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor, the Duke of Clarence, whom the physician had met at a charity benefit. Later in life, the two men could often be seen at various London social events.
However, all that ended after the death of Mary Jane Kelly, a known prostitute, on November 9, 1888, in her room at 13 Miller’s Court. In a November 15 article in the Times, Dr. Drury’s name was mentioned as one of the suspects in the violent murders of Kelly and four other prostitutes in Whitechapel by the killer who was dubbed Jack the Ripper. The Times quoted a former inspector with Scotland Yard who did not wish his name mentioned. The inspector called the surgeon “a person of interest” in the investigation, but he did not elaborate.
The self-proclaimed Jack the Ripper mutilated the women in such a manner that police believed the fiend knew well the anatomy of a human body. The killer, who extracted organs with the skill of a surgeon, remains at large.
Dr. Drury left behind a wife, Emily. They had no children.
Felicity didn’t need to look for the paper; she recalled every word of a Scotland Yard document about the murder of Mary Jane Kelly.
Mrs. Michael Magpie, who resided upstairs from Mary Jane Kelly at Miller’s Court, reported to Scotland Yard inspectors that she looked out her window at five in the morning and saw a woman outside the building. Although she did not see the woman’s face, Mrs. Magpie recognized a dress and shawl often worn by Kelly. Inspectors say Mrs. Magpie must have been hysterical because of the murder. Doctors place Kelly’s time of death at two earlier the same morning.
The letter dropped off at Jameson’s office had been signed by I. W. Beck, a name Felicity thought familiar, but she couldn’t pinpoint how. She sought another report and found it buried among others. The primary officer on the scene of Kelly’s murder had been Inspector Walter Beck.
Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace Page 26
