Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace

by Patricia Marcantonio

  “Your beloved husband. What a joke. He must have known what you were. That’s why he courted the solace of prostitutes. That’s why he threw himself into the Thames,” Felicity shouted at her.

  The woman skidded to a standstill. Felicity also slowed, but crept toward Emily Drury with caution. They stood under a giant metal scaffolding erected over a shaft. An electric light on a pole shone on their faces. Felicity’s lungs were scorched from running, but she did a quick reconnaissance for a weapon to use against Emily Drury. Thick snakes of electric cables plunged into the blackness of the hole. Out of it arose the clang of metal against rock.

  “Stupid girl. You don’t know me,” Emily Drury said through her own racked breathing. “Think my husband really killed himself? That pitiful soul who had to pay strumpets to convince himself of his manhood.”

  “And you hated those women for that, didn’t you?”

  “But your father loved them, and quite frequently. In fact, Samuel Carrol introduced my husband to those disgusting houses. The lecherous vermin.”

  “Don’t talk about my father.”

  “Can’t bear the truth? The truth is, Samuel Carrol loved the whores more than you. I heard him and my husband talking in the library one night. Your father couldn’t even bear to look at you. He found comfort in their arms.”

  The woman was as clever and dangerous as she was insane.

  “Your mother couldn’t compare.”

  “Shut up!”

  Neck muscles tightened, the woman ran toward Felicity.

  Felicity had to move. She knew Emily Drury had a second knife and only waited for the chance to plunge it into her.

  Behind them, two workers appeared out of the blackness and into the light. “Get outta here. This is dangerous. No place for women,” one of them yelled.

  Emily Drury rotated on one heel and headed right for a building resembling a gigantic iron box.

  WALTON SMELTER proclaimed the sign over the door the killer entered. A few feet behind, Felicity bumped into a man exiting the door. His body exuded heat.

  “Hope you’re looking for me.” Soot smudged the man’s face.

  “I am not. Move aside.” Felicity pushed through the door of the smelter.

  She had entered the underworld. Hades. Fire and brimstone.

  Crushers reducing the ore to gravel created a din, shaking Felicity’s legs as she ran through the immense building. Great round ovens were stacked one on top of the other along one section of a wall. Men shoved coal into the ovens, which melted the ground ore and freed the precious metals within. Fiery sparks flitted about like unholy fairies. The temperature created an invisible but thick layer Felicity had to penetrate. Her every intake of air seemed to contain flames and smoke. In front of her, Emily Drury tore off her frock coat, apparently to deal with the temperature.

  As Felicity passed, men hollered at them to get out, while others dismissed the intruding women and just fed the fires.

  A spark fell on Felicity’s skirt, and a ball of flame sprouted. Without slowing, she picked up the fabric and banged out the fire. From the ground, she grabbed an iron pipe long as her arm. Taking a sudden left, Emily Drury shot through a side door of the smelter. Felicity did the same. Once outside, they scurried along on a narrow path between the smelter and a hill plunging downward into blackness. Molten slag flowed out of the building in a ditch wide as a creek. The fluid mineral waste coursed down the slope in a deadly golden ribbon. Emily Drury hurdled the ditch. As Felicity hopped over, the slag’s fever stung her legs.

  In a clearing past the smelter, Emily Drury awaited her. “You’re never going to stop, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I expected this day to come. When my secret would be discovered and all good things ended. I didn’t expect someone like you. I had the whole of Scotland Yard on its knees with impotence.”

  “I assure you, everyone will stand up when you’re sentenced to die.”

  Emily Drury inched nearer. “I’m already under a death sentence, Miss Carrol. My husband brought syphilis to me from those houses. Syphilis. The unclean. Now you’ll join the girls of the line you’re so fond of.”

  From her pants pocket, Emily Drury whipped out another knife and charged Felicity. Swinging hard, Felicity aimed the pipe at the woman’s arm. Emily Drury twisted hard from the blow, but the knife slid over Felicity’s upper left arm. With the pipe, Felicity struck the woman’s back, making her spin again, but she righted herself and ran down the hill. She tried to maintain her footing on the slope but slipped on the gravel and rode downward on her back.

  Felicity touched the wound on her arm. Just skin, no muscle affected. She gave chase, but she couldn’t stay on her feet either and careened toward the bottom of the hill, still carrying her pipe weapon. Along the right side poured the molten stream of slag, which ended in a sizable pool at the bottom of the hill. Her eyes watered from the heat.

  The killer slammed into the ground, missing the pool by mere feet. She sprang up and held the knife out to thrust into Felicity, who skidded out of control on the slope. In the light from the slag, Felicity could see what the woman planned. When Felicity hit the bottom, she held out the pipe to deflect the blade. Felicity scrambled to her feet. While Emily Drury raised her arm to strike again, Felicity swung the metal at the woman’s chest. The killer flew into the molten pool.

  Emily Drury didn’t scream as she melted into the red-hot mass.

  * * *

  Two smelter workers scratched their heads at the sight of the young woman sitting on the ground tossing rocks into the molten pool. Dried blood crusted on her right cheek. More blood drizzled down her arm.

  “You need a doctor, ma’am,” one of the workers said.

  “Probably.” More rocks into the pool. They plopped in the slag.

  “What happened to the man you were chasing?” one of the workers asked.

  “I sent her back to hell.” Felicity tossed in another rock.

  CHAPTER 31

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” Judge Simon Winslow said with solemnity as Helen and Robert Lowery stood under the gazebo.

  Lowery took the face of the new Mrs. Lowery in his hands and kissed her so gently that Helen cried. The small gathering clapped; a few of Lowery’s friends gave a yip of cowboy proportions as another shot a gun into the air. Tom Pike whistled and stomped his boots.

  Felicity clapped loudly and shouted, “Well done.”

  Following the ceremony, guests extended personal congratulations to the couple. Felicity watched and enjoyed the happiness of people she loved.

  “Now, Robert, you take care of this woman. Never has there been anyone as kind and accepting,” Felicity said to the new husband.

  “You have my promise, Miss Felicity.”

  “I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.”

  “Forgive me for being so bold, but I have come to look upon you as a daughter in the time you’ve been here. I hope you’ll someday consider me a second father.”

  As much as Felicity wanted to, she didn’t cry. “That I will,” she answered in a voice husky with sentiment from such a splendid offer. She hugged him.

  Felicity turned to her friend, “And Hellie, my Hellie.”

  “Bless you for all you have done, Miss. I’ve never known such happiness.” Helen’s face opened like a new morning.

  “Then I’m happy, too.”

  “Next time, it’ll be your turn at the altar.” Helen held up her ring.

  “I doubt that,” replied Felicity, and they both laughed.

  For the wedding dinner, the guests sat at tables set up in the garden behind the house on Bullion Boulevard. On the white tablecloths were bowls of flowers from the garden. The hotel waiters Felicity had hired served healthy portions of lamb, chicken, potatoes, green beans, and rolls on china plates. Lowery’s friends enjoyed the beer Felicity had included in the menu, along with wine and a superb lemon cake and fruit.

  As the sunlight weakened, waiters lit candles on
the tables and paper lanterns Felicity had purchased from Da Long’s store for the occasion. She had also hired a small band that played while couples danced on sheets of board laid down on the ground. Helen and Robert held each other as if they had done so for years.

  Weary, Felicity sat in the gazebo located off to the side of the garden and watched the party continue on into the evening. She ran her finger over the purplish scar on her cheek. Dr. William Lennox had done a tidy job of stitching the cuts on her face and arm. In his usual unfriendly bedside manner, he had informed Felicity her cheek would forever be marked.

  “Doctor, the wound I’ll carry from now on will be on the outside, not the inside,” she had replied. As expected, he did not bother to ask for further explanation or seem to care.

  After Lennox stitched her up, she’d gone directly to the telegraph office. This news couldn’t wait.

  TO: INSPECTOR JACKSON DAVIES

  JACKSON, THE CASE IS CLOSED. JUSTICE IS SERVED. BACK HOME SOON.

  FELICITY

  During a court inquest into the death of Mrs. Albert, the presiding judge often squinted his eyes at Felicity as she testified that Mrs. Albert had admitted to killing the five prostitutes in Placer. His bushy eyebrows rose at Felicity’s explanation of how the woman had gone insane. Felicity had told them where to find proof of the woman’s guilt, which included the knives and men’s clothing in the trunk under the bed at the White Rose brothel. Blood stained the soles of the dress shoes and the gloves found in the room. Felicity said she had discovered all this while doing research for her book on the crimes. Though she disliked lying to a judge, she needed to keep up the fiction that she was a writer in case the story ever got back to England. Tom Pike knew the truth and wouldn’t tell.

  Faced with threats of jail as an accessory to murder, the Chinese maid confessed she had seen Mrs. Albert dressed as a man in a frock coat and bowler hat leaving her bedroom on the nights Mattie Morgan and Beth Ray died. Mrs. Albert had warned the servant to mind her business lest she be kicked out into the streets.

  The maid also identified the Chinese box sent to Sheriff Tom Pike as one she had thought she’d lost. Mrs. Albert’s handwriting also matched the note sent to the sheriff, though the presiding judge discounted the evidence.

  Felicity and Pike had agreed not to mention the names of Emily and James Drury, nor the Whitechapel killings or Jack the Ripper. The people of Placer and the judge might consider the tale too hard to digest. The mayhem had ended, which was all that mattered. More to prove herself to Pike than anyone else, Felicity had asked her London solicitors Morton & Morton to send a photograph of Emily Drury. Pike couldn’t deny Emily Drury and Mrs. Albert were the same woman.

  Given the evidence from the brothel, the admission of the Chinese maid, and Felicity’s testimony, the judge ruled that Mrs. Albert had murdered the women in Placer. Felicity suspected the judge believed her story only because of the injuries to her face and arm, and because she was a nice young Englishwoman with no reason to lie. After the inquest, Felicity gathered all the case documents and photographs of the murder victims in England and Placer and had them shipped ahead to Carrol Manor. The proceeds from the sale of the house on Bullion Boulevard were reserved for a fund so Dr. Lennox could continue his medical care for the prostitutes and help any woman who wanted to leave the profession. Everything orderly. At least most everything.

  She wrapped up the whole affair with a telegram to solicitor Martin Jameson. She informed him that he no longer had to worry about the threats to the Carrol name and businesses. She had personally dealt with Mr. I. W. Beck.

  With all items of death behind her, she proceeded to plan the wedding, and she thought she had done a good job of it when the day arrived. Through the evening, the wedding guests enjoyed the good food and drink in the garden, lit by lanterns hanging from the trees.

  Sheriff Tom Pike joined her in the gazebo. They sat listening to the music. She had already apologized to him for the way she had acted at the theater, and he had accepted it after hearing the reason why. Despite all the crime still going on in the wild mining town, Placer seemed calmer that night. Her emotions were just as clear. She could not imagine him anywhere but Montana, and she belonged in England. “I will miss you, Tom.”

  “And I you, Felicity Carrol. Even though you almost got yourself killed and refused to tell me what you had learned about the murderer.”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  The sheriff smiled. “Probably not.”

  “I got my man, so to speak, even if she turned out to be a woman.” She placed a hand on his. “I’m sorry you haven’t yet found the man who killed your father,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “Until that day, I’m sure you’ll be searching every face in town until you find his.”

  He looked out over the lights of the town he protected. “Sure as the sun blinking over the mountains in the morning.” He nodded slowly. “I will keep looking until I don’t have to anymore.”

  She looked up at the stars. They seemed to be winking with truths that night. “I guess we’ll all keep searching until we don’t have to anymore.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Felicity sat in their regular spot at the Café Royal on Regent Street. She checked her watch. Five past one.

  Tapping her foot, she began to doubt her decision not to visit Jackson Davies the moment she, Helen, and Robert Lowery had docked in London a few days before. She should have asked Helen and Robert to take care of the luggage, hailed a hansom, and gone to see her friend then and there. She should have rushed up to his room and told him the whole story.

  Tapping her spoon against her teacup in the café, she scolded herself. She shouldn’t have been so enigmatic and smug in her communication to her friend. But she had too much to tell and couldn’t do it in a letter or telegram.

  Then Jackson Davies appeared. His face had thinned and he appeared older. Traces of white infiltrated his fine dark hair, and his brown eyes hinting of a forest were shaded like a late afternoon. Clearly he had lived through a serious illness. But his face lightened when he saw her, and he ran over. Felicity had no idea how long they hugged. He had never before shown such personal affection, and Felicity had to admit she held on just as much to him.

  “Come, our tea’s getting cold,” she said.

  “You’re rich; buy us another pot,” Davies said.

  “I’ve missed your cheek, Inspector.” Felicity waved over the waiter and asked for another pot and to start their lunch she had ordered.

  “Oh my God,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your face.”

  She touched the scar left by Emily Drury, now healed but measuring a good two inches. “Ah, my souvenir from the killer. You’re not repulsed by it?”

  “You’re twice as beautiful.”

  “Inspector Jackson Griggs Davies, never have I heard you utter so much poppycock. And that’s saying a lot.” Her finger outlined the scar on her face. “You do realize no eligible bachelor in England will marry someone carrying such a mark.”

  “Nonsense. Who wouldn’t want the woman who stopped Jack the Ripper?”

  “I did, didn’t I?” She didn’t say it with pride. Only as a fact.

  “Yes, you bleedin’ did. And I want to hear every detail.”

  For the next hour, she told him about what had transpired in Placer, Montana, which sounded even farther away now. She left nothing out, except kissing Sheriff Tom Pike. He had given her another before she and Helen left. A nice memory, which it would remain. Her story took them through lunch and several pots of tea.

  Davies sat back in his chair. “A woman. All this time, a woman.”

  “A very disturbed one.”

  ‘No wonder the Yard couldn’t find the killer. We were looking in the wrong place.” He pounded one hand into the other.

  “She had us all deceived, Jackson. No one would have believed a female capable of such violence, but she’s human and humans are v
ery capable. You’ve seen samples of that in your work.” Felicity closed her eyes with the awful truth of it—she would always have cases to probe and killers to apprehend. To prove herself over and over.

  “But why, Felicity? Why did she do it?”

  “Emily Drury was insane, and that insanity took revenge against prostitutes. Her husband had been a customer of the prostitutes in Whitechapel and passed on to his wife the dreaded disease of syphilis.”

  “My God.”

  “One thing, Jackson.”

  “Hmm?” he said, almost adrift in his own thoughts.

  “I don’t believe we should mention the real identity of Jack the Ripper. Primarily, no one would believe me. I’ve always tried to stay behind the scenes and to keep scandal away from my family business to keep people working. Can you live with that?”

  He answered sooner than she expected. “Jack the Ripper got justice in a fiery pit. That’s good with me.” Davies took her hand. “But how are you? You look tired.”

  “Better now that you’re recovered. When I couldn’t find the killer in Placer and the murders continued, I experienced some of the obsession and defeat you must have gone through, Jackson.”

  His eyes blinked tears. “Then you understand?”

  Using her handkerchief to dot at them, she said, “Completely.” He nodded in accord. She sensed a stronger connection had formed between Davies and her. More than friendship, but one of experiencing the same terrors and, hopefully, conquering them for now.

  He yanked at the lapels of his jacket. “I’m back at work, you know.”

  “That’s brilliant!”

  “I can’t repay you for what you’ve done, my friend.”

  “You already have.”

  “Then may I ask you another favor?” Davies said in a most serious tone.

  “Of course.”

  Pulling out his familiar work notebook from his jacket, he consulted a page. “Last night, a schoolteacher named Michael Peters was murdered. Someone stashed his body under a pile of clothes at a laundry off of Fleet Street. He had five pounds in his pants. Everyone who knew him liked the man. Now, here’s the darnedest thing.”