Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

Near the university, she had rented a small house where she resided with Helen. Never had she been so content, despite the reception by others. As she was walking to a class one day, several male students called her a “bluestocking” as she passed. This was no compliment.

  In the 1700s, women of the Blue Stocking Society had stressed education and met informally in England to discuss the arts and literature. Oddly, the name had come from a male participant who wore blue stockings because he said he couldn’t afford black silk ones, or so the story went. But the term had taken on a negative meaning. Published years before in England, The Popular Encyclopedia; or, Conversations Lexicon defined a “blue-stocking” as “a pedantic female; one who sacrifices the characteristic excellencies of her sex to learning.” A bluestocking was considered less than a female because she wanted to overtake man’s hold on intelligence.

  Felicity labeled the term rubbish.

  After the taunts from the male students, Felicity began wearing blue stockings under her dresses and dared to show an ankle at the male students on occasion.

  Few people ever let her forget her gender at the university. While dissecting a female cadaver, an anatomy professor remarked how the corpse’s ovaries were tiny and shriveled.

  “This woman must have been too educated. It has that effect.” He spoke with the utmost resolution and stared at Felicity, the only female in the room.

  “Professor, isn’t it true the same will happen to a man’s brain if he doesn’t use it?” she asked.

  A few of the male students did hide smirks. The professor puffed out his cheeks and didn’t answer. He couldn’t flunk her because she had the highest marks in the class.

  Only a few men at the university treated her as an equal. One of them was William Kent.

  So, my girl, Felicity told herself as the carriage pulled up to the museum, here is the opportunity to use what you have acquired.

  CHAPTER 6

  The last time Felicity had visited the British Museum, she had worn a short pink dress with an insufferable large white ribbon atop her curls. Felicity had begged Helen to take her to the new exhibition on the inventions of Leonardo da Vinci. On their visit, Felicity had walked through the display determined to soak up da Vinci’s genius and creativity as if they were beams from the sun. An exasperatingly precocious child, she had infuriated everyone with a ceaseless line of questions, a habit she had found difficult to break as an adult.

  At the da Vinci exhibit, Felicity had been especially captivated by his flying machine design. When she had returned home to Carrol Manor, she had drawn up her own plans based on that of the Renaissance genius. With help from the servants, she had started construction of her flying machine in the greenhouse. Making progress on the wood and linen machine, she had intended to make a trial run off the top of the greenhouse when it was finished. But Horace Wilkins had thwarted her plans when he told her father, and her father had ordered the device burned. She had been furious because she was convinced she would be able to fly.

  The funny thing was, she still wanted to soar.

  Heading to the King Arthur exhibition on the second floor, Felicity set her shoulders back with another plan. This time, to obtain the information and access she needed to learn more about the terrible death of her friend. Helen followed behind, a little winded from the stairs.

  “Miss Carrol?” The museum curator met them in front of the exhibition hall. A tall man, his eyes were small as beans, as if they had been permanently shriveled from reading ancient texts. Those or balance sheets. Earlier, she had sent a message to tell him of her impending arrival and a possible endowment to the museum.

  “Mr. Foxborough, this is my companion, Helen Wilkins.”

  Helen gave her best curtsy.

  “Helen wanted to visit the exhibition of Renaissance art on your main floor, so she will leave us as we visit.” Felicity gave a slight nod of her head, and Helen picked up on it.

  “So right, Miss Felicity. I do love the Resurgence,” Helen said with a grin.

  “Renaissance.” Felicity smiled and turned to the curator. “She always gets that part confused.”

  In advance, Felicity had apologized to Helen. She might be some time at the museum and suggested that Helen have the carriage take her back to their house on Grosvenor Square. Felicity would take a cab home when she wrapped up her business. Stalwart as ever, Helen had responded that if need be, she would pop out for tea at the café next to the museum or remain in the carriage to wait for her young mistress. Either way, she was not going to desert Felicity.

  Helen bowed again to Felicity and the curator and departed back down the stairs. She sneaked a wink at her young mistress as she left.

  “We are so honored you are considering a gift to the museum.” The curator glowed at the thought of her money.

  “My pleasure, sir.” Felicity did intend to make a donation, though the amount would not be as much as the curator probably envisioned or hoped for. Since she had turned fifteen years old, she had been allowed to draw out as many funds as she desired from her account at the Bank of London. Ironically, her father had informed her of this in a letter as if she were an employee at one of his companies. Before then, she had had to ask him for money—when she saw him—to spend on books, chemicals, or equipment for her laboratory. Her father had probably opened the bank account for her so he would not have to deal with the requests. Then again, he had never asked her to explain what she was buying.

  “So gratifying to see a young person such as yourself take an interest in history,” the curator remarked.

  “I am very interested, particularly in your new King Arthur exhibit. Knights excite me so.” She tried her best to twitter as if she didn’t have a brain. It was difficult.

  He lowered his voice. “I suppose you did hear about the recent unpleasantness in the exhibition hall?”

  “Yes, yes, shocking. I was acquainted with Lord Kent.”

  The curator rubbed a hand over his baldness, and his small eyes flickered tears. “I looked upon him as a friend, and I believe he returned the affection.” He dotted a handkerchief at his eyes. “His lordship used to joke that he gave so much money to the museum, we should set up a bed for him in the basement so he could visit anytime he liked.”

  That did sound like William Kent, she thought, and smiled.

  “Such a blow to the museum and the Empire. His lordship was a good man,” the curator said.

  “He was that. I hoped a portion of my patronage would fund the new exhibit.” She blended truth with exaggeration and was a little disturbed that it came so easily to her. “May I see it?”

  “I was hoping to give you a tour of our Roman collection. The walls there do need refurbishing.”

  “How tragic. Let’s save that for another time and endowment, shall we? I was so looking forward to seeing the King Arthur display.”

  “Very well, Miss Carrol.”

  Her breath seemed to rise from the bottom of her feet. She had entered the place where her friend had died. According to the latest article in The Times, a coroner inquest jury had ruled that Lord William Kent had been murdered by an unidentified assailant likely caught in the act of stealing the treasured document. The cause of death was massive bleeding from a chest wound. No murder weapon had been found at the scene. Additionally, no one had been seen leaving or entering the museum before or after the killing. At the time of Kent’s death, two guards had been having tea in another part of the museum. From her remarkable memory, she had recalled all the details in the newspaper story.

  A large hall had been devoted to the King Arthur exhibit. On the walls hung several paintings by various artists of the fabled king, his knights, the Holy Grail, Guinevere, Camelot, Lancelot, and other scenes and characters from the many Arthurian tales. Two sets of gleaming knight’s armor stood like sentinels on both sides of the entrance. Behind glass lay an outstanding copy of The History of the Britons, an account of the British people written in 828 or thereabout. The pages were open t
o an entry about Arthur, which supposedly was the first mention of him anywhere. In the entry he was called not a king, but a dux bellorum, literally a Duke of Battles or war leader, in his campaigns against the Saxons.

  “Magnificent display,” Felicity told the curator, who smiled with gratification.

  On top of a table sat a carving of an imagined Camelot so detailed Felicity expected to see knights rushing out to slay dragons. All scaled down, but regal nonetheless.

  Above the castle rendering was a copper crest, a sword held in the claws of a golden chimera. Below was written:

  BELIEVED TO BE THE CREST OF ARTHUR BASED ON SEVERAL WRITINGS

  A creature of Greek mythology, the chimera had the head and body of a lion and a goat’s head rising out of its back with a serpent for a tail. The monster destroyed lands with its breath of fire until slain by the Greek hero Bellerophon as he rode the mighty Pegasus. In heraldry, it symbolized good over evil.

  Directly across from the exhibit entrance was an empty space near the wall. Felicity walked to the spot. Speckles of broken glass lined the baseboard. She speculated that this was the location of the glass case that had held the stolen manuscript.

  The curator’s face inflamed. “His lordship was shot with some type of projectile. His body crashed into the glass case containing the irreplaceable document he had loaned to the museum.”

  “Le Morte d’Arthur.”

  “Why, yes. The Times made no mention of the title.”

  “Just a guess. Was the manuscript opened to a certain page?”

  He answered with a nod. “The one describing how Arthur had received the sword Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake.”

  William Kent had read that passage in class. He had told the students how the Lady of the Lake had captured his heart. Her presence was woven throughout not only Malory’s writings but other previous tellings of the story. She gave Arthur Excalibur. Merlin loved her. She raised Lancelot after the death of his father, naming him Lancelot du Lac—of the lake. When Arthur was mortally wounded in battle, the Lady and her sisters carried him away to the mythical isle of Avalon and into fame. In the different tales of Arthur, she had many names, Nimue among them. She was portrayed as both an enchantress and a woman. To Kent she was one woman—all women. Spirit and flesh. He could not help but love the thought of her.

  Felicity pushed down her sorrow. She needed more details. Glancing up at the curator, he appeared more confused than ever by her questions. His bewilderment pleased her. Normally men expected her to be a vacant female, but she loved to surprise them with what she knew. Pure vanity on her part, but pride in her mind was better than in her looks. At least, that was her justification.

  Facing the entrance to the room, she estimated the distance at fifty feet. That would give the murderer a clear shot and cleaner getaway.

  On the wall above hung a painting as tall as she. A black cloth had been draped over it. Moving away the cloth to look underneath, she saw an exquisite thirteenth-century painting of the Lady of the Lake handing Excalibur to Arthur. Unlike other paintings showing only the lady’s hand rising out of the water, this one revealed a beautiful creature with wispy hair and serene beauty. When Arthur took the sword, he was really reaching for his destiny.

  “We covered it out of respect for his lordship’s passing,” the curator said.

  “Lord Kent loaned the painting to the museum so patrons could enjoy the work of art. Perhaps it is important they see the artwork to remember him and his love for King Arthur.”

  “That had not occurred to me. You might have a point.” He nodded with decision. “I shall have the cloth removed.”

  “An excellent choice.” She wanted a closer study of the crime scene without the curator watching. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, Mr. Foxborough. Please continue your work, and I will be in touch about the donation. You have been very generous with your attention. Before you leave, may I have a list of guests who attended the exhibit’s reception?”

  “For what reason?”

  “As a remembrance of Lord Kent to place in a keepsake book.” She batted her eyes in feminine innocence. “It would mean the world to me.” More batting.

  “Of course.”

  “By the way, did you know all the people in attendance that night?”

  “Not all, but Lord Kent did. He helped prepare the list, in fact. I do look forward to hearing from you about your gift to the museum.” He looked up at the veiled painting. “Everyone at the museum is devastated about his lordship’s death. So horrific, especially the other thing.”

  “What other thing, sir?”

  He leaned into her and whispered, “The word he wrote as he lay dying. Written in his own … blood.”

  This detail had not been mentioned in any newspaper story about Kent’s murder, nor at the inquest. “What did he write?”

  “Not a word really.”

  “Please spell it.”

  “M-e-d-r-a.”

  “Medra?”

  “Police said his bloodied finger lay at the end of the ‘a.’ Dreadful, like out of a cheap penny dreadful novel.”

  “Mr. Foxborough, forgive my inquisitiveness, but one more question. Was his lordship wearing his hat and coat when he was killed?”

  The curator’s perplexity returned. “He must have been carrying them when he was attacked. They were on the floor beside him.”

  “Was there a coat room for the reception?”

  “There.” He pointed to a small door at the end of the exhibit hall.

  Felicity tapped her foot at the revealing fact. William Kent had had his hat and coat and was leaving the exhibition. How could he have caught the thief in the act of stealing?

  She smiled at the curator. “Thank you again, sir, but you must have a lot of work to do.”

  “I could stay …”

  She held up one of her gloved hands. “I wouldn’t think of imposing myself on you any further. I will remain here and soak in all of this delightful Arthurian splendor. You will receive my donation soon.”

  He gave a slight bow and left.

  Her veins pumped excitement at the prospect of searching the chaos for clues about who had killed William Kent. She had prepared for this moment. For the past two days, she had read many copies of The Illustrated Police News, Law Courts and Weekly Record to learn how the police investigated crimes. Frequently sporting lurid drawings on the cover, the penny newspaper reported details of murders and other wrongdoings and how they had been solved, if indeed they were. Granted, the reporting was sensationalized, but she considered the information comprehensive, helpful, and a bit depressing. She had truly lived a protected life behind her family’s wealth. William Kent was the first person she knew who had died by someone else’s hand.

  Out of her bag, Felicity drew a magnifying glass to allow her to see what was hidden from the human eye. She also carried tweezers to pick up any evidence without touching it and envelopes in which to place the clues—if she discovered any, that is. She had read about using the glass and envelopes in various Illustrated Police News articles.

  Through the magnifying glass, she examined the wall around and under the painting, inch by inch. Only an older couple was in the exhibition hall at the time, and they would probably attribute these odd actions to her being a zealous Arthur enthusiast. She hoped so, at least.

  Just to the right of the painting was a square groove in the wall. Under her magnifying glass, blood spots spread out from the indentation. What did this evidence show? The projectile had gone through Kent’s body with great force. This was indicated by the depth of the hole in the wall, and the blood spots shaped like rain smashing against a windowpane during a deluge. Museum staff had apparently tried to clean up the blood, but blood was difficult to remove because of the proteins that made it coagulate.

  But why had the killer removed the projectile?

  The mark in the wall was not a slit from an arrow nor round like a bullet hole. The square cavity measured
about an inch on each side. She placed her little finger into the hole. The indentation went downward at what felt like a seventy-degree angle. Felicity straightened. In her stockings, she was a little over five feet. William Kent had stood only a few inches above her. The killer must have been taller than Kent, given the angle of the projectile’s impact in the wall.

  She pushed back her hat. Really, not much data for a start. A tall man who knew enough about the Arthur legend to steal the most valuable item in the room. She touched the mark in the wall again. The murderous object had had power enough to pierce a man’s body, break the glass case holding the manuscript, and stick into the wall. All this at a relatively short distance. Only a few weapons were capable of that force and accuracy.

  “Of course,” she said out loud.

  Felicity hurried out of the hall and found a guard. “Excuse me, do you have display of crossbows?”

  He directed her to the exhibit of medieval weapons on the first floor of the museum. Old muskets, lances, javelins, daggers, swords, and really everything else that could kill a person had a place in the exhibit. On another wall was a copy of Leonard da Vinci’s drawing of a crossbow from about 1500. A specimen dating back to fifth-century Greece lay under a glass case. The long wooden implement was elegant and deadly.

  Various types of crossbows hung in a line on the back wall. Felicity checked out each of the historic weapons that had been mounted with hooks. A crossbow on one end of the display appeared slightly off-kilter, as if it had been put back in haste. The crossbow was the type where a lever pulled back the string to load the weapon.

  In an open case below were a collection of bolts, the metal projectiles used in crossbows. The bolts came in shorter, thicker, and heavier than arrows.

  With the magnifying glass, she studied each of the bolts. Even set on a bed of red velvet, they were violent-looking things, some with barbs at the end. They showed rust and age, all except the last bolt in the line. One end formed a square, and the tip came to a sharp point. The square appeared to match the dimensions of the hole in the hall upstairs. Dried blood streaked the body of the bolt and the velvet where it lay. Looking around to make sure no one watched, she picked up the bolt in her gloved hands for a closer examination in the sunlight coming from a large window overhead. Turning it around, she saw there were red streaks on it, as if the killer had attempted to wipe off the blood. Although the stains were mere traces, the bolt felt hefty in her hand. It had been used to kill. Her mind hummed with questions, but she did have one answer.