She, Felicity Margaret Carrol, had found the murder weapon.
CHAPTER 7
Helen stood by the door, her hands tangled together in nervousness.
“Don’t be frightened, Hellie. The police aren’t going to arrest me,” Felicity said. “At least, I don’t think they will.”
“Oh, Miss Felicity.” The tangle tightened.
After Felicity made her discovery, she had asked the museum curator to summon the Metropolitan Police. They arrived quicker than she had expected while she waited in the medieval weapons exhibition hall. She asked Helen to sit on a bench outside to rest.
A constable and a young man in respectable street clothes entered. Clad in a dark-blue, high-collared tunic and familiar helmet, the constable stopped and stood by the door. The other man continued on toward Felicity, staring straight at her with brown eyes and an expression that almost shouted that he was not happy to be there. His black hair wasn’t as well-groomed as that of the rich young men she had met at those unbearable social events, but his suit was well cut and his shoes a shiny black. Six feet with muscles filling out his jacket, he was handsome in the way of a man who didn’t care if he was or not. He had the square jaw of a Shakespearean actor. His eyes betrayed a concentrated intelligence with a hint of cheekiness.
“Inspector Jackson Griggs Davies, Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard,” he said, almost as if throwing down a verbal gauntlet.
She had read his name in the newspaper articles about Kent’s murder, and she couldn’t help but stare at him. He was the first Scotland Yard inspector she had ever seen. “That is quite a name and title.”
Even his grimace was interesting.
“I meant it as a compliment, Inspector.”
“Who are you?”
“Felicity Carrol.”
The inspector did not greet her with the customary bow of a gentleman to a lady, and she found that incredibly refreshing. A curtsy had always made her feel more subservient than polite.
From his jacket, he took out a thick pencil and a notebook with a black cover and wrote down her name. The cover was worn and the pencil short, which told her he was a careful man who took lots of notes on his cases.
“The museum curator said you had new information on the murder of Lord William Kent.”
“No mere information, Inspector. I have found the murder weapon,” Felicity said with gravity, and then pointed to the deadly bolt she had replaced in the case.
Davies didn’t even look at it. “Miss Carrol, many officers combed the museum inside and out for many days searching for the murder weapon. What makes you believe you have found the object that killed Lord Kent?”
Davies eyed her up and down, though not in a lascivious manner. She recognized lasciviousness because she had been stared at like that before. His scan was more one of exasperation at a woman who claimed to have accomplished what Scotland Yard could not.
The inspector leaned over her, no doubt to try to intimidate her because of his height and position, she guessed. She did take in a whiff of excessively ripe pipe tobacco.
“You some kind of female reporter?” he asked.
“If I may …”
“The Morning Chronicle had one about ten years ago.”
“But …”
“If you are a reporter, this will be a totally different conversation.”
“I’m no news reporter. I am a concerned citizen and a friend of the late Lord Kent.”
“Oh, well, that explains everything then.” He smiled with derision. “And let me tell you this, it will go down very hard on you, Miss Carrol, if you are wasting my time.”
“Inspector …”
“I’ve got more important things to do than listen to a young girl’s fantasies about being a detective.”
He spoke with an East End accent, though it was a tad more refined. As was common with the speech pattern, he didn’t drop the “h’s” as much as let them dangle with menace. The glottal stops common in the East End style of speaking were more like pauses with the inspector.
Felicity held out her hand to him. “If you would please stop interrupting me, I will tell you about my find.”
The constable standing near the door chuckled. The inspector turned and threw the officer a stare that could have melted pig iron.
Davies took a step back from Felicity and stretched out his large hands. “Go ahead, Miss Carrol. I’m all aquiver to hear your erudition in crime solving.”
“This afternoon while inspecting the scene of the murder, I noticed an indentation in the wall above the spot where the body was found.”
“We are well aware of the mark.” He placed his hands behind his back. “We do our jobs.”
“What did you think it was?”
His eyes searched the heavens with irritation. “A projectile of some sort fired by a weapon we have not yet uncovered.” He took out a large scratched silver watch from his coat, checked the time, and tapped one of his feet.
“I deduced something other than an arrow was used.”
“Deduced?”
“That means I came to the conclusion by reasoning.”
“I’m quite familiar with the definition. Get on to your point.”
“For a while I thought your head might come to a point, too, Inspector.” Felicity’s smile toyed with the tease.
He made a slight growling noise, so she thought she had better continue. “The mark in the wall was square, larger, and deeper than that an arrow would have made.”
“I’m listening.”
“The form and depth of the indentation in the wall and the distance between the killer and the victim led me to believe a crossbow was the murder weapon. I came down to the medieval weapons exhibition and noticed the last crossbow was crooked, as if it had been replaced in a hurry.”
He examined the crossbow. “Maybe.”
“What better way to hide a murder weapon than in the sight of the public?” Felicity said. “Given that the crossbow was the weapon used on his lordship, it was only logical to inspect the displayed bolts. That’s when I spotted the one with streaks of blood.”
“Maybe that’s blood from an old battle,” Davies replied, but immediately made a face signaling he realized at once the silliness of his remark. The inspector pushed his pencil down hard on his notebook.
Although she disliked his condescending treatment of her observations, Felicity did not want to embarrass the man in front of the constable in the room. She leaned closer to him and whispered, “Old blood would be a darker color, Inspector. In addition, there are smears on the velvet mat where the bolt was returned to the case.”
“You know this how?” He did not whisper. “I mean about blood and all.”
“From my medical studies through the University of London. But Inspector, the point is that a bolt of this type shot from a crossbow would have pierced the chainmail of a knight.”
“That so?”
“I also studied history, among other subjects.”
He picked up the bolt with his bare hands, and she clicked her tongue. “Aren’t you worried about obliterating fingerprints of the killer, Inspector? When I touched it, I wore gloves.” Felicity had made it a point to study not only current police procedures, which she found wanting scientifically, but also the newest methods of investigation, such as fingerprint comparisons.
“Fingerprints aren’t used by police.”
“They should be. Seven years ago, Scottish surgeon Henry Faulds published a paper about utilizing fingerprints for personal identification and how they could also help catch criminals.”
“Never heard of no fingerprints solving a crime, Miss Carrol.”
His smile irritated Felicity.
“May I bring to your attention that as early as 1879, Dr. Faulds actually solved a burglary in Japan by comparing the fingerprints of two suspects left at the crime scene.”
“Japan? Faulds?”
“The prints on the bolt might give you a clue as to wh
o shot the crossbow at William Kent.” She grew irritated with herself for sounding a bit desperate. Trying to convince this man of anything was like attempting to move Windsor Castle with a silver pie server. She knew she had lost him when he replaced the notebook in his jacket pocket.
“Obviously, a robber stabbed Lord Kent with a sharp object,” he announced.
“Excuse me.” She took the bolt from him. “Let’s see if this fits the bill, or rather the hole in the wall.”
Felicity walked out of the weapons display room and upstairs. Davies and the constable followed. Felicity gave Helen a reassuring smile as she passed, though the two Scotland Yard officials were on her tail.
In the King Arthur exhibition hall, Felicity placed the bolt into the wall. The fit was perfect.
“Unless I am horribly wrong, which I doubt, you will find the bolt also matches the dimensions of the wound in Kent’s chest,” she said.
The inspector tried it himself, growled again, though quietly, and asked the constable to take the bolt as evidence. The officer grabbed it and placed the bolt in his pocket.
“All right, all right. So you may have discovered what killed Lord Kent,” he said. “’Course, to be sure, we’ll have to see if it does match the wound.”
She tried not to smile with satisfaction.
“If you’re not a reporter, you a scientist?” the inspector asked.
“I’m not Augusta Ada King-Noel, Countess of Lovelace, if that’s what you mean.”
He grimaced. “Who in the blazes is she, and what does she have to do with this investigation?”
Felicity needed a good strong cup of tea at this point. “I was merely saying that while I have studied science, I am not a scientist per se, nor do I make my living as one. And for your edification, the Countless of Lovelace was a mathematician who worked on the analytic machine.”
“I’m not even going to ask about that.”
“Good thing.” She dared to smile.
“Why were you even here in the first place?”
“I am going to make a donation to the museum.”
The curator, who had followed everyone into the exhibition hall, nodded his head in agreement.
“I also wanted to see where my good friend was murdered.” Her voice snagged with emotion, but she couldn’t let it deter her from the challenge she had set for herself.
“That sounds a little morbid to me,” Inspector Davies said.
“I want to find the man who killed him.”
“Scotland Yard wants the very same thing.”
“Then don’t you find it extremely strange, Inspector, that the person who killed William Kent stole only the Le Morte d’Arthur?”
“The what?”
“The Death of Arthur, a famous manuscript.”
“Right.”
“And nothing else, not even the gold in his pockets, according to what I read in the Times,” she said.
“You can’t believe everything you read in the newspaper, Miss.”
“Oh, then did the killer steal William Kent’s money?”
“No.”
This time she smiled with triumph. “Tell me, Inspector Davies, what kind of thief leaves gold and other valuables lying around? What kind of thief steals just one unique historical document?”
“Some thieves do specialize in antiquities, Miss.”
Her eyes brightened with the potential lead. “Really? I was not aware of that. I would like to talk to them.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” The inspector frowned again, as if the observation had not occurred to him until that moment. The moment passed. “We’re done here. Where can we contact you if we have more questions?”
She gave them the address to the London house.
“Nice location, Miss.”
“Not if you live there.”
“What?”
“Never mind. See here, Inspector, there are a voluminous number of unanswered questions in the murder of William Kent, so many they would pack this museum.” Her hands shot out, the left one striking him on the chest. “Sorry, Inspector, but you can see how passionate I am about this.”
“That could amount to assaulting an officer.”
She peered at his face. “I can’t tell if you are joking.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a smile and faded as quickly. “It would be my pleasure to arrest you another time, Miss Carrol. As for your many questions, only one counts.” His accent thickened.
“Who killed him?”
“You are clever as well as nice to look at.”
“And you cut a fine figure as well, but your flattery is unnecessary and unwanted.”
He full-on smiled, but only for a moment. “Simply being honest, Miss.”
She wondered if his smiles ever lasted more than a few seconds.
“From your self-proclaimed expertise about the crime scene, maybe you killed his lordship, Miss Carrol.” He pointed the tip of his finger at her.
She could not tell if he was jesting or not again, and it bothered her that she could not read this man. “I was at my house in Surrey and have many witnesses to that fact. May I ask where you were on the night he was killed, Inspector Davies?”
“I have witnesses, too, Miss.” He straightened so hard she thought his back might crack.
“Fine, we both have alibis, Inspector Davies. So what about the word the victim wrote in his own blood? Medra.”
Davies turned his head toward the curator and shook it with displeasure. “We didn’t want that particular item publicized because we considered the detail too sensational. A name in blood and all. Besides, Miss Carrol, who can tell what thoughts went through the mind of a dying man?”
“Maybe he was writing the name of the killer.”
“Scotland Yard considered the possibility but could find no such man. We’re still looking. So we’re not as completely incompetent as you may think.”
“I didn’t say that, Inspector. I may have been thinking it, however.”
“Thank you for your help, Miss Carrol, but the police will take over from here.” He returned to his police manner, a mass of rules and no imagination.
“But …”
“Good day.”
Felicity was shooed out of the room as she had been so many times by her father. She clinched her teeth and swiveled around but took on an unruffled demeanor. “Inspector Davies, the killer stood almost a head taller than the victim, gauging from the angle of the bolt mark in the wall. Most telling is that William Kent’s hat and coat were found near his body, meaning he was going home when he was killed. If the culprit only wanted the Le Morte d’Arthur manuscript, he would have waited for Lord Kent to leave and then pilfered the item with no witnesses. Why would a thief kill a man if he didn’t have to? Chew on that, Inspector.” She gave an exaggerated curtsy and departed.
The inspector muttered behind her, “I’ll be damned.”
* * *
The grim reaper could have been waiting inside, enjoying a pint, and twiddling bony fingers until called upon. In other words, the building was dismal and efficient as death. The ideal location for the London coroner.
Felicity balled up her gloves with guilt. Back at the London house, she had lied to Helen. Specifically, Felicity had told her friend she was going to a dressmaker for the fitting of a new gown for a ball her father had coerced her into attending. Felicity’s real destination would have caused the older woman much worry.
She had no time for guilt. Felicity took a few breaths and entered the coroner’s building. Gaining the information she required might be a problem. She had no official title or authority.
“Oh well.” Self-assurance and determination would have to do, as much as she could muster or fake them, at any rate.
Though grime rested in the corners, the office was tidy. Death, however, coated the walls like paint. An odor piercing and dull simultaneously. Felicity had gotten used to the smell of mortality while attending anatomy classes at the medical school in London. T
he corpses wheeled in for dissection had been kept cool to slow decomposition, but the stench lingered in her nose like a bad dream from which she couldn’t wake. The bouquet of rot and finality, she called it. Chemically, the smell originated from the compounds putrescine and cadaverine, which were produced from decomposing amino acids in dead animals. Such was the scientific explanation, one she could even draw out on a blackboard in a chemical equation. Although she had to remain neutral about the bluish-white cadaver on the metal table in class, she still thought about how the decay had once been a human being. What was their life like before the end? What did they think and feel? But the essence of the person had left and all that remained was the putrefying shell.
A clerk with red cheeks and mousy, accusing eyes watched her every step as she approached his desk.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Miss.” His breath was that of a raw chicken left out in the sun.
Felicity attempted to sound capable but friendly. “I would like to read the coroner’s report on the late Earl William Kent.”
She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but his eyes tightened. “Why?”
“That is no concern of yours, sir.”
“You a suffragette?”
“No, are you?”
Why did everyone ask her if she was something other than what she was—a person who wanted to find out who had killed her friend?
“I need to check with my supervisor.” The clerk sniffed and wiped at his nose with a dingy handkerchief. He walked into a small office, where an older man sat at a larger desk. They started talking—certainly about her request.
In her studies, Felicity had read many a medical book, but few about the impact of violence on the human body. That most certainly included murder. To fill the gap and ready herself for the investigation, she had stayed up nights to read the sixteenth-century work by French army surgeon Ambroise Paré, who had studied the effect of violent death on organs. She had also read A Treatise on Forensic Medicine and Public Health by French doctor Francois Emmanuel Fodéré, published in 1798. Fodéré had described forensic medicine as the art of applying medicine to the law, criminal and civil. She liked that explanation.
Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit Page 6
