Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  The place where Felicity now sat had no chandeliers or white aprons. In their stead were grubby gaslights and gravy-smudged shirts on waiters. Located a few blocks from the coroner’s building, the café was about the size of the foyer at Carrol Manor. Dusky wood enclosed the eatery. The stink of grease and smoke was embedded in the walls. Cloths worn from washing covered round wooden tables. Pans clanged in the kitchen. Diners at their tables chatted so loudly Felicity could have probably carried on a conversation with them as well as with the inspector. The place was alive.

  “I like this cafe,” she told Davies, who sat across from her at a table.

  “Me too.”

  She took off her hat and gloves. “You must come here often after examining murder victims in the mortuary. You probably don’t want to go home to an empty house because you live alone. You want the company of the living.” She held out her hands as if to enfold the café. “The food is probably good as well as inexpensive. I am not sure what wage an inspector earns, but I guess not much. But you’re ambitious and smart.”

  He smiled. “You a mind reader or something?”

  “They are from my observations of you.” She sipped her coffee, which was flavorful and strong. “The barman waved at you when we walked in, so you must be a regular customer. You have no wedding ring, and when we met at the museum I noticed an iron burn on the front of your shirt. No wife or mother would have let you out of the house with such a mark. Therefore, you probably ironed the shirt yourself.”

  He looked down at his shirt.

  “No mark today,” she said. “But your hair needs a trim. Your top coat is fairly decent but your shoes less so. You smoke a pipe and take lots of notes in your black notebook. Given your accent, you hail from the East End. Coming from that poorer part of London, you must have fortitude and intelligence to have earned the rank of Scotland Yard inspector at your age. Ah, twenty-four.”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Did I miss anything?” she asked.

  “I’ll be.” Davies rested back in his chair.

  “All from observation.”

  “I’m in that line myself. So it’s my turn to list what I’ve found out about you.”

  “Oh, my. I have never been investigated before. By all means, tell me about myself.”

  From his jacket, he pulled out the notebook. “Felicity Margaret Carrol, the unmarried and only daughter of Samuel Reuter Carrol. Your father is the owner of Carrol Shipping London, Carrol Mills in Cheshire, and about five thousand acres of land near Surrey.”

  “Close to eleven, really. Sorry.”

  “My mistake. You took courses in medicine, history, chemistry, and mathematics and all sorts of other subjects at the University of London. Impressive. And that’s where you met the late William Kent.”

  “What can I say? I love to learn.”

  “Any university degrees? I couldn’t find out that information.”

  “Only in medicine and history.”

  He wrote it down in the notebook.

  A short waiter arrived to take their food order, but Davies waved him back. “You have been described as brilliant and tenacious, but you have never been in trouble with the law and have lived a quiet life. That is, until we met.” The inspector closed his notebook.

  “I am flattered you spent so much time looking into my life. You could have just asked me.”

  He straightened his shirt. “Want my opinion about why you’re meddling in my cases?”

  “I don’t believe I can escape it.” She smiled.

  “I believe you are a rich, bored know-it-all putting her nose where it doesn’t belong for a lark.” His tone was light but solemn.

  She put down her coffee cup. “You are absolutely wrong, Inspector Davies.”

  “Am I?” His smile was edged with sarcasm.

  “I shall tell you why I am, as you call it, sticking my nose in your case.”

  “This had better be good.” He sipped his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “William Kent was no mere acquaintance. He was a dear friend to me while I attended the university. He encouraged me to continue my education while other men suggested I hide under petticoats and behind fans.” Suddenly, the noisy café quieted—all in her mind, probably—as she hoped to make this man understand. “William Kent gave me so much, and I want to give something back.”

  “Like what?”

  “By helping find the man who killed him so brutally.”

  Inspector Davies said nothing for a bit. “I should have added frankness to my list of your characteristics.”

  She laughed. “I never thought of myself as having characteristics. That makes me sound quite nefarious, like Lucrezia Borgia or at the very least the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland.”

  “I’ll add sense of humor to the list as well. So about the fail thing you called the murder weapon.”

  “Flail, Inspector.” A thought occurred. “There is a wonderful example of one at the British Museum.”

  He checked a clock on the wall. “It’s past seven and we haven’t had dinner.”

  “Surely the guard will let in a Scotland Yard inspector.”

  He asked for the check. They took a cab to the museum. Felicity stayed quiet to give the inspector time to mull over her deduction.

  “Why do you think the murders are connected?” he asked after a while.

  “Because William was killed by a crossbow, a weapon from the Middle Ages, and Viscount Richard Banbury killed by a flail. Obviously, the murderer is obsessed with that period.” She took a breath. “Both items taken were related to the legend of King Arthur. The manuscript is considered a literary foundation of the Arthur legend. And the tapestry portrayed the king. Nothing else was stolen except those items.”

  He crossed his arms again. “So what does that tell you?”

  “The same man must have killed William Kent and Banbury. The killer could have waited for the viscount to go to bed and stolen the tapestry, but no. He slams him with a flail. Sound familiar? He followed his own twisted protocol. He kills and then steals. Not the other way around.”

  “He probably doesn’t want any witnesses.”

  “Then why not wait for Lord Banbury to retire or William Kent to merely go home?”

  Davies placed his hand on his mouth as if to stop himself from saying something. He sat back in the seat of the carriage. Felicity let him meditate on the information.

  “I have one other item of interest.” From her handbag she produced the list of the forty-two people who had been invited to the King Arthur reception at the museum held the night of Kent’s murder. She had memorized all the names.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “I asked for it.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I thought it might be a good place to commence my investigation.”

  “Your investigation?”

  “The list was only a beginning, Inspector. Besides, Lord Banbury’s name wasn’t there.”

  “So?”

  “I thought the killer might be stalking people interested in King Arthur relics, based on his thefts from William and Lord Banbury.”

  “Then that would have to mean the murderer was there, too.” He glanced over the names. “This looks like a bunch of peers and rich people. Not thieves and murderers.”

  Her shoulders fell a bit with disappointment. “I’m afraid you might be correct.” Still, she had sent a copy to Morton & Morton asking the firm to prepare short biographies on the attendees.

  “Did you really think the killer attended the reception, Miss Carrol?”

  “More like I hoped.”

  He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. A sign he is taking me seriously, she thought.

  At the museum, Inspector Davies knocked on the front door until a guard answered. He identified himself and said he was coming in with such gravity that the guard did not make any objections.

  “I noticed the flail when I came looking for the c
rossbows,” Felicity said when they were inside.

  The guard led them by lantern to the medieval weapons exhibition and turned on the gaslights. A flail was displayed in a glass case. The weapon was as Felicity had described. An iron ball with spikes attached to a heavy wooden handle by a chain.

  “This isn’t the murder weapon, is it?” The question slipped from Davies.

  Felicity didn’t have to draw out the magnifying glass from her purse. “Not at all, Inspector. The spikes on this one appear to be approximately one inch long. Based on the wounds on the viscount’s body, the spikes were twice that size and there weren’t as many of them.”

  Inspector Davies rubbed both hands over his face. “My God. You’re right. The inquest into Lord Banbury’s death will be held tomorrow. I’m going to have to present this evidence and say how I came to the conclusion.”

  “Please don’t mention my name, Inspector Davies. I beg of you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I would rather my family not know about my activities in this matter.” Particularly her father. Otherwise, he might cut off or restrict the money she needed to continue the investigation. She would tell her father when the case had been resolved and the murderer in prison.

  “The flail was your discovery, Miss Carrol.”

  “Say it came to you in a dream or that you noticed the weapon the last time you visited the museum. Even better, say the information came from a confidential informant.” She had read about those in the newspapers. “I’ll bet Mr. Foxborough the curator will even let you borrow this flail as an example.”

  Davies smiled. “I’ll bet he will.”

  “Please, keep my name out of it?”

  “I promise. It’s the most I can do.”

  They stepped out of the museum. Davies pointed to a food vendor a little ways down the street. “Look, you’ve had no supper and I’m hungry as well.”

  “Then by all means, let’s eat.”

  From the vendor, Davies purchased two ham sandwiches, two boiled eggs, and two cups of coffee. They stood next to the cart while they ate.

  “This is quite good,” she said. “My first food vendor.”

  “Only the best for you, Miss Carrol.” He finished his sandwich and wiped his hands.

  “Inspector, why did you become a police officer?”

  Surprise looked good on him. “No one’s ever asked me that before. Not even my mum and dad.”

  “Then it was high time someone did.”

  “You were right, I did grow up in the East End. Lots of bad things happen there, and I saw plenty. But my dad and mum kept the bad out of our house. They taught me and my brothers always to appreciate the good in life. And that good is worth protecting.”

  “And so it is. I have another question.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Were you always this grim, Inspector?”

  For the first time, he gave a smile that lasted more than a few seconds. “I’ll tell you about my first day on the job as a constable. I was so proud of my new uniform.”

  “I bet you cut quite the figure.”

  “I thought I did. My mum thought so, too. Anyway, I’m patrolling in the East End. Taking myself very seriously, probably more than the people there. Then, a skinny man runs past me. Behind me, another man yells, ‘Stop him, Constable! He stole my money. Stop that thief.’ So I chased the bloke through the streets.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “I spun around a corner, slipped on the street, and fell right on my backside into a pile of horse manure.”

  She laughed. He joined her, and they both had to wipe the tears from their eyes with the napkins.

  “I bet nothing like that ever happened to you,” he said.

  “Inspector Davies, did I ever mention how I blew up part of my house?” she replied.

  “No, but I would like to hear it.”

  She told the story about her laboratory accident, the fire, and her homemade bomb to save the rest of the manor from that fire.

  “I always knew you were a born criminal,” Davies said.

  She laughed. “I suppose that’s a kind of compliment.”

  “I have another. You have been a help today, Miss Carrol. Thank you.” The last two words sounded as if they had lodged in the inspector’s throat like a piece of his sandwich.

  “You are very welcome.”

  “Now do I have your promise that you will stay out of this case?” Davies said.

  “I cannot make such a promise. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  He stopped short. “Then you best not hide any evidence you stumble across or get in my way.”

  “I don’t stumble.” She would not mention her visit to the Banbury crime scene. She and the inspector were having such a pleasant time. She didn’t want to ruin it by having him get mad again.

  Davies insisted on riding home in the cab with her though Felicity said she was capable of riding alone.

  “Am I really a know-it-all?” she asked him.

  He gave a curt nod. “It’s quite maddening, because you do seem to know an awful lot.”

  “By the way, Inspector. Judging by the location of the wound on Lord Banbury’s head, the killer is right-handed. But you probably already knew that.”

  He made no reply, but the grinding of his teeth sounded like boots on concrete.

  CHAPTER 11

  For the second time, Melinda O’Keefe fainted in the witness box.

  The surgeon rushed to the fallen girl with a capsule of smelling salts. He placed one hand under her neck and with the other he broke open the capsule, releasing alcohol and ammonia into a piece of cotton fabric. He waved the cloth under the nose of the waifish serving girl.

  The coroner’s inquest into the death of Viscount Richard Banbury halted while the serving girl revived one more time. With the salts, her eyes fluttered to normalcy. Standing, she brushed aside pieces of her red hair that had drifted down from her small hat when she swooned.

  “Are you well enough to proceed?” asked the coroner of the City of London.

  She nodded.

  The coroner rotated his gray eyes under the bushiest of brows. This was the liveliest Felicity had seen him during the proceedings, where she and Helen sat in the gallery with ten other people. For most of the morning, he had come off as half dead one moment and half asleep the other. His skin was paler than a typical London resident, with hair slicked down as if pomaded for a journey into the grave. His voice sounded like it struggled out of ten feet under dirt. He tapped a pen against his desk.

  “Tell us what you saw, Miss O’Keefe,” the coroner asked the serving girl.

  Melinda gripped the sides of the witness box where she sat and took the deepest of breaths. “Well, sir, I went down to Master’s den at five in the morning to clean out the fireplace, as is my duty. I didn’t knock because I believed the Master was in bed. Then I entered.”

  “And what did you find?”

  The serving girl’s teeth clicked like senseless crickets. Felicity thought the girl might pass out for a third time, but Melinda sucked in more air.

  “The first thing I noticed was blood on the right side of the wall. Splatters of it.”

  Felicity sat forward.

  “I took a few more steps into the room, and I saw Lord Banbury slumped over in his chair. His head was awash in blood.” Her tiny face recoiled with tears. “Blood soaked his favorite chair and spread out all over the floor. I will never get that sight out of my mind.” She covered her wet face with her hands and wept anew.

  Sitting at a separate table, three male newspaper reporters scribbled down the quote. People in the gallery muttered in disgust. The coroner tapped his pen again to quiet them down.

  “Was Lord Banbury dead when you entered?” the coroner asked.

  “Can’t say, sir. I screamed bloody hell and ran out of the room.”

  Someone snickered. The coroner widened his eyes to search for the culprit but apparently didn’t spot him. He returned his attent
ion to Melinda O’Keefe. “Did you witness any person entering or leaving the house before your discovery of the body?”

  “No, sir.”

  The coroner told the serving girl he had no more questions. Shaky on her feet, she hurried out of the hall. “Let us continue with the surgeon who conducted the postmortem.”

  Coroners had the power to call for an inquest with a jury to investigate suspicious deaths and then determine the circumstance and the cause of the death, or so Felicity had read in stories in The Illustrated Police News. The inquest into the viscount’s murder was taking place in the Coroners Court building on Golden Lane. The jury of men had been selected from voting lists, and they earned a few shillings for the job. Earlier in the proceedings, the jury and coroner had walked down the street to inspect the body in the coroner’s mortuary.

  Taking the stand was the surgeon who had a few moments ago helped the serving girl after her bout of fainting. The witness portrayed the word eminence with his refined clothes and manner, as if he realized his superiority over all the living in the room.

  “The cause of death was massive blood loss from a severe head wound to the right side of his head.” The surgeon did sound a bit bored. “Extremely severe.”

  “In your opinion, what was the time of death?” the coroner asked.

  “Lord Banbury died an estimated seven hours before the serving girl found the body.”

  “No other injuries to the body?”

  “Apparently one blow was enough.”

  Six servants then took turns testifying that they had neither seen nor heard any person enter or leave the manor the night of the murder or the next morning before the body was found. Only Melinda the serving girl and a cook said they had been awake when the killing occurred, but both resided in the servants’ wing in the back part of the large manor.

  Mr. Macmillan the butler, who appeared to have aged even more since Felicity had spoken with him, repeated the information she already knew. Priceless tapestry. No prior burglaries. House unlocked.

  Sitting up in the gallery, Felicity asked and answered her own question. How had the killer even known about the valuable tapestry? He must have previously scouted the viscount’s home. He knew the location of the tapestry as well as the fact that the doors were never locked at night.