Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  Wearing a new gray suit, Inspector Jackson Davies took the witness chair. His face was rigid as he answered the coroner’s queries. “No murder weapon has been located in the den or anywhere on the grounds at the residence. A complete search of the premises inside and out was conducted by several Metropolitan Police officers.”

  “And as for the likely weapon, do you have any speculation?” the coroner asked.

  Davies licked his lips with uncertainty before he answered. “We suspect the killing tool used was a flail.”

  The panel and coroner were as baffled as Davies had been when Felicity told the inspector about the medieval weapon.

  “I have an example right here.” From a brown cloth bag, Davies proceeded to pull out the flail the museum had let him borrow. “I believe a weapon like this killed Viscount Richard Banbury.” His voice lowered.

  A collective gasp came from people in the audience.

  “How did you come up with this outstanding assumption?” the coroner asked.

  “Based on the wounds of the deceased. They are similar to those a flail would make, sir. I would not be wrong to say this weapon makes a distinctive mark on a body.”

  “What are you doing to attempt to find the weapon, Inspector Davies?”

  “We’re planning to speak with dealers who handle antiquities such as these,” Davies replied.

  Felicity bit her lip. The idea had not occurred to her.

  “Anything stolen from the premises?” the coroner asked.

  “Only a tapestry dated 1325 and worth several thousand pounds, sir.”

  “Any suspects, Inspector Davies?”

  “Not at this time.”

  The coroner wiped his pale nose with a handkerchief. “So, Inspector Davies, please tell the panel your conclusions about this death.”

  The inspector contemplated the flail he held in his hands. His eyes went to the panel of men sitting on wooden seats on one side of the wall and then flashed up at Felicity sitting in the gallery.

  The coroner rapped the end of his pen on the desk. “Inspector?”

  “I conclude that Viscount Richard Banbury was murdered during the commission of a robbery. A burglar was stealing the tapestry when the Viscount discovered him. The thief then killed his lordship.”

  “Any other relevant information on this case, Inspector?” asked the coroner.

  “No, sir.”

  Felicity stood up from her seat.

  “We leaving, Miss?” Helen whispered into her ear so as to not disrupt the proceedings. “The panel hasn’t made their ruling.”

  “I’m sure it will echo the inspector’s conclusion. I’ve heard quite enough, and it amounts to a small pile of animal droppings.”

  * * *

  Inspector Jackson Davies called her name several times, but Felicity paid no heed. She quickened her step, as much as her skirts allowed, to hurry down the street to the carriage. Helen puffed to keep up. Felicity slowed her step for her friend.

  “Miss Carrol, wait,” Davies called from behind.

  Across the street was the smaller brown carriage she swore had followed her days before. As she walked nearer her carriage, the smaller one sped off. The same man sat in back. The one with the large nose. What was going on? Maybe she was becoming obsessed and seeing danger where there was none. No, it was not that. She was being followed and had been since she started her investigation.

  Felicity reached her carriage. “Forgive me for making you rush, Hellie.”

  “Good for these old legs,” Helen managed to say.

  Davies was also out of breath when he reached the carriage. He still held the bag containing the flail he had borrowed from the museum.

  “Please, Hellie. Get in first.” Felicity held out her hand to help Helen into the carriage.

  “Thanks, Miss.” Before taking Felicity’s arm, Helen tossed the inspector a fuming look before she stepped inside.

  “Why didn’t you stop when I called?” Davies asked Felicity.

  Felicity refused to reveal her high level of aggravation. A few years back, she had developed a trick she used whenever her father punished her for no good reason. That is, back when he even bothered to do so. She raised a shield of calmness and let his ire bounce back at him. Her father would get even angrier and halt the reprimand.

  But in addition to being angry at the inspector, she was hurt. Turning toward the young man, she wielded similar armor against him. “What can I do for you, Inspector Davies?” she answered in a composed manner.

  “You heard what I said. Why didn’t you stop and talk with me?” His cheeks flamed.

  “Except for the use of the flail as the murder weapon, you didn’t believe anything else I said. You dismissed my theory about a single murderer and how Kent and the Viscount were murdered first and robbed second. In other words, you dismissed me.”

  “I know you weren’t expecting to hear that,” he said, finally catching his breath.

  “You discounted my deductions. So, my dear Inspector Jackson Griggs Davies, I am discounting you.” She spun back toward the carriage.

  He gently touched her elbow. “Please.”

  Felicity did not move.

  “Despite all your obvious academics, Miss Carrol, you don’t understand police work. I need evidence. Not the intuitions of a rich young girl. I’m not saying I don’t believe you. You are indeed brilliant … in a strange way.”

  She faced him and half smiled, although the compliment did contain an insult.

  He took off his hat. His brow shone with perspiration from running to catch up to her. “Until I get solid, hard-as-hell proof the two murders are linked, I must go on the assumption it was robbery first, murder second.” Searching his pockets, he could not find a handkerchief. He used his sleeve to dry his brow.

  Felicity fished out her handkerchief from her bag and handed it to him. He accepted it and dotted the perspiration. “I understand what you’re saying, Inspector. I don’t agree with you, but I understand.”

  Davies grinned. “You did lead me to the murder weapon.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “So how can I make it up to you?”

  “Let me accompany you when you interview the dealer of antiquities. I am learned in history and can help.”

  She could have sworn the breath left his body. He didn’t answer quickly.

  “Inspector?” she said after a while.

  He shut his eyes as if in pain. “Very well,” he said, as if surrendering a lost war to a victorious general.

  She stepped into the carriage.

  The inspector put his hand on the door. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “I will be waiting.” She rapped on the roof. “Drive on, Matthew.”

  Inside the carriage, Helen gave her head a shake. “You had no doubt about him, did you, Miss?”

  “I believe our Inspector Davies wants justice as much as I do, which means he will take any route to obtain it, even employing someone like me.”

  “He did call you brilliant.”

  Felicity smiled with a satisfaction she couldn’t help but enjoy. “He did, didn’t he?”

  CHAPTER 12

  At Landon and Son, Felicity tripped over history. Her foot slipped on a javelin on the floor. Standing next to her, Davies grabbed her waist so she wouldn’t hit the ground. When he helped her to her feet, their faces were close. In the afternoon light, his eyes showed speckles of forest green in the brown, similar to the colors of the woods near the lake back home. Concentrate, Felicity. She gave him a nod of thanks.

  “I am so sorry, my dear,” Mr. Landon Senior said.

  Stout as a good chop, he walked sluggishly with age. But his clothing was flawless. He picked up the javelin and placed it in the hollow hand of a suit of armor near the door. “It does tend to fall off and roll.”

  “No harm done, Mr. Landon.” Felicity righted her hat, which had tilted when she slipped.

  The antiquities dealer on Charing Cross was the seven
th shop she and Davies had visited. The first six of them did not deal with any medieval weapons, although they each exhibited a suit of armor in their establishments. The last dealer had referred them to Landon and Son, a shop specializing in such items of war.

  When he had picked her up that morning from the London house in a cab, the inspector wore a new suit smelling vaguely of bay rum. His hair and nails were trimmed. Felicity didn’t want to say anything about the improvements to mortify him, though he had obviously taken special care with his looks. While she did like to tease him, she wanted to be prudent about it and engage when appropriate, such as when he took himself too seriously.

  Davies had insisted he do all the questioning when dealing with the antiquities dealers. “That way I can justify my pay from Scotland Yard,” he had told her on the cab ride there.

  “I can’t tell if you’re joking again,” Felicity said, and she truly couldn’t.

  “A poor joke, I admit it,” Davies replied.

  But the inspector had never gotten past the question of whether the dealers sold flails. Not until Landon and Son.

  “Why, yes, we have a good assortment of flails and maces,” Landon said with marked pride.

  “May we see them?” Felicity asked.

  Landon waved a chubby hand toward the back of the shop, which was stuffed with history but in an orderly fashion. He sold not only suits of armor but also antique swords, javelins, lances, knives, daggers, bows, arrows, crossbows, and bolts. All arranged by type of weapon and well maintained.

  “Your collection rivals that of the British Museum.” Felicity surveyed his offerings with admiration.

  The older man blustered from the praise. “I have tried to make it so.”

  Inspector Davies held up a sword from the fourteenth century and ran his finger along the dull blade. “Sell a lot of these old weapons, sir?”

  “Enough to keep me in business for forty years.”

  “Why an interest in such items, Mr. Landon?” Felicity asked as they made their way among the historic weapons.

  “I truly believe I was a knight in a former life. As a lad, I would play with sticks and pretend they were swords and lances. That I was Sir Lancelot or Sir Gawain. Sometimes I’d dream about finding the Holy Grail and bringing it to King Arthur himself.”

  “I did the same,” Felicity said, and both men stared at her. “Well, such imaginings were more fun than playing a pathetic damsel in distress.”

  Landon’s laugh was heartier than a good stew. “My son does not share my interest or love of medieval weaponry. He opened up a haberdashery down the street. Ah, here we are,” the shopkeeper said.

  On the back wall, five flails and maces were on display. The wooden shafts measured up to three feet in length, while a chain or rope holding the striking head to the shaft varied in span. Most of the heads had spikes. A few had smooth surfaces.

  “Those weapons with the short shaft can be wielded with one hand. Longer ones require two,” Landon said.

  “Awful-looking things.” The inspector leaned closer to one and touched the tip of a spike.

  “And we’ve seen evidence of what they can do,” Felicity added.

  Landon pointed to one of the flails on display. “This is my oldest. From the sixteenth-century German Peasants’ War.”

  “Have you sold a flail with spikes measuring two inches long?” Davies asked.

  The antiquities dealer gave an enthusiastic nod. “I have sold three of them.”

  Felicity and the inspector raised eyebrows at each other.

  “To who?” Davies said.

  The merchant blustered again. “I would have to look at my records.”

  Davies held out his hand. “Please look.”

  Landon’s record keeping was comprehensive. He set glasses on his nose to read. “I have records for each item based on the type of weapon,” he told them. He licked a finger and turned to one sheet on his desk. “This is my flail page. The first flail I sold five years ago to a Mr. George Baker of Connecticut in the United States of America.” His finger went down another column. “The second was four years ago to a museum in Germany.”

  Davies wrote down the information as Landon pronounced it. Felicity memorized it.

  “Three years prior, I sold one to Sir Percival Trent.” Landon consulted his paperwork again. “It was a two-headed flail. Very rare.”

  “That was not the murder weapon, according to the wounds,” Felicity said.

  “Why not?” Davies said.

  “Inspector, if there were two spiked balls wielded, the damage to Lord Banbury’s body would have been even more severe. Namely, there would be twice the number of wounds.”

  “Sounds logical.”

  Landon narrowed his eyes as if concentrating on a memory. He opened them wide. “I do recall Sir Trent already owned a single-headed flail with the spike measurements that you mentioned. A fine specimen, from what I saw.”

  Davies wrote in his book. “Where can we find this Sir Trent?”

  “He passed on last year, and his family sold all his collection of medieval weapons at an auction,” Landon said. “I heard Lady Trent never did take a liking to them.”

  Davies put a line through Trent’s name. Felicity thought that a mistake. Someone had purchased one of those flails.

  “Are you aware of anyone else, perhaps not a shop owner, who collects such medieval weapons?” Felicity asked.

  “I thought I was supposed to be asking the questions, Miss Carrol?”

  “It is a good question,” Landon said.

  “Well, do you?” Davies added.

  “My customers usually buy a piece here or there to decorate their castle or ancestral home. I wouldn’t have termed them significant collectors by any means, except for the late Sir Trent,” Landon said. “But London is a big city, and other people besides myself also sell such antiquities.”

  “Like criminals?” Felicity said.

  Landon gave a slow nod.

  “We have visited other reputable dealers of antiquities, but are there others who, shall we say, are not?”

  Davies tossed Felicity a terrible look as she asked the question.

  Landon shifted about but didn’t answer.

  Felicity smiled. “Mr. Landon, you do know of one.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what is it?” Davies said.

  “Rawlins House. It’s located near the Aldgate Pump.”

  “Why would you consider them disreputable?” Felicity drew closer to the shop owner.

  “Rumor is they sell items not usually obtained in a lawful manner.” Landon’s eyes darted about as if to make sure no one else heard him.

  “Stolen goods?” Now Davies wrote the name in his book.

  “That is just the gossip.” Nice man that he was, Landon added, “I have heard that they do have some very lovely and unique items.”

  “Such as flails?” Felicity asked.

  “I can’t say. I’ve never been in their shop.”

  Inspector Davies thanked Landon for the information and his cooperation.

  Landon gave a little bow and checked his watch. “My pleasure.” The bell rang over his door, and he grinned. “That’s my next appointment. A gentleman has expressed interest in the sixteenth-century ballista in my warehouse.”

  “Ballista?” Davies said.

  “A sort of giant crossbow,” Felicity answered.

  Landon smiled at her and entwined his fingers. “You don’t need a job, do you, Miss Carrol? I could use your expertise in my store.”

  Her face brightened with the offer. “Mr. Landon, I am flattered.” She tossed a glance at Davies. “But I have another duty at the moment.”

  “Pity,” Landon said, and hurried to meet his customer.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Aldgate Pump stood at the junction of Leadenhall and Fenchurch streets. Water poured from the spouts on the stone pump that stood almost twice as tall as an average man. A metal lamp sat on top.

  �
��The well has supposedly been around since the late fifteen hundreds,” Felicity said. “It also marks the start of the East End.” This she knew from reading a history of London.

  “You don’t have to tell me. I come from here, remember. And see that wolf head plaque? This is where the last wolf in London was shot.” He grinned, gathered a handful of water, and drank. “Me mates and I used to splash around the water as kids on hot days. The coppers would come and tell us to take off, but we’d be back soon as they left.” His East End accent took over as he talked.

  She could imagine Davies and his friends dashing about in the small pools where the gushing water collected. Laughing and making as much noise and mess as possible. He was doubtless the leader. “That sounds like fun.”

  “It was. Suppose you had a pool or something to play about in.”

  “Actually, I have a lake.”

  “Figures.” Davies brushed at the water again. “It wasn’t always fun. A young friend of mine died from drinking at the pump. One of hundreds who did.”

  She had read about that also. The Aldgate Pump Epidemic. On its way to the well, water had flowed through cemeteries and been contaminated by the bodies. The city had had to hook up the pump to the main lines.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector.”

  “That’s life in the East End.” He shrugged. “Enough of that. Let’s get to the business at hand.”

  Rawlins House sat a little ways down on Leadenhall Street. The windows were drab, and anyone passing might consider it abandoned.

  Patting the place where he kept his gun, Davies took a step and then stopped. “Maybe you should wait here, Miss Carrol. It could be dangerous if they are thieves.”

  “Maybe you should wait.”

  “What?”

  “If the operators do sell stolen property, how cooperative do you think they’ll be if a Scotland Yard inspector walks through their doors?”

  He thought about it. “You have a point. But I can’t let you go in there alone.”

  She had been afraid he would suggest that. “Then let’s pretend we are a couple shopping for antiquities. We can be Benjamin and Sarah Smyth.”