“Sadly, that is an excellent idea. And I must say, you’ve got somewhat of a devious nature.”
“What a wonderful compliment. Now don’t dawdle, Mr. Smyth.” She put out her arm for him to take.
“You’re going to let me do the talking, correct, Mrs. Smyth?”
“Probably not.”
He gave an annoyed sigh.
The bell over the door didn’t ring. Rather, it sort of clanked when they walked in. No one was about. Unlike Mr. Landon’s business, which was full of relics but neat, this shop was packed and not organized. The windows were smudged and dirty. Felicity’s heart jumped at the closeness, as if the walls were ready to implode at any second. The building was long as a tunnel with no end. It stank of tobacco and dirt. She ran one of her gloved hands over a suit of rusted armor that was missing an arm. Her glove came back gray with dust. Then again, everything in the place appeared smothered in it.
Davies sneezed and drew a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his nose.
“Bless you.”
Felicity and Davies turned. A lanky man stood at a short counter against the right wall.
“May I help you?”
His suit and shoes were as natty as her father’s. His scent was of peppermint and cigarettes and his blue eyes resembled the color of melting ice. He had a high forehead and slicked-back ginger hair over a lean and taut face. He did not so much sneer at them as appear uninterested, which was unusual for a shop owner. While a mustache that curled up at the ends gave him the appearance of smiling, he was so stiff it didn’t appear as if he had ever done so. Felicity guessed him to be in his thirties. He was attractive, in a menacing way. The kind of man to kiss you one moment and dispatch you the next.
“Oh hello. My grandfather is a collector of medieval armaments, and we wanted to find him a gift for his eightieth,” Felicity said, adding a touch of simplicity to her voice. “Maybe a sword or suit of armor. Something like that.”
“Yes, old Granddad loves this stuff,” Davies added, burying his East End accent. “Doesn’t he, love?” He kissed Felicity on the cheek.
“That’s right, sweetums,” Felicity said, and then turned back to the man. “You do carry such items?”
“Just what you see.” The man raised his left arm to the walls. “Look around.”
“I like to know who I’m doing business with,” Davies said.
“Thornton Rawlins.”
“Very good.”
“Shall we browse, sweetums?” she told Davies.
“Of course, my darling.”
They split up. The inspector browsed with leisure, probably looking for stolen items, she guessed. The man divided his attention between them.
On the walls and shelves were swords, lances, knives, daggers, bows, and arrows. Similar items to those Mr. Landon sold. The antiquities at Rawlins House, however, were scratched, tarnished, or damaged. A push-lever crossbow was displayed, but half of the handle had been broken off. She didn’t spot one item related to the King Arthur legend.
A black curtain hung in a doorway at the back of the shop. Before she could reach the curtain, the man moved quickly and headed her off.
“Nothing back there, Missus.”
“No hidden treasures?”
“Unless you count a broom and boxes as such.”
Time to move along this surveillance.
“Do you have one of those ball-and-chain things?” She smiled sweet as an apricot tart. “What do you call those, darling?” she asked Davies.
“A flail, my love, a flail.”
“Do you have one of those, sir?” she asked the man. “Granddaddy would be so happy if you did.”
“No.”
Davies patted his chest as if tapping a large wallet. “Mr. Rawlins, we don’t especially care where and how the item is obtained. We just want one.”
The inspector is clever, Felicity thought. She would help him along. “Yes, money is no object at all, right, sweetums?”
“Correct, my darling.”
“We always get what we want.”
Rawlins’s face didn’t move. “You’re talking nothing but air.” He drummed long fingers. He wanted her and Davies to leave.
“Well, if that’s the case, I don’t see anything that would interest Granddaddy. Shall we, dearest?” She held out her arm to Davies and he took it. They headed back toward Aldgate Pump to catch a cab.
“That man is hiding something. I’d love to see what’s in that back room,” she said.
“You’re right about that, Miss Carrol. Thornton Rawlins is a tough one. Underneath his clean nails is dirt, I suspect. I’ve been around criminals long enough to smell them.”
“And what does that smell like?”
“Smoke and greed. Rawlins House does need a second look, but without you.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re criminals.”
They didn’t speak for a while in the cab. The horses’ hooves clomped on the stone street and the wheels churned. She suspected that Davies was thinking about what he had learned. Felicity was also thinking—thinking about what was behind the black curtain at Rawlins House and how to find out what it was.
“You got to watch a real detective at work,” Davies said after a time. “How did you enjoy it, Miss Carrol?”
“You mean you?” she said with all earnestness.
“Yes, I mean me.”
She smiled with mischief. “That’s right. You are the only inspector around.”
“How nice of you to say.” He held on to the sarcasm.
Even so, her cheeks warmed like a stone under the sun and her pulse thumped. She was almost giddy. She was part of an actual, honest-to-goodness police murder investigation. “I did find it exhilarating.”
Davies brushed specks from his hat. “I’m so delighted to have entertained you, Miss Carrol. Now you can return the favor and tell me something.”
“It depends on the question.”
“When we first met at the museum, you spouted out all those names and dates about medieval weapons and fingerprinting and history. How do you do it, remember such facts?”
“I recall everything I read.”
“This some sort of parlor trick?”
She shook her head. “Merely the way my mind works. I can evoke the information I have read anytime I need it.”
“You’re not at all how you appear,” he said thoughtfully.
“I hope to be something better.”
He didn’t answer. But the silence between them was not awkward. Without his usual annoyance, he became even better looking, but she would never tell him that and was unnerved she had even considered it.
“Well, here is a fact I read about Sir Thomas Malory,” she said after a bit to break up the quiet, nice as it was.
“Who is Sir Thomas Malory?”
“The author of the manuscript stolen from the museum.”
“Ah.” His cheeks pinked up from embarrassment.
“Don’t be ashamed. Few people probably recognize the name.”
“Good. Don’t want you to think me a dunce.”
“Never. As I was saying, Sir Malory was a member of Parliament and a soldier but also a criminal. Malory faced accusations of theft, extortion, attempted murder of another nobleman, two rape charges, and even stealing from an abbey.”
“Sounds like someone I would love to arrest.” He grinned.
“Oh, he was. Malory was imprisoned but escaped twice. He went to prison again for trying to overthrow Edward the Fourth.”
He placed his hands on his lap. “You making this up?”
“Truth is much better than fiction. And it was while he was imprisoned that Sir Malory wrote the beloved Le Morte d’Arthur.”
“Ha!” His laugh blew back her hair. “Sorry,” he said with a bountiful grin.
“No, I like your laugh. The gentlemen I have met at social events look like they have never laughed in their lives. If they did, it would break their spine.”
“I forgot. You go to balls and hunts and all those things.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Well-off gents?”
“With all their wealth, they can’t afford any personality.”
Davies’s smile faded.
“What is it, Inspector?”
“I wonder what your Sir Malory would have thought about someone committing murder over his manuscript.”
“An excellent question. I do want to thank you, Inspector.”
“For what?”
“Agreeing with me about Rawlins House.”
He smiled. “Better appreciate it. It may not happen again.”
“I do, sweetums.”
He laughed.
CHAPTER 14
The messenger from Morton & Morton arrived at the door at midmorning. A lad held a note for Felicity.
Elaine Charles found dead in her bedroom at her home in Hampstead. Expensive medieval painting lifted. Police believe she died of a heart condition after being frightened by the robber. Thought you might be interested.
—Joshua Morton
“Mr. Morton, I do believe I owe you a bonus,” Felicity said out loud.
Felicity knew Elaine Charles, though only enough to nod at her with recognition. They had met at several London events for the rich and ripe to be married—the ones Felicity’s father had coerced her into attending. Elaine Charles was a slight creature with the pallid skin of someone who had recently recovered from illness, but her hair was of the richest and thickest brown. No matter her wan appearance, Elaine always showed the most robust of smiles, especially when she talked about her engagement to a good-looking officer in the Corps of Royal Engineers. Since birth, Elaine’s heart had not been the strongest, and she took care not to exert herself too much, as she had explained to Felicity and a group of other women at one social event. With the possibility of death nearer than she liked, every day became as precious as diamonds, Elaine had said. She thought of her life as a necklace made up of those flawless gems.
Poor Elaine. Now the necklace had been broken.
Felicity had to visit the crime scene to find out whether the stolen painting had a King Arthur theme. If so, then Elaine’s death might be related to the murders of William Kent and Lord Banbury. One thing she did know: Elaine Charles not had attended the reception for the King Arthur exhibit at the museum, according to the list she had gotten from the curator. That signified that the murderer had to have another source of information about who owned what Arthur relic.
Felicity did ask Helen to stay home this time, and Helen bade her to take care.
Two Metropolitan Police constables stood in front of the fine home of the newly departed Elaine Charles. In their tunics and helmets, the men were upright as the grand pillars outside the white stone mansion in north London. Parked in front were several carriages.
“Matthew, please drive around the back,” Felicity asked.
If this house was anything like Carrol Manor and other grand homes she had visited, there would be a servants’ entrance by the kitchen where food supplies were delivered. That would also be her entrance. Felicity spotted the door. It was not guarded by any police officer. Fortune was on her side.
She asked Matthew to stop a little ways down. Once inside, how could she roam about the house unnoticed? She looked down at her simple blue dress. With more luck, she might be mistaken as a servant. First, Felicity removed her hat and pearl earrings, leaving them in the carriage. Because she had no pockets, she placed her small bag of detection supplies down the front of her dress. She kept on her white gloves so she could examine evidence without leaving her fingerprints or obliterating those of the guilty. She conceded that Scotland Yard did not care about such prints, but they did exist and might point to the killer.
Surveying the area to make sure no one was watching, she entered the house. The sizable kitchen stood empty, and she dared to smile upon getting that far. Where were all the servants, anyway? A house this size would have more than twenty, not including those manning the stable. Wherever they were, she was glad they were someplace else.
She completed her masquerade as a maid with a white apron and cap she found hanging from a hook in the kitchen. In the reflection of a shiny platter was the image of a serving girl. She could now move around the house undetected.
Where to find the bedroom? You didn’t reason that part out, did you, Felicity Carrol? she reproached herself. Bedrooms normally lay on the first floors. She couldn’t go up the main staircase because the police might be roaming around. However, many of the older homes of the rich had similar layouts for servants. Specifically, back stairs leading up from the ground floor to the bedrooms for staff to better aid their employers. She would have to find those servants’ stairs. She began opening doors, including one leading into the larder. Carcasses of chickens and geese, pieces of ham, and sausages hung from the ceiling. She peeked into nearby hallways and took a few wrong turns, ending up near the front hall.
Loud voices came from two men walking down the elegant front staircase. She backed up and pressed herself against the stairway to listen. Inspector Jackson Davies was talking with another man.
“When was the last time anyone saw Miss Charles alive?” the inspector asked the older man.
“Miss Charles retired at ten thirty at night. One of the maids found her body at six this morning. God rest her soul.”
“Any other items taken?” Davies wrote down the information in his notebook.
“No, Inspector.”
Felicity moved to where she could see the men but not be seen. She hoped so, anyway. The older man was clothed exactly like Horace Wilkins. Black coat cut shorter in the front, white tie, shoes shinier than glass. Tidiness personified. The look of prim. The head butler, to be sure.
“And what was the value of the stolen painting?” Davies said.
“Miss Charles’ mother paid thirty thousand pounds for it, Inspector.”
“What was the painting of?” the inspector asked.
“Of the fabled Queen Guinevere holding a red rose in a garden. A famous rendition, really, and quite striking. It was painted in the sixteen hundreds.”
Davies stopped suddenly and shook his head with vexation. “Bloody hell.”
“Sir?”
“Nothing.”
Another item associated with the Arthur legend, Felicity thought. So this incident must be connected to the other murders.
“All the servants ready to be interviewed?” Davies said to the butler.
“I set up an area in the west dining room. They are lined up waiting there as you asked.”
At that moment, a young military officer rushed through the front door. A handsome man with buffed golden hair and a mustache. The constables who were out front ran right behind him. The soldier’s face paled with so much grief that even Felicity began to tear up.
“Sorry, Inspector, but he didn’t give us a chance to get his name,” one of the constables told Davies.
“This is Lieutenant Henderson,” the older servant told the inspector. “He’s Miss Elaine’s intended.”
“Where is she?” the lieutenant said. “Where is my beloved?”
Davies introduced himself to the soldier. “We’re investigating the death of Miss Charles.”
“Where is she!” the lieutenant repeated.
“Her body has been moved to the coroner’s mortuary.”
“Where are her parents?”
“Just yesterday they went to their estate in Buckinghamshire, Lieutenant. But we’ve sent word for them,” the servant said.
“My God, what happened?” the soldier asked.
“We believe a robber was stealing the painting from her room when she woke. Her heart couldn’t handle the fright of the moment, and she passed. I talked with her ladyship’s physician this morning. He said she had an acute heart ailment,” Davies said.
“Where is the damn bastard?” the lieutenant shouted. “I want my hands on his neck!”
“Lieutenant, we haven’t caught the suspect yet,” Davies said.
“We were going to be married in four months.” The lieutenant’s voice faltered, and he collapsed on the steps. “Even the Queen was supposed to attend. She’s a good friend of Elaine’s grandmother.”
“I’m truly sorry, Lieutenant Henderson.” Davies placed his hand on the soldier’s back.
“For years, my love always had trouble sleeping. Elaine said she had been blessed all of her life. She worried those blessings would be taken away if she closed her eyes. That a thief would steal inside and pinch everything when she wasn’t looking. And that’s exactly what happened.” He smiled but cried as well. “I had assured her she would sleep soundly once we were married. Now she will never wake.”
“She is finally at rest.” Davies’s voice carried compassion for the bereaved lieutenant.
Felicity leaned in. Davies had treated her mostly with cynicism and even rudeness, yet here he had displayed kindheartedness to the victim’s fiancé. Perhaps she had underestimated the inspector.
“Has this house ever been robbed?” Davies asked the butler.
The older servant shook his head. “Never, sir.”
“Did Miss Charles have any enemies?” the inspector continued.
“Everyone loved her. She was sweet and kind, an angel really,” the lieutenant added with conviction.
“That is an enormous tribute for any person,” Davies replied.
The lieutenant stood and wiped at his eyes. He stared up at the staircase. “I almost expect to see Elaine coming down. Wherever she went, she brought the sun and happiness with her. Inspector, please find the killer.”
The young man made his way back outside. The two constables followed.
“Let’s go talk with the servants,” Davies told the butler, and they headed off in the direction away from the kitchen.
Felicity doubled back in search of the servants’ staircase she had somehow missed. As she walked about, she felt the disagreeable serenity of the place. She might as well have been wandering around a fancy crypt. More disturbing was how she had remained so unruffled sneaking into the house of a recently murdered woman. No perspiration or rapid breathing due to fear. No impulse to get out of there at once and go home. As if breaking and entering, breaking the law, really, traversed her blood. She wondered if she had inherited the trait from one of her ancestors. One who had used less-than-legitimate means to help the family secure its fortune. She promised herself to ask her father the question, though she was positive he would never answer that one.
Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit Page 11
