Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  Returning to the kitchen, Felicity opened another door leading to a set of worn wooden stairs. The narrow space smelled of body odor and cabbage. At the top of the stairs, she pushed open the door slightly and slowly. Ahead was the main gallery, stunning with fine carpeting and paintings that would make even her fastidious father jealous. At the end of the hall were a set of double doors and a constable out front. Hands at his sides, he was looking at one of the paintings on the wall. That had to be Elaine Charles’s bedroom.

  Felicity straightened the apron and cap she wore and walked with her eyes on the carpet as she had seen the servants do at her house. Breathe, Felicity, and act like you belong here.

  She walked to the door, hand reaching out to the knob.

  “You can’t go in there, Miss.” The officer turned around as she walked past.

  Felicity gave a deep curtsy and kept her head low. “But the inspector downstairs wanted me to look for the mistress’s appointment book and other items.” She imitated the accent of their Irish cook, Colleen, who had been with their family for ten years. The imitation was so good, Felicity imagined she could have doubled as Colleen’s daughter. “Please, sir. Won’t be but a minute.” Another curtsy.

  “All right. But touch as little as you can.” He opened the door for her.

  “My thanks, constable sir.”

  Heavy curtains had been moved aside, and the windows were open. The room was lovely. Lilac in color but not too ostentatious. A large bed of oak dominated the room. The faint scent of lemons and lavender came from the rumpled bedclothes. Indentations on the pillow on the left side of the bed revealed where the deceased had slept. There was no pillow on the right side of the bed. The sheet was missing, but she guessed the authorities had probably used it to cover the body.

  On a thick rug at the left side of the bed stood a night table with an empty teacup on top. Felicity picked up the cup and took a sniff. Chamomile tea. Nothing odd there. She set the cup back in the exact spot where she had picked it up.

  Felicity bent down. From depressions in the rug, she could see that the night table had been moved from where it normally stood. At the foot of the table was a small vial. With care, she removed the stopper and placed it to her nose.

  A slightly sweet odor with a touch of saffron, musk, and nutmeg. Laudanum.

  She peered under the bed. An empty glass lay on its side. Picking it up, she sniffed the inside. More laudanum. She took the glass to the window to see if fingerprints had been left behind. In the light, she saw a print from a small hand, but the prints were smudged. She replaced the glass where she had found it underneath the bed.

  Felicity walked around the bed. A white coverlet lay rumpled on the floor. She lifted it up. A pillow lay under that. Picking up the pillow, she turned it around. Smears of blood marked the middle.

  “Scared to death, my eye,” she whispered.

  Felicity closed her eyes and saw the room the way it must have been the night before. The house had settled for the night. Elaine Charles lay in bed. The man entered without a sound. He saw the sleeping woman, picked up the pillow, and shoved it down on her face. Already half drugged, she struggled but ultimately was forced into a sleep from which she would not awake. Opening her eyes, Felicity exhaled at the life extinguished so cruelly.

  Felicity walked to the doorway and asked the constable to summon Inspector Davies, calling it urgent. She lost the fake Irish accent at that point.

  Davies’s face tensed when he saw her. “Did you lose all your money? Have you taken up domestic work?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He shut the door. “I could have you arrested for disturbing the scene of a criminal investigation.”

  “I did not disturb anything, Inspector. I was observing.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Elaine Charles did not die of fright. That is ludicrous.”

  “She was frail.”

  “She was suffocated.”

  “That is the grandest of assumptions.”

  “No assumptions, but deductions based on what I observed in this room. May I demonstrate?”

  His nod was so sharp, she thought his neck bones might snap.

  “Elaine Charles took laudanum to help her sleep last night. Under the bed is a glass and vial reeking from the opiate. I heard her fiancé say she had chronic trouble with insomnia.”

  “When did you hear that?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “How?”

  “I was listening.”

  His teeth clamped down hard,

  “May I continue?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop you.”

  “When the house was asleep, the murderer sneaked into her room and suffocated her with a pillow. I’m sure the coroner will concur when he conducts the postmortem.”

  Felicity showed him the red marks on the pillow. “This came from the bleeding in her lungs due to lack of oxygen. And when you examine her body, I’m certain you’ll find broken blood vessels in her eyes from hemorrhaging. Those are sure signs of suffocation.” Her hand pointed to the bed. “Although drugged, Elaine Charles did have fight in her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The night table.”

  “We never moved it.”

  “Yes, but as the murderer suffocated her, she knocked the table over. The thick rug muffled the sound of it falling. When the killer had finished his terrible deed, he replaced the table, but not in the correct position, based on the marks in the rug. He did replace the teacup, but apparently didn’t have time or couldn’t see enough in the dark to pick up her drinking glass and a vial of laudanum from underneath the bed.”

  She pointed out where they were located.

  Davies took the pillow from her. “How did we bloody miss this?”

  “Because the killer set the stage. And he took another piece of artwork with a King Arthur theme. That makes three.”

  “I can count.”

  She paced. “As with the other murders, the killer could have waited until she was asleep and then stolen the painting. But again, his aim was murder as well as the theft. The suspect must have been familiar with her medical condition and that her parents were gone.” She stopped pacing. “Heavens in a basket! He knew her! May I see the body?”

  “Get out of this room and this house!”

  “There may be more clues.”

  His hands grasped the sides of the pillow. “Miss Carrol, my patience is thinner than rice paper.”

  “But …”

  “Out!”

  Felicity nodded with compliance. Logically, retreat was the best action at that point. “Thank you for not arresting me, Inspector.”

  “I won’t be so generous next time.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Lady Trent basked in the sun as if the light were meant exclusively for her. Her chaise sat in the middle of a glass-enclosed garden off the house. She was surrounded by roses and greenery. An attractive woman in her forties, her skin was a pastel cake and contrasted her upswept black hair and black dress. Her conceit fluttered about the room like her luxurious scent. The lady appeared as if she would break into a thousand pieces if she moved from the chaise. Felicity was tempted to push her, but not without getting information she required.

  The home was the poshest of places, but Felicity was used to such surroundings, having been raised in them herself.

  The woman’s green eyes barely moved over Felicity’s card.

  “Your father is Samuel Carrol?”

  Felicity acknowledged it with a dip of her head.

  “An amiable fellow, witty and enchanting.” Her smile was delicate.

  Lady Trent must have been talking about some other Samuel Carrol.

  “I understand your late husband had a wonderful collection of medieval armaments. And I would like to buy one for my father.” Felicity congratulated herself on a marvelous acting job. Mr. Landon had told her and Inspector Davies that the collection had already been sold, but
Felicity wanted to gauge Lady Trent’s reaction. Like Hamlet watching his uncle’s response to the play dramatizing the murder of his father.

  The woman had no reaction at all. Not exactly a surprise. Felicity couldn’t see Lady Trent killing anyone for fear of mussing her beautiful hair.

  Lady Trent sighed. “Young woman, you made this visit for nothing. I disposed of all that soon after my husband died. I detested those medieval things. Brutal they were. And horribly ugly.”

  “How large was his collection?”

  “Too large for words.”

  This woman gave the term vague a whole new meaning.

  “Perhaps you can give me the name of the person who handled the auction of the weapons.”

  “I do not recall. But our butler will.” She moved as if with great difficulty to pick up a silver bell on a nearby table. Within seconds, the tall man who had shown Felicity into Lady Trent’s presence appeared and bowed.

  “Simonds, do you recall the auction house that disposed of those terrible medieval weapons?”

  “Rawlins House.”

  Felicity suppressed an “Aha.”

  “There you have it,” Lady Trent told Felicity. “My regards to your father.”

  “I shall relay them.” Of course, Felicity wouldn’t. She did, however, give Lady Trent her thanks.

  Felicity would try her questions on the butler as he walked her to the front door. “Mr. Simonds, were you well acquainted with Sir Trent’s collection of antiquities?”

  “I did help him inventory the lot and supervised their cleaning. He used to tell me about each item. He very much admired them.”

  “Did Sir Trent ever obtain any antiquities from Rawlins House?”

  “I believe so, but couldn’t tell you which weapons. One of their representatives did deliver packages to the house on occasion.”

  “A slender ginger-haired man?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Among Sir Trent’s collection, was there a flail? Specifically, a weapon with one spiked ball attached by a chain to a wooden or metal handle?”

  His eyes stared straight ahead. “Sir Trent did have one of those, but it was stolen a few days after his death. Come to think of it, several of his artifacts were stolen.”

  Felicity stopped. “Did you contact the police?”

  The butler kept walking. “Lady Trent did not wish to. She said it just made fewer items to get rid of.” He opened the front door for Felicity. “Goodbye.”

  The butler had apparently had enough of her questions.

  * * *

  “Hungry, Miss?” Helen asked when Felicity entered the London house.

  “What?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Famished.”

  “Put your things away and I’ll have Cook prepare you a plate. By the way, a package came for you.” She pointed to one of the tables in the hallway.

  It was from Morton & Morton.

  “Hellie, I’ll eat in my room. And please send up lots of hot coffee. I’d like it served in the mug you use in the kitchen and not one of those dainty things we normally drink from.”

  Helen gave her a warning head shake. “You’ll be up all night, Miss.”

  “That, my lovely Hellie, is exactly what I intend.”

  Upstairs in the dressing closet of her room, Felicity took off her shoes and worked at getting out of the outfit she had worn to Lady Trent’s home. She cursed the number of articles required for women. Dress, corset, bustle. Mounds of fabric weighing as much as two helpings of iron. She donned her favorite piece of clothing, a powder-blue chenille robe given to her by Helen on her eighteenth birthday. Because the robe had come from Helen, it was even more cozy.

  Sitting on the floor of her bedroom, Felicity spread out the papers from the soliciting firm.

  Helen knocked and entered with the tray, which she placed on a small table near Felicity. “We have perch, potatoes, and green beans.”

  “Coffee first, please, Hellie.” Felicity held out her hand.

  Helen handed her the large steaming mug.

  “I have much to read.”

  “I will leave you to it, but please eat. You need to feed your brilliant brain,” Helen said with a smile, and departed.

  Felicity sipped the coffee. “All right, Mr. Joshua Morton, let’s see if you are worth what I have paid,” she said out loud.

  The first account focused on William Kent. The report had been typewritten, which impressed Felicity. The solicitor firm noted Kent’s birthplace as Warwickshire. That was within sight of Kenilworth Castle, once a medieval fortress and later a palace of Queen Elizabeth. Felicity stopped reading. Growing up in a place like that, no wonder her friend William had become fascinated with the knights of old.

  Educated at Cambridge, Kent was a member of the House of Lords and a philanthropist. He aided several charity organizations helping poor children to attend school. In addition to his generosity to the British Museum, he gave to the London Hospital to help pay for the care of John Merrick, who suffered frightful deformities and was called the Elephant Man.

  Kent had many friends and no pronounced enemies. The lord was admired by those who met him, according to what the firm had uncovered. He suffered no financial troubles and indeed showed as great a talent for increasing his money as he did for teaching history.

  William Kent was recognized as one of the leading collectors of King Arthur artifacts in England.

  “I am quite familiar with that fact, Mr. Morton,” Felicity said to herself.

  The report on Viscount Richard Banbury listed similar facts but fewer of them. Born in London, he had served in the military. The Viscount didn’t collect anything except an abundant amount of income from his investments, land holdings, and businesses. The King Arthur tapestry had been purchased by his wife, as Macmillan the servant had reported. Not a member of the House of Lords and not much of a philanthropist, Banbury had loved to hunt until the death of his wife and young daughter. After that, he had withdrawn from society and didn’t leave his house for weeks at a time. In recent years, Banbury had not ventured out in society at all.

  Neither of the men was a gambler, womanizer, or frequenter of prostitutes. Nor did they have illegitimate children, added the report, as if such vices were to be expected of males. Neither man had received his noble title for a service to the crown. They were first cousins to the Queen. In other words, the blood spilled by the killer was royal.

  Felicity set down those reports and placed her hand on top. William Kent and Richard Banbury had shared rank and wealth and had both owned an item related to the King Arthur legend. And they had both been killed by medieval weapons. No matter what Inspector Davies thought, the cases were linked.

  She picked up a separate report on the guests who had attended the reception at the museum the night Kent died. None were collectors of antiquities related to King Arthur. The guests, as Davies had guessed, were indeed wealthy donors to the museum, noblemen and noblewomen, and acquaintances of William Kent. Probably not a thief among them because they could afford to buy the art that had been stolen.

  The inspector would call the list a dead end, she supposed.

  Joshua Morton had added a note to the reports.

  Miss Carrol,

  None of our investigators found the word ‘Medra’ associated with either of the deceased.

  JM

  Felicity sat up. The piece of bread she chewed began to taste like uncooked dough. She swallowed hard. How to proceed with her investigation? First, she required more information about Elaine Charles and would ask the investigators to create a similar dossier on the deceased young woman.

  Felicity typed on her machine.

  1.  William, Banbury, and Elaine Charles all owned expensive or priceless Arthurian artwork.

  2.  All were killed but needn’t have been.

  3.  Did the killer murder them for a purpose or out of a love to kill?

  4.  And who is following me in that brown carria
ge?

  She poked at one key.

  YYYYYYYYYYYYY?

  Inspector Davies had mentioned the existence of thieves who specialized in antiquities. Since they hadn’t found a clue in the legitimate shops selling weapons, she might have to look in the darker corners of London. After all, Sir Trent’s flail had been stolen.

  “That cuts it.”

  Felicity walked into her dressing closet. She slid her hand over the silks, satins, crepes, and velvets in her wardrobe. On another wall were caches of shoes, hats, bows, and shawls. Dresses and accessories for all occasions. Dresses she had worn when she was younger and attended the society events she detested just to please her father. Dresses for teas, balls, opera galas, and calls on other families of fashion and money, especially if they had sons, because her father had wanted her to marry one of them. While at Carrol Manor, she had worn only simple skirts and blouses or plain dresses. She could move and breathe in them.

  Putting her hands on her hips, she surveyed the abundant amount of clothing. She had to choose the right outfit for a different kind of event now.

  “So what does one wear when meeting a thief?”

  CHAPTER 16

  From her frequent reading of The Illustrated Police News, Felicity understood very well she was not visiting Wonderland. She was not even venturing down the street from her house in London or going to luncheon.

  She was heading to the East End.

  Helen’s face turned red as fall beets when Felicity mentioned her plan.

  “You’re welcome to accompany me, Hellie, but my solicitor will be there—for my protection,” Felicity added in an attempt to relax her friend.

  “Then one more person won’t make a difference. I’m coming, too. I grew up in Spitalfields, and we can handle those East Enders,” Helen replied, and put her solid hands on her solid hips.