“I believe you can, my dear.”
When they boarded the carriage, Felicity glanced across the street. She spotted the same small brown carriage that had been following her.
“Helen, see that carriage over there?”
“Aye.”
“Have you seen it before?”
Helen looked. “No, Miss.”
“I think it may be tailing me.”
Helen laughed. “You always had a good imagination.”
“We shall see if this is a fancy or not.” Felicity got out of the carriage and walked toward the smaller one. In the back was the same man with the large nose. When she got halfway across the street, the carriage took off with haste.
“Now that wasn’t my imagination,” she told Helen when she got back in her carriage.
“Who is it then? It’s not the killer, is it?”
“I hope not. Good thing I have no King Arthur treasurers.”
“Then I’ll keep my eyes open and summon the police if I see it again.”
“You can go now, please, Matthew,” Felicity told her driver.
Solicitor Joshua Morton had arranged the meeting—for a fee. Felicity would talk with a man who dealt exclusively with stolen antiquities. In other words—a thief, but one with good taste.
The meeting would take place at nine in the evening at a public house named the King Cock in Whitechapel in the heart of the East End of London. The solicitor would accompany her, also for a fee, because the man with whom they had the appointment was suspicious and cautious. Who wouldn’t be if he was a criminal?
At eight that evening, her carriage picked up Joshua Morton from his office and they all headed to the East End. Felicity had decided not to tell Inspector Jackson Davies where they were going, whom they were meeting, or invite him along. No thief was going to talk freely with a Scotland Yard inspector in the room. If she were a thief, she certainly wouldn’t. Keeping Davies away from the meeting was essential to her own query, but her conscience pinched her for not telling him. She comforted herself with the fact that, if anything came out of this meeting, she would tell Davies—eventually.
On their way there, Helen nudged Felicity. Joshua Morton had his eyes closed and snored. “Soliciting must be hard work,” Helen whispered so as not to wake him.
“Let him sleep,” Felicity said.
When the carriage drove into the East End, there was a palpable change in the air, like the crackle of an electrical storm about to strike. The East End had no tidy boundaries with the exception of the River Thames to the north and to the east, where the old City of London’s stone walls had once stood. The area bore the reputation of being one of the poorest sections of London. The title was nothing new. The East End had held the station since medieval times, when tenants had labored for lords who held the unfortunates in their pocket like so many gold coins.
The carriage drove on. People ambling down the streets wore clothing only a few degrees above rags. Felicity had read in the newspaper how impoverished families packed single rooms lacking sanitation and fresh air because of meager ventilation. Workers made meager wages, and crime sprang up out of desperation fueled by poverty. Under the dim street lights, the faces of the inhabitants appeared destitute of hope, as their bodies lacked the resources to barely survive.
Women with low-cut dresses, tattered feathers in their hair, and shabby shawls passed under the streetlights like silhouettes. They wore counterfeit smiles of red lips and solicitation. Felicity could not condemn these women, who, without education or income, probably had no other route to make their way in the world.
Sluggish brown liquid flowed along the gutter as if the streets bled sewage. Shabby people slept in doorways of houses and buildings so clustered together Felicity wondered how anyone could take a breath there. A scrawny dog loped along with his nose on the ground and proceeded to fight another dog for a dead rat. At one doorway, a woman pushed out a boy, tugged in a man, and slammed the door. Dingy wash hung on lines like ghosts rising up from a grave. Poverty turned the crammed stone streets claustrophobic. People shouting at each other, music from pubs, and clomping horses on the cobblestones created a din of violence.
The place stank of dead animal smoke from the nearby tanning factories and slaughterhouses where many of the residents worked. Inserted into the mix were garbage and manure from the passing horses. The result: a vile tier of inescapable air deposited on the people who lived there. Dominant winds from the rest of London rolled right into the East End and dumped their own stench onto the area.
“This is what poor looks like.” Helen peeked out the window and then sat back to look straight ahead. “I saw the same thing in Spitalfields.”
“Hellie, I’m sorry,” Felicity said.
“Just makes you stronger.”
The carriage drove by a group of people who smiled and wore cleaner clothing. Felicity had read about them. They were “slumming.” This new trend had upper classes clad as the common residents of the East End. Or what they interpreted as such. In their costumes, they toured the squalor for a warped kind of stimulation, as if gazing at a zoo of creatures. They desired the same “guilty pleasures” enjoyed by the people of area, who were thought of as sinful. Felicity had heard such ignorance at the social parties she used to attend. Specifically, the poor were poor because they were wicked. They did not deserve to prosper. When Felicity declared their views “rubbish,” the society toffs had turned up their noses and walked away. She hadn’t minded seeing them go.
Not all of the well-off wanted to exploit poverty and sin. Some people came to aid those in the slums with their charity projects, offering better housing and food.
Felicity sat back in the rocking carriage. Her body seized with shame because of her wealth in the face of what she was witnessing on the streets of the East End. She vowed to donate money to the people working to improve conditions here. Ever stoic, she also understood that without such riches, she would never have been educated or had the resources to do what she was doing. That is, seeking out a murderer.
Matthew stopped the carriage in front of the King Cock. The scarred wooden sign out front showed a proud bird wearing a crown.
“Mr. Morton, we’re here.” Felicity touched his hand.
The man woke with a snort and eyed the sign. “So we are.”
Matthew came down from his driver’s seat to help Felicity and Helen out of the carriage. A husky fellow in his thirties, Matthew was built to take care of not only himself but any other trouble coming along. His physique contrasted with the kindness on his upright face. He scanned the area. “If you and Helen need my help, yell and I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Matthew,” Felicity said.
In a dark-blue skirt and jacket with no jewelry, Felicity had donned attire that would not draw any attention to her. Her hat had a thin veil pulled over part of her face. Despite her effort, people gawked as she entered the public house. Her cheeks flushed red.
“You’re too beautiful for your own good, Miss,” Helen said in a quiet voice.
“Not the impression I wanted to make,” Felicity replied.
The inside of the pub appeared to have been carved out of ebony. Above the thick bar, shelves held bottles of liquor. Instead of a place of enjoyment, it carried the mood of a wake where no one had liked the person who died. Patrons grasped cups of whiskey and ale like lifelines. A few had half-closed eyes, as if they were on their way to drinking themselves into oblivion to forget they were already buried. A stone wall with a fireplace broke up the decor, if anyone would have called it that. Layered over the smell of stale ale and cigar smoke was the perspiration of the working people frequenting the pub, judging from their heavy boots, soot-smeared faces, and patched clothing.
Dishes and mugs clacked in the kitchen. People shouted, and Felicity couldn’t tell if they were laughing or arguing. There was not one tablecloth in sight. Marred wooden tables were bedecked with rings from the plentiful mugs of ale and glasses of whiskey
that had sat on them.
Joshua Morton gave the briefest of nods to the bartender, who could have been formed from soil and grit. The bartender jerked his head toward a door at the rear of the public house. Felicity and Helen followed the solicitor.
Only a few tables were in the back room, which was a little quieter than the pub out front. At a table near a back door sat one man. Felicity had to stop her mouth from flopping open. He resembled Thornton Rawlins from Rawlins House. Same taut face and same ginger hair. Same gemstone-blue eyes. But the man at the King Cock had no mustache and appeared younger than Thornton Rawlins. If they weren’t brothers or cousins, she would eat her hat and that of Inspector Davies.
From his stare, the man was evaluating Felicity as well.
She stepped forward. Morton motioned for Helen to stay back. In response, Helen put on her iron face and prepared to follow. Felicity gave her a small smile, and Helen returned to stand next to the solicitor. In all their years together, Helen had come to read Felicity’s expressions, and that one meant, “Yes, I will be all right.” Whenever her father had missed one of her birthdays, spent Christmas elsewhere, or not visited Carrol Manor for months at a time, Felicity had slipped on the same mask to conceal the hurt.
Yes, she would be all right.
Felicity was not afraid. Like Joshua Morton, she had paid the criminal for his time. One hundred pounds was the price. This was her conference. Her time. To emphasize that, she took leisurely steps toward the table. He didn’t rise to his feet but instead sipped at a mug of dark ale.
Felicity didn’t give the customary curtsy women were supposed to when introduced. But then, they hadn’t been properly presented to each other. She held out her hand in the American tradition. He took it but did not get to his feet. His grip was noncommittal. She sat across from him. She didn’t want to let him know that she knew about his brother or cousin at Rawlins House.
“What shall I call you?” he said, and yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth.
“We agreed to exchange information but no names.” She put on a winning smile.
“You got nerve, I’ll give you that.” Her eyes lifted. His accent was as refined as that of any gentleman she had ever encountered. This was probably necessary when selling stolen antiquities to wealthy people who didn’t mind dealing with thieves as long as they didn’t sound dishonest.
“How nice of you to say.” Felicity nodded.
“Not every young girl wants to sit down with someone in my line of work. That is, unless they would like to purchase one of my items.” A glint of greed invaded his blue eyes. “Do you, Miss?”
“Perhaps another time, but I do appreciate you meeting me.”
“Your payment was appreciated. What do you want? Don’t got all night.”
“In the last two weeks, three people have been murdered and priceless items stolen from them.”
“Let’s see. Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur manuscript, an ancient tapestry depicting young King Arthur, and a painting of Guinevere.”
She buried her excitement and a little fear about his knowledge of the stolen items. Was he the killer? “You are well informed.”
“It’s my business, plus I read The Times same as you, Miss.”
The name of the manuscript and the subjects of the tapestry and painting hadn’t been mentioned in the newspaper. “Just what is your business?” she asked.
“I don’t deal in gold plate or silver tray. Nor comely jewels like others gents with nimble fingers. My interest is in the items having history in them. Buyers here and on the continent will pay good coin for those and not bother to ask how you got them.”
“These men with the nimble fingers, do they commonly kill the owners while in the process of absconding with property?”
“They aren’t murderers, young lady.” He pressed his manicured fingers on the table. “Those gents like to get in, remove their treasure, and get out. Without notice or confrontation. ’Course, I have heard tell of some accidents here and again. Like an owner coming home and catching a man at his work.” He straightened his shirt. “Thieves steal. Murderers kill.” He spoke with principle, although the principle dealt with criminal acts.
“That is enlightening.” Felicity had suspected this all along, given the cases she had read about in The Illustrated Police News.
“Murder is bad for business.”
“Do you know who took these particular items?”
“You mean who killed those people?”
“Yes.”
“I’m no informant.”
“Then you know?”
“No.” The man finished his ale.
“How about a hint?”
He laughed.
She did not. “Sir, I am determined to learn the identity of the culprit with or without your aid.”
“You?” A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Looks like you couldn’t survive one day without a lavish holiday or a new frock.”
“I suppose my aspiration can be construed as humorous.” She placed her hands flat on the table with her own challenge. “But what would you do if someone murdered your friend, a man you thought of as a father?”
“That’s simple. I’d find ’em and kill ’em.”
“I will find him and let the Crown do the rest. So I repeat, have you heard of anyone who might have murdered those people and taken their property?”
He leaned back in his chair.
Felicity smiled. “Have you ever considered that if I’m asking these questions, the police soon will be?”
“The coppers have already been asking around. No one’s telling ’em nothing.”
“Have they talked with you?”
“And they won’t.”
She recognized an opportunity. “Scotland Yard can be very resourceful. If I could find you, so could they. As a dealer in pinched antiquities, you would be measured a qualified suspect in those murders.” She smiled. “Isn’t that the accurate term, ‘pinched’?”
He drank more beer, then crossed his arms.
“In addition, the police could detain you with lots of questions,” she said. “And what buyer would want to do business with a suspected murderer? However, if the real culprit was apprehended, the focus would be off of you and yours.”
He uncrossed his arms. “I have no idea who killed those people.”
“No gossip or guesses?”
“None. Satisfied?” The man drew out his watch. A gold antique. “We ’bout done here? I have an appointment with a man interested in a chair once owned by Louis the Fourteenth.”
“That must be a wonderful piece.”
“Want to make an offer, love?”
“If you do hear any pertinent information, please contact Mr. Morton. I will pay well,” Felicity said.
“Ain’t no snitch, little Miss Nosy.” The man’s genteel accent gave way to pure East End.
“Think of it as acting as a dealer in precious intelligence. One more question.”
“One is all you get.”
“Have any of your buyers shown a particular interest in purchasing items related to King Arthur?”
“No,” he snapped.
Why so testy? she wondered. Was he protecting someone?
“Never did believe in King Arthur and Camelot and all the other knightly nonsense this country admires. Life is life and it’s not pretty.” Menace dictated his expression. “Given that someone is slaughtering the owners to get those pieces, I might have to give the ole boy another look. King Arthur might make me a rich man.”
With that, he slipped out the back door.
CHAPTER 17
Through her copper field binoculars, Felicity counted rats. She had spotted five so far. She was watching the alley behind Rawlins House, which was grim as a passage to hell. Sweaty brick walls on both sides. The stench of sewage drew the rats she counted.
She wore a black dress and her riding boots just in case she had to run. Her primary accomplishment had been getting away from Helen, who fortuna
tely had gone to bed early. Concealing herself in shadows, Felicity had been observing the double doors at the back of Rawlins House for three hours. This was her second night doing so.
Given what she knew about the antiquities dealer and the art thief, she suspected the stolen painting once belonging to Elaine Charles might show up for another buyer who probably didn’t care where it came from. And if they had killed Elaine for her art, then they might also have killed Lord Banbury and William Kent for theirs. The Rawlins brothers or cousins, however they were related, knew and sold medieval weapons, so they could easily have wielded them to kill. For Elaine Charles, they hadn’t needed a knife or lance, only their hands.
Felicity hoped they hadn’t already disposed of the stolen manuscript, tapestry, and painting. How wonderful it would be to catch them, as the police would say, red-handed.
Another rat scurried by.
Was she nervous? Well, yes, even though Matthew and the carriage were around a corner on Fenchurch Street. The driver had offered to accompany her, but she had said she would yell if she required aid or needed police summoned to apprehend the Rawlins brothers or cousins.
“Hurry on now, Mr. Rawlins,” she whispered.
Her body stiffened. Behind her came the sound of footsteps on stone. She clutched the leather strap of the copper binoculars. If she swung them hard enough, she could discourage whoever was sneaking up on her. Immediately she thought of the big-nosed man in the carriage. With caution, she turned.
Inspector Jackson Griggs stood there, pistol in hand. Behind him was a bobby twice her size. Davies emitted an iciness, sure as if he had just returned from the North Pole. He took her arm and led her in the opposite direction of Rawlins House.
“Now tell me what in blazes you’re doing here,” he whispered.
In returning whispers, Felicity told him about her visit to Trent’s widow. How the late Sir Trent had done business with Rawlins House, which had also handled the auction of his armament collection. There was also the matter of the stolen flail and other items from that same collection.
Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit Page 13
