Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  “Tragedy the like of a Shakespearian play.”

  His nod was slight. “Yes, betrayal and death at the hands of people you loved and trusted. And because of or in spite of that, Arthur shines through the ages because his is a story of hope, of what we can become. He presented us with a nobility to which we can aspire, despite our own foibles. The forging of a kingdom comes not through power, Miss Carrol, but through will and willingness to do good for others.”

  “Lord Kent expressed similar views.”

  “And because of such greatness, how can you not become gripped by Arthur?”

  She smiled. “Even if he is a mere folktale?”

  “Believe in Arthur or not, he has become a thread in the fabric of this country. Academics still debate his existence. Believers claim his tales did not spring out of a writer’s vision. Instead, they were seeded by a genuine person who helped forge our nation. On the other hand, there are academicians who find that notion dribble of the highest order.” He chuckled and rubbed his creased hands together. “The lines between reality and myth have become terribly distorted through the years because of the many versions and sources of the Arthurian stories. You see, Miss Carrol, we scholars do not always know everything.”

  “Well, you know an all-encompassing amount, sir.”

  “How kind of you.” He scrunched his eyes as if capturing a memory. “At any rate, the belief in King Arthur has become more vocation than bedtime story for numerous people. There are those who have even spent their life and resources seeking the real Excalibur.”

  “But the Lady of the Lake took away the sword, according to the tales.”

  He gave a nod. “Yet, obscure writings do hint that the sword was found and is waiting for a new king. And don’t forget, in another version of the tales, Arthur was healed at Avalon, ready to return to England in another form.”

  She smiled. “A lovely image, Professor. Aside from William Kent, do you know of anyone else who was a large collector of King Arthur–related art or documents?”

  He scratched at his thin hair. “Only museums. William’s accumulation of antiquities was far more extensive than most. I’m sure others have collected items here and there, but I can’t tell you who they are.”

  She had hoped for a name. But what she had gotten was an understanding of a possible motive behind the murders. “As you said, the name King Arthur means greatness in this country. Perhaps the man who killed to obtain these Arthurian antiquities craves that greatness.”

  “And that is heartbreaking.” The professor touched the pot on the small table between them. “Oh dear, the tea has gone ice.” He rang again. “Tea, Michael.”

  The young man took away the teapot.

  The hot tea arrived, and she poured him a cup. Then she stood and again thanked the professor. “How is your book coming along?”

  “I shall soon be finished. Then off to the printer.” He shook the page he was holding. “The book will be quite a story, and I only hope the Queen won’t take too much offense.”

  “An amazing accomplishment, and I look forward to reading it.”

  He gave her a wrinkled smile. “This shall be my legacy. Maybe not what Arthur left behind, but it will do.”

  She headed back to the London Library. Although she retained what she had read, she again poured over the books about King Arthur. She thought about the comments of Professor Clarence Mitchell and was touched by them. She had concentrated so much on the stories of the mythical king, she had not considered the humanity of them. Of Arthur’s own desire for goodness and love. How he must have suffered from the betrayal by his wife and Lancelot. And then to be fatally wounded by his own ambitious nephew who tried to take the kingdom Arthur had envisioned and achieved.

  Mordred.

  She slammed her hand on the book before her. “Stupid, stupid,” she said out loud, and was immediately shushed by a reader next to her. Although she didn’t need to, she opened the pages of the Annals of Wales that referenced Mordred.

  Medraut was the Welsh name for the legendary traitor Mordred.

  “Medra” was what William Kent had written in his own blood at the museum. An Arthurian expert, he was writing “Medraut.” With his blood, he called his killer a traitor.

  William Kent knew the man who shot the crossbow. But why was the killer also a traitor?

  CHAPTER 19

  With a shake, the carriage pulled up in front of the London house. Her mouth withered as the front door opened. Samuel Carrol stood in the doorway.

  Never mind diamonds. His stare was the strongest substance on earth at that moment. He stood erect as a soldier who had declared war—on her.

  Helen stood behind her father. Her face was leaden with worry. Her hands clamped down on her apron.

  Felicity stepped into the house.

  “Helen, see to your duties,” her father announced. “I will speak to my daughter in the drawing room.”

  The older woman curtsied to him. Helen’s eyes went to Felicity’s and she gave her mistress a smile, as if that would protect her from whatever the older woman feared might come.

  “Go, Helen,” Samuel Carrol ordered.

  Helen went off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Felicity had never liked the ornate drawing room in their London house. Brocade busied the walls. Light-blue valances hung from the arched doorway like opulent shrouds. The furniture was unyielding in its conformity. Ceramics, sculptures, and paintings with no soul or passion decorated the walls. Plush rugs deadened the sound of footsteps and anything else that might carry a pulse.

  Her father motioned for Felicity to sit in one of the chairs.

  “I prefer to stand, Father.”

  He held his hands behind his back. “Have you become engaged to Lindsay Wheaton Junior?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Are you engaged to be married to him or anyone else?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I thought so. I have registered you at Miss Whittle’s Institute for Young Women in Switzerland.”

  Felicity wondered how her father got out the words. His lips were pressed so tight together they almost disappeared into his face.

  “At the Whittle Institute, you will be taught all the qualities required of a lady in society. You will learn how to behave.”

  “When would you like me to start?” Felicity said.

  From his coat pocket, he pulled out a thin case and from that a cigarette, which he lit. “Immediately would not be too soon. I can’t stand to look at you much longer than that.”

  Removing her hat, she placed it on the chair and faced her father. They were duelists preparing for battle. If she faltered, she would lose everything she had struggled to acquire.

  “No, Father. I believe I will not be attending Miss Whittle’s Institute.” She could not believe her composure.

  “What did you say?”

  “You have exceptional hearing, Father. I said no. I am not doing anything of the sort.”

  “How dare you talk to me in such a manner.” He threw his cigarette into the fireplace. “I have heard reports how you have scandalized this family’s name throughout London. How you are making a fool of yourself playing some kind of detective, traipsing about in the company of Scotland Yard inspectors, and unescorted.”

  “Helen was with me most times.”

  “My God, you even attended a public inquest into a murder. That a young woman would concern herself with such obscenities is shameless.”

  “The process was illuminating.” How had he found out about all of her activities? She thought immediately of Horace Wilkins spying on her, but he had accompanied her father to the continent. Someone else had tracked her whereabouts.

  The man with the large nose in the small brown carriage.

  “After we are through here, I intend to dismiss Helen Wilkins for allowing you to engage in such behavior.”

  Felicity became incensed he would even mention firing Helen. “Please, leave her be, Father.�
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  “I can dismiss anyone in my household.”

  She lowered her head, hoping the gesture might help Helen.

  “Then you deny your conduct?”

  Felicity raised her head. “I do not deny any of those activities, but none of this was Helen’s fault. She attempted to stop me, but I carried on. And I am neither a scandal nor shameless.”

  The color of his face faded despite his hands balling into fists. “If you do not go to Miss Whittle’s Institute, I shall … I shall turn you out of this house and Carrol Manor. Tonight.”

  Felicity thought about the dismal streets she had seen on her visit to the East End. The roads leading to a void. She should have been terrified about the possibility of being disinherited. Trembling in her corset and petticoats. Fainting from fear.

  She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t trembling or about to faint.

  “Father, you have already done your worst to me. You have turned me out of your life. Your warning of disinheritance does not scare me. I can make my way in the world.” She stepped toward him and wondered where she found such strength. Maybe she was exhausted from the unspoken truths that had skittered around their lives like bugs over a pond.

  “And tell me, what would you do with no friends or connections?”

  “I can teach, become a governess, a nurse. Perhaps even a doctor. And I have friends.” She thought of Helen. Her best friend.

  He sputtered with antagonism, leaving Felicity to wonder how this man could be related to her. “Father, has it occurred to you what kind of scandal you would generate if you did throw me out of the house?”

  His eyes were on her. “No one in polite society would blame me after what you have done.”

  “Go on, then, if you must, turn me out. Wherever I land, I will lead a good and useful life. One of learning and perseverance. The first thing I will do is discover who murdered my friend, William Kent. He was more of a father to me than you have ever been.” As soon as she uttered those words, she questioned whether she had gone too far. But now was the time for the truth, as much as it might hurt both of them.

  “I should never have paid for those tutors and schools you wanted. You have become too educated for your station in life.” He flinched as if in pain and rubbed his left arm. “If my son had lived, he would have been a gentleman, not a savage. He would have made me proud.”

  She smiled at the openness. At last. “And that sums up our relationship, doesn’t it?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You can’t forgive me for living. First, Mother died of the consumption, weakened by my birth. Then my older brother died of pneumonia. But I survived.”

  “Do not speak of them.” He closed his eyes.

  “They were my family, too. I grieve and mourn them as you do.”

  He slowly opened his eyes, which were red and teary.

  “Father, how I have wanted you to love me as you loved them. Every day I made that wish.” She did not mean for her voice to falter on the last phrase. “It’s not too late.” She held out her arms for an embrace and took a step toward him. “Please.”

  His body stiffened and his face turned gray. He took a step back.

  She was still a phantom in his eyes. She lowered her arms.

  “No family of mine is fancying themselves as a detective. How unbelievably vulgar,” he said.

  Never had she seen him so angry. She thought he might splinter in two. A shudder seized her body as if she had passed from one world to another. One existence to another. She had to go forward. The only way to go. “Father, I am not playing detective. I am quite excellent at it. At observing what people don’t. Take you, for example.”

  “Me?”

  “I can usually do this with strangers, but we two are very much strangers.” She took a step toward him. Her voice grew bolder and assured. “Let’s see. You are a fussy man with exclusive, handmade clothing so anyone can see from a mile away you have money. Lots of money, with your polished fingernails and polished shoes. Your immaculate suits are made to give you the appearance of a man years younger, which speaks of vanity and denying your age. You spend lavishly on art and comforts but haven’t given the servants an increase in wages in twelve years. You look no one in the eye whom you consider inferior.”

  “How dare you.”

  “Each time you leave the house, you remove your wedding ring. And when you come home, you smell of cigar smoke and brandy.” She sniffed. “You also wear a costly scent to mask an odor of—what? Oh yes, another scent. A female scent. One downright cheap and worn by a woman who came with a price for her companionship.”

  “Enough!”

  “When you return from town, there are several long blonde hairs on the back and shoulders of your clothing. Sometimes, red curly ones.”

  “Stop this.”

  “For the past few months, your color has blanched and your breath has become labored, even from minor exercise, such as climbing stairs. Your posture has eroded. On occasion you take a white pill, which I suspect is nitroglycerin for angina pectoris.”

  “How did you …”

  “Why did you really go abroad, Father? The trip was not due to your irritation at me or only for business. You traveled to Switzerland, but not to register me in that woman’s school. You went to see a specialist so your business competitors would not find out about your ailment. I have also read in The Times how the Malmstrom Clinic in Stockholm excels in the treatment of heart conditions.” She let go of her temper. “You should have told me, Father. I would have cared for you.”

  He said nothing. Swiveling toward the door, he fell to his knees and went down on his right side with a dreadful thud.

  Felicity rushed to him. “Father!”

  His eyes fluttered and he mouthed silent words. She took his hand. “Wilkins, come quickly,” she shouted.

  Horace Wilkins dashed into the room without knocking, not his custom at all. His face contracted with worry. “Sir, how can I help you?”

  “Quick, summon a physician. See if Dr. Theodore is at home,” Felicity said. The doctor resided two houses down from them. “I’ll stay with him.” She struggled to steady her voice. “Go!”

  The older man left, and quicker than she had ever seen him move.

  “Father, stay with me.” She put her head on his chest, which barely moved. Her tears wet his fine shirt. She placed her fingertips on the carotid vein in his neck. His blood felt like it was ebbing at low tide. “Where are your pills?”

  He mumbled. She patted his pockets and found a small tin of white pills in his jacket. She placed one under his tongue. His condition didn’t improve. “We don’t have to leave our relationship like this. We can heal. We can be family. I want that so much.” She squeezed his dry, cool hand. “Father,” she whispered.

  With a quivering movement, her father slid his hand away. Even in the throes of death, as in life, he had nothing for her.

  CHAPTER 20

  Every time Felicity moved, the black dress crackled. The black veil hiding her face cast the world in a dreary tint. Sitting on the window seat in her room at Carrol Manor, she didn’t remove the veil. She wanted the darkness. Downstairs the servants prepared the food for the funeral reception later that afternoon. Plates and silverware probably clattered in their hands. She would have welcomed the noise. In her room, all was stillness and remorse.

  The evening before, Samuel Carrol’s costly coffin of oak wood and brass had been set up in a separate room off the library. A servant stood near, guarding the body through the night. Another tradition from the old days when corpses were snatched and sold to medical schools for practice autopsies. Horace Wilkins had personally hung black crepe over the mirrors on the ground floor of the manor, and she didn’t stop him from carrying on with the stupid custom.

  Earlier that morning, she had ventured into the room with her father’s body. Several flower arrangements surrounded the coffin, imbuing the room with honeyed perfume to hide the odor of death.
The light from the windows had transformed her father’s face into a translucent and stark mask. She had not cried when he died days before. She did not cry at his coffin. He had caused her enough tears when he lived. But she was aching nonetheless.

  Her father would be buried beside her mother and brother in the family crypt in the cemetery east of the house. By orders of her father, the crypt had been well maintained through the years by the groundskeepers. There he had left flowers on the birthdays of her mother and brother. He had always gone by himself and never asked Felicity to accompany him. He would not even share his grief, leaving her to mourn on her own.

  Rising, she studied herself in the mirror of her room. Under the veil, her face was as washed out as laundry left too long in the sun. She stood very small in that large house.

  Helen knocked and poked her head inside. “It’s time, Miss.”

  Soon, she would follow the coffin to the crypt, where it would be set beside her mother’s and brother’s. Following custom, Felicity had sent expensive invitations to her late father’s colleagues and friends to attend the burial. Responsibility for the list of attendees she had left up to Horace Wilkins, who had known her father much better than she ever had.

  Felicity straightened her veil and mourning clothes. She had a daughter’s duty to fulfill. She would give him that.

  * * *

  The funeral reception was well attended, which would have pleased her father. Felicity curtsied to each person who entered the house and accepted their condolences with as much grace as she could rally. Several men were acquainted with her father from his London club, while others were managers at the family mill and shipping line. Banks and other businesses with which he had dealt also sent representatives. Standing near the door, she thanked each person for paying their respects. They in turn talked of her father’s business acumen and characterized him as a man of good qualities. A true gentleman. A true man of England. Samuel Carrol had showed them another face and not the one she had been raised with.

  Horace Wilkins stood at her side near the door, taking hats and directing other servants. In the days after her father had died, she had caught Wilkins staring at her with condemning eyes, only to turn his head away when he noticed her gaze. He wore accusation like his well-fitted butler’s suit. From the way his eyes moved from here to there, he appeared to know everything that took place at the manor and in the London house. As head butler, it was his business. To that end, he must have heard their argument in the drawing room before her father collapsed. And from his polite glowering, he clearly blamed her for his death. Just as her father had blamed her for the deaths of her mother and brother. Felicity was relieved when Wilkins left his spot at the door to attend to other matters.