As Horace Wilkins treated her with increased indifference, Helen made up for it with abundant understanding. She stood by Felicity the night her father was pronounced dead and helped her plan the funeral and reception.
“My deep condolences, Miss Carrol. You must be strong at times like these.” The man who spoke was Martin Jameson.
Jameson was not only her late father’s trusted solicitor, but also his friend. They were members of Brooks’s gentlemen’s club in London and shared a passion for whist, cigars, and arrogance. She suspected Jameson, like her father, viewed her as the worst of the worst in England—an educated woman. A wealthy girl who squandered time and money on schools and books in lieu of forging a good match and taking her place in British society. The solicitor had a daughter her age who had been married for three years and had already produced two children.
And when measuring austerity, Martin Jameson made Horace Wilkins appear like a dancing girl on the Strand.
“Your father was a great, great man. His presence shall be missed not only in commerce, but by society. He was a colossus of industry.” Jameson always snuffled, as if dispelling a bad odor or something else he disapproved of. He snuffled a lot when he was around Felicity.
“You are kind, Mr. Jameson.”
“When you are ready, we must talk about your late father’s will and other business concerns. But those matters can wait for another time.”
“I understand. Until then.” She curtsied.
“What will you do now that your father is gone, Miss Carrol?”
“I shall live, sir.”
He gave a sharp inhale and went off to talk with other people gathered in the house.
After a time, she left her post at the door and wandered around the ballroom, where the mourners had gathered to chat and have tea and refreshments. No one spoke to her as she walked around the room, and she was glad of it. They apparently wouldn’t miss her, so she entered the library to be alone. A portrait of her mother and brother hung over the fireplace. They had been posed sitting in this very room in front of the window with a view of the garden behind them. Her mother’s arm was draped around her brother, and both had smiles in their bright-blue eyes. Would they blame her, too, for what had happened?
“Miss Carrol.”
She turned.
Inspector Jackson Davies stood in the middle of the room, pulling at his collar with obvious discomfort at the surroundings. He wore a fine black suit. From its gleam, his hair had been freshly trimmed. His shoes were new.
“Inspector Davies.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Carrol.”
She rushed over and hugged him.
* * *
After the carriages had left with the last of the mourners, she and Inspector Jackson Davies made their way to the lake. She had suggested the walk to get away from the house and the scent of flowers and fatality.
His footsteps munched down the pasture grass, while her hem brushed over it. They took the path through the thick woods, which dimmed the afternoon light. The police inspector said nothing on their way there, as if reading her mood. From his glancing about and the way he held his hands behind his back, she could tell he wanted to ask something.
“Does all this belong to you now?” Davies asked, as if he couldn’t wait any longer.
The question made her laugh. “I’m afraid so.”
“I knew you were, well, rich, but not this rich.”
“I can take no credit at all. My father and grandfather are the ones who built this place and the enterprises supporting it. They were very exceptional businessmen.” She should have complimented her father for his talent. She should have. Guilt weakened her legs.
“You could fit my entire flat inside your library with room to spare.”
“Wealth is not all in life, Inspector. Your position is as valuable to society, if not more so. Upholder of the law. Bringer of justice.”
He yanked at his collar. “When I can.”
They came to the lake. Davies whistled. “Never knew someone who owned a lake,” he said.
“Every spring, my grandfather paid to have it stocked with trout so he wouldn’t have to venture far to catch fish,” she told Davies.
“That was nice of him.”
“He probably didn’t want to recreate with the rabble.”
“Like me?”
“Most definitely.” She smiled.
She and Davies boarded the small boat tied up at the shore and rowed to the island. He insisted on rowing.
“The lake is my favorite spot on the estate.” She let her hand slide in the water. “I used to row out to the island and read.”
“I can see why. There’s a magical quality to the place, and I’m not one to say magical very often.”
She smiled. “I believe that.”
Upon reaching the island, he tied the boat to a cement post put there for that purpose. They took a seat on the stone bench. Sensing she was an infinite distance from Carrol Manor and the rest of English society, she placed a hand on his. “Please, call me Felicity. We have examined a body together. I believe this entitles us to be less formal. And what shall I call you?”
He laughed. “I’m Jackson to my friends.”
“Then, Jackson, let us be friends.”
He placed his hand on hers. It was rough and wonderful. His warmth sapped her breath.
A young woman should not have been so bold, but the gesture was appropriate because she wanted to show her gratitude. “Thank you for coming today. Besides Helen’s, yours was the only friendly face to me. I assumed you didn’t like me because of my interjection in your cases.”
“I can’t help but like you.” He squeezed her hand.
“Even though I annoy you to no end?”
“You keep me on my toes with all your questions and theories. You’re also funny and smart.”
She didn’t fight his compliments. She turned and placed her other hand on his.
“Besides, I understand how you feel.” His voice quieted.
“When did your father pass?”
“Eight months ago.”
“Tell me about him.”
His smile was heartfelt as a child’s. “He worked in a cotton mill. We didn’t have much money, but we were wealthy in his love. He was a good man who taught us how to work hard and respect the law. I was glad he lived long enough to see me become an inspector.”
“He must have been proud.”
“He was.”
Even in the shade of the arbor, his eyes held tenderness. She slid her hands away. “I envy you more than I can say.”
His big thumb pointed at this chest. “Me? Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“You were so loved by your father.”
“And you weren’t?”
“No.” She gave a feeble smile. “I must come off as incredibly wretched.”
“You’re just being direct. And here’s my confession. I envy you, too.”
“For my money? I would gladly trade you this very moment.”
“No.” He stood up and stretched out his arms. “Not for all your money and properties. Or your fine house and this lake. For what you did with it. You used money for a good purpose, for an education and to better yourself. Most young girls in your station would have gone for the money and a richer husband. You should be proud.”
“I always wanted my father to feel like that, but he saw my education as more of a detriment. So I replaced his love with learning. Now I do sound wretched.”
Davies didn’t say anything, but he wore a slight smile. “Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but your father must have been a fool. He should have been honored to have you as a daughter.”
She clasped the bench.
“What’s wrong, Felicity?”
Her eyes teared. “Jackson, I believe I drove my father to his death.”
“What?”
Standing up, Felicity told him about their final argument in the drawing room. “He collapsed and died soon af
ter we quarreled. I might as well have taken up a crossbow and shot a bolt through my father’s back.”
“By telling him the truth?”
“I should have kept my tongue. The truth can be as sharp as any weapon.”
He slanted his head. “Did you make that up?”
“Yes, but it’s true as the moon passing through the heavens. My father and I didn’t have a relationship, but we excelled at burying the truth.”
He stood up and went to her side. “You weren’t to blame, Felicity.”
“Is that your professional opinion?” She lowered her head, unable to face the inspector, as if he would arrest her for the crime of ingratitude and being a bad daughter. “I suspected he had heart problems, but I didn’t let up on my verbal attack.”
He placed his hand under her chin and raised it. “His illness killed him. Not you.”
“Ever since that night, I keep telling myself I should have tried to be what he wanted. I should have become a lady of society, a wife, a mother.”
“I can’t see you as one of those pasty-faced women in silks and satins. I can’t see you flirting behind a fan. A woman with no voice or thought.”
Suddenly, she was exhausted at another truth. He was right.
He gently took her arms. “Felicity, a person can’t live his or her life for someone else. If they do, they become hollow inside.”
She started to cry. Davies took a handkerchief from his pocket and patted her face.
“Can’t you let me feel terrible?” she said.
“Do you want to?”
“Since we are being honest, I have one more confession, Inspector Jackson Davies. I started my investigation into the murder of William Kent only to prove to my father and to myself that I had goal in life. I had forgotten why the work is so important.”
“For justice.”
“An amazing word.” Felicity started to cry again. She wiped at her face. “I never cry, and for some reason I can’t stop.”
He put his arms around her. “There, there. Wipe your tears away. My mum used to say a cry is good once in a while. Gets rid of the excess salt in the body.”
“Medically, I don’t believe that is correct.”
“Neither do I, but my mum is a kind woman and a darned good cook.”
“She sounds wonderful, too.” She continued to cry, and he dotted at more of her tears.
“Felicity, I have been irritated with you since we met. And I may be drummed out of the Yard for saying this, but I’m glad you are investigating.”
“Why?”
“You may have a point about this case.”
She pulled out of his arms and wiped the last of her tears with his handkerchief. “Are you saying this to comfort me?”
“No.” Placing his hands in his pockets, he gazed out at the lake. The water was golden in the sunset. “There is something odd about these killings.” He rotated to face her. “In my experience, the motivations for murder are straightforward. Too much drink. Fights over women or money or even business disagreements. But with these …”
“The reason feels more complicated. A reason other than robbery and gain from selling those antiquities.” She blew her nose in his handkerchief. “So sorry. I will buy you a dozen new ones.”
He waved his hand.
She blew her noise again. “Then let me tell you what I have discovered.”
He crossed his arms. “Is this the right time?”
“Always, for insight.” Taking a breath, Felicity launched into her meeting with literature professor Clarence Mitchell at the university. “I wanted to find out whether someone’s obsession with King Arthur could transform into murder and robbery.”
“And did you?”
She shrugged. “Professor Mitchell’s observations are more of a literary and philosophical bent, but the answer is yes. The next question is why the killer’s obsession has resulted in the murder of three people. And this is my most significant find, Jackson. In his own blood, William Kent was starting to write the word Medraut on the floor of the museum.”
“Who is he?”
“The Welsh name for the legendary traitor Mordred.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t the killer. He’s not even real.”
She didn’t smile at his joke. “The point is, William knew the identity of his killer. He was calling him a traitor.”
“Why didn’t he write the man’s name instead of using some King Arthur code?”
“I have no idea. William was dying. In great pain, especially because he knew the man who fatally shot him.”
“Assumption, Felicity.”
“Logic, Jackson. The killer had the opportunity to rob but not kill. But kill he did.”
Davies covered his middle with his arms. “All this is making my gut ache.”
“Me, too, because we haven’t discovered the real cause behind the murders. The why. It must be more than robbery.” Felicity drew back her shoulders. “We learn the motive, we find the murderer.”
“We?” Davies blew out a long breath.
“My God. I’ve done it again. I’ve annoyed you,” she said.
He laughed this time.
They both sat down again on the bench as the evening claimed the woods around them. The light of the sunset and his smile amplified his attractiveness. His actor’s face might now have been playing Romeo or another onstage lover. She could see why women relinquished themselves to such desires and emotions. She had no time for them.
“Jackson Davies, I conclude you are a decent, noble man.”
“You’re just trying to get on my good side.” He held out his hand. She placed hers in his. “Can I tell you what friendship means to me, Felicity? Sharing information and not lying to each other.”
She smiled. “I shall try. But friendship also means believing in each other. Can you try?”
“Maybe.”
Felicity glimpsed her watch. “Time for dinner, and all you had to eat were the biscuits and cucumber sandwiches at the reception. You are going to come and eat dinner with me. Matthew can take you back to London tonight.” She stood and held out her hand. She realized she hadn’t given him a chance to respond. “I mean, if you would like to have dinner.”
“I would love to stay and eat with you as long as we don’t discuss murder.”
“We can talk robbery if you like.” She winked and took his hand. They walked toward the boat. “Thank you for listening to me.”
He gave a clumsy gentleman’s bow. “And about your father, Felicity. No man is perfect. Regardless of what he might have done, he was your family.”
“The old blood-is-thicker-than-water scenario, Inspector?”
“Aye, there is that.”
She took his arm. “But history books are rife with stories of family killing family as easily as killing anyone else. Sometimes, even easier.”
CHAPTER 21
The office of Martin Jameson was as sober as the man whose name was etched on the brass plaque beside the door. Reddish chestnut wood coated the place with an atmosphere of no-nonsense. Clerks walked around as if metal rods had been pounded down their backs with a mallet. Papers lay in neat piles. An odor of ink and coffee permeated the wood. Felicity preferred the untidiness and rude clerks at Morton & Morton. Their unfriendliness was sincere. The clerks at Jameson’s place of business were disingenuous in their behavior.
“He don’t seem to be bothered by being prompt on his appointments,” Helen whispered to Felicity as they waited on a stiff wooden seat in the hallway.
They had been there for fifteen minutes.
“I don’t mind. Besides, I don’t really want to hear what he has to say to me,” Felicity said.
The office was busy with employees and clients. All men. Clerks shuffled papers from one room to another, while others scribbled at desks.
A man entered the front door. He didn’t appear to be a solicitor. Rather, he looked like a man who did jobs that a solicitor didn’t want to do. The man hung up his coat and
greeted a passing clerk. The man glanced at Felicity and rapidly turned his head away. She knew that profile. He was the man in the carriage who had followed her around town.
“You!” She stood. Everyone in the room stopped and stared. “Why were you trailing me? Do you work here?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss.” His voice was lower than a pit.
“Yes, you do.”
“Excuse me.” The man spun and hurried out the door.
“Wait. I want answers!”
At that point, Martin Jameson emerged from his office and waved a large hand in Felicity’s direction. “Miss Carrol.”
Helen kept her seat as Felicity rose and marched into Jameson’s chambers.
Felicity breathed in rich tobacco and old book pages. Jameson took his place behind a huge but oddly clean desk, which reminded her of her father’s desk at Carrol Manor.
“Sit, please.”
She didn’t sit. “Did you have that man follow me?” Her mouth dried with anger. She pointed toward the door.
Jameson tugged at his tie.
“Please answer me, Mr. Jameson.”
“Before your father left on his trip, he contacted me and wanted a report on your activities while he was gone. This was spurred by your unusual interest in murder.”
“My friend was killed. That should interest anyone.”
Jameson shook his head with admonishment. “Your father was worried you might create a scandal for the family. So we sent an operative to observe you, where you went, who you met, et cetera.”
Her jaws closed tight. She could barely speak. “In other words, to spy on me.”
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