Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

“Before he left, your father had discussed the possibility of creating a trust in the event of his death, with myself as trustee. That way we could guide your life. Miss Carrol, your father wanted more than anything for you to become an esteemed woman of society.”

  “I take it the trust wasn’t set up.”

  “We had no time to draw up the papers.”

  “I want to see a copy of the surveillance report you gave my father.”

  “That was for his eyes.”

  “His eyes are closed.”

  From a drawer, he took out the report and slid it over to her. She folded the papers and placed them in her purse.

  “Are there other copies, Mr. Jameson?”

  “No.”

  “Now let’s talk about why I’m really here,” She sat in a leather chair rasping with newness.

  Felicity disliked talk of money. She was pragmatic enough to realize her dislike stemmed from the fact that she had always had plenty of pounds and then some. She appreciated the privileges afforded to her with the money, specifically education. Yet the plentiful income had also been an encumbrance that came with a bill. Namely, continued pressure on her to follow the stream of society. The sharpest of double-edged swords.

  “Your father left a will.” He handed her another piece of paper.

  She scanned the text. “This says everything should go to my brother with the exception of a marriage dowry for me.” The piece of paper was a reminder of her place in her father’s soul and heart, even beyond the grave. “Obviously, my father did not change his will after my brother died.”

  Jameson blew his noise and cleared his throat. He was about to make an important announcement, Felicity concluded.

  “Because your father did not change the document after the passing of your brother, this renders the document invalid, legally, that is. That means, in practicality, he died without a will.”

  “And …”

  “You inherit all the property in your father’s estate.” He read from another paper on the side of the desk. “This inheritance consists of an income of an estimated twelve thousand pounds per annum from the family’s business investments and enterprises, such as the mills and shipping line. That does not count all the property you own, including Carrol Manor and the London home. Your father also had an apartment in France.”

  She didn’t know anything about that one.

  “This makes you a very wealthy young woman.”

  Her ankle shook under her petticoat. Not the title she valued most. One thing was certain, she did not want to spend her life in business.

  “Tell me, Mr. Jameson, did my father personally supervise all of our business enterprises?”

  Jameson let go a hiss not unlike a boiling kettle. “He left the daily operations of the mills and shipping line to the managers already in place. He did visit once a year, maybe twice. He also read the annual financial statements.” The solicitor ran his hands over his lapels. “Our office was the clearinghouse for such information.”

  She smiled. “Then, sir, I shall do the same.”

  He fussed with his collar as if he abhorred talking business with women. “Clearly your father wanted you to marry so you could concentrate on family.”

  “Without a trust and as sole heir, it appears I may do what I want with the money and without your advice or guidance.”

  The blood left Jameson’s face, probably settling in his pricey Italian shoes, Felicity hoped.

  “It is your money, Miss Carrol.”

  She pushed down her resentment against the solicitor. “My grandfather and father built a remarkable business empire, and I will put every effort to ensure it remains so. I also plan to study ways to modernize those operations. With progressive methods, we should be able to increase capacity and profits, as well as lessen the workload on our many employees.”

  “Modernize? Progressive?”

  “Please send me the past year’s financials on our family’s businesses and any other information related to the generous legacy left by my father. I wish to study all there is about the fortune I have inherited.”

  “I can provide an assistant to help you understand such documents. They are complicated.”

  Her hands knotted together. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Jameson. I did take economics courses at the university.” Maybe she could not read the financial statements, but she could learn.

  His eyes beaded.

  “One additional issue we must discuss, Mr. Jameson.”

  “Yes?”

  “I realize how difficult it might be for you to be employed by a woman, especially one interested in murder.”

  “Miss Carrol …”

  She held up one of her gloved hands. She should not have enjoyed tormenting this man, but she did. “No, no, no. I can understand your position. I believe I can find other solicitors who will not have such a problem with my gender or interests.” She thought of Morton & Morton.

  “Miss Carrol, I promised your father to look after you, and I shall.”

  “I will not hold you to that promise, Mr. Jameson. After reviewing the financials, I will decide whether your office will or should continue as my solicitor in those matters.” She stood but was ashamed of her treatment of a man solely doing his job. Her breathing steadied. “Thank you for being my father’s friend.”

  “Our firm has served your father and grandfather, and we hope to continue our services to you.”

  “But change is always a good thing, don’t you agree? By the way, if I ever see your man following me again or hear that you shared the information he gathered with anyone else, I will use all of my twelve thousand pounds per annum to ruin your reputation.”

  “Miss Carrol, I would never do such a thing.”

  “Good.” She curtsied and left the office.

  “Everything all right, Miss?” Helen asked on their way out of the building.

  “I have been loaded down by inheritance.”

  Helen appeared confused.

  “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for the advantages I have received, Hellie. I hope I can do good things with the resources.”

  “You will, Miss. Of that I have no doubt.”

  They walked out of the stern office and onto the street. Groups of people gathered along the Strand where Jameson’s office was located. Matthew and the carriage had vanished.

  “What is this?” Felicity glanced at the growing crowd around them.

  “A parade for the Golden Jubilee. I heard two of the clerks in Mr. Jameson’s office talking about it,” Helen said. “She’ll be in the parade herself. Imagine that. I’ve never seen the Queen.”

  Matthew appeared out of the crowd. “Sorry, Miss Felicity, but a copper, an officer that is, asked me to move the carriage off the street. For a few shillings, a nice gent let me tie up the horses in front of his store three streets away. But it might be some time before we can leave with the parade and all.”

  Matthew’s and Helen’s eyes gadded about, and they grinned with anticipation.

  “You two want to watch the parade,” Felicity told them.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Helen said. Matthew nodded vigorously.

  Felicity was not interested in watching the royal pomp roll down a street. She had already seen the Queen. Before she went to the university, her father had suggested they go to an opera and reception, another one of his repeated attempts to get Felicity noticed by eligible men. With a flourish and cheers, the Queen had taken her seat in a box across the venue. Felicity hadn’t cared for the entertainment and had instead spent the evening studying the most powerful woman in the country and the world. Victoria had petite hands, but her eyes combined strength and sorrow. Her Majesty still mourned the loss of Prince Albert many years before, or so Helen had said. Although a short and tiny woman, the Queen exuded significance.

  She was England.

  From down the Strand came lively band music. Helen and Matthew got up on their toes to look. As they enjoyed the scene, Felici
ty spotted a vendor and bought Helen and Matthew each a small Union Jack flag to wave.

  “You enjoy yourselves. I’ll take a walk. I would like to think,” Felicity said.

  “I’ll go with you, Miss.” Helen said.

  “I won’t hear of it. How often can you see the Queen? The National Gallery is a little ways down on Trafalgar Square. You can meet me in, say, two hours.”

  “We’ll be there, Miss Felicity.” But Matthew was paying more attention to the activities up the street.

  “Have a good time. Wave to Victoria Regina for me,” Felicity said, and started off.

  As Felicity walked down the street, she noticed how many storefront and business windows displayed reproductions of famous paintings and photographs of the Queen at various ages. A young Victoria. Victoria on her wedding day. Victoria and Prince Albert. Victoria with family. Victoria in her old age.

  Victoria had become queen in June 1837 when her uncle William the Fourth died. Many of the photographs and paintings Felicity saw depicted Victoria’s coronation, which had been held one year later in Westminster Abbey. Draped in royal finery and holding a regal scepter, Victoria always appeared to be looking up to heaven for guidance. Her lips together in the solemnity of the event. Felicity imagined the then nineteen-year-old inwardly asking the question, “What do I do now?” as the crown was placed on her head.

  Walking along and dodging people hurrying to the parade, Felicity realized she and the Queen had both had responsibility thrust upon them. She from the death of her father, Victoria from the passing of her uncle. While Felicity’s inheritance was a pittance compared to Victoria’s on coronation day, it would prove weighty nonetheless.

  Felicity did look upward and whispered, “What do I do now?”

  She had not been joking with Helen when she had said she wanted to make good use of the funds left to her. She would do her best to make sure that happened, such as good compensation for the workers at the family companies and ensuring their safety. Last year after reading a newspaper article about the hazardous conditions mill workers faced, she had asked her father if this was the case at the enormous Carrol Mills operation. He had replied that it was none of her concern. Now she would make the workers’ safety her concern.

  She slowed her pace. The irony of her situation did not escape her.

  As a young girl, she would beg Helen for stories about her deceased mother before going to bed. What her laugh sounded like. How she wore her hair. What kind of books she read. Felicity took in every account as if they were fairy tales and she was a character in them. A little girl waiting for her princess mother to return from the ball.

  Helen’s eyelashes had flicked with enthusiasm as she talked to Felicity, who lay in her bed with covers up to her chin. “A grand lady she was, Miss Felicity. A beauty like you. A kind and gentle mistress who held everyone in high regard.”

  “Was she intelligent?” Felicity would always ask.

  “I should say so. She could hold the brightest conversations with your father. I can still see her doing needlepoint by the fire in the library while your father smoked cigars and read the Times when I brought in his brandy. He loved your mother so much he wore it on his sleeve. She was his sun and moon.”

  What a different man her father must have been then.

  Felicity did have a few memories of her brother Christopher, who was two years older. She recalled a liberal smile and his sharing toys in the nursery. Christopher would punch their father in the leg and then fall back on the floor and giggle. Her brother loved to chase butterflies and frogs at the lake on their estate. He was rowdy and fun. Felicity would chase after him and loved his daring. Then one day, a quiet summery day, Christopher collapsed out on the lawn. Their father picked him up and carried him to his room. She never saw him alive again. She had not been allowed near her brother in his illness. Her father had been so grieved by her mother’s death, he had disappeared into his study for hours. After Christopher died, her father retreated back into the study after putting a lock on her dead brother’s bedroom door.

  William Kent had lectured in class on how the past changed the future. If the past had been altered, how would that have affected her? If her mother and brother had lived, what would her existence have been? Would she have grown into a young woman who loved house parties in the country and insipid balls? The kind of daughter her father desired with no goal but marriage and children of her own? Would her father have shown her the kind of love she had always wished for? Would she have wanted an education outside the walls of Carrol Manor?

  She liked to think she would have been the same person but wasn’t certain.

  In truth, the passing of her mother and brother had brought her to this very point. She could not change the past. She could determine her future. And she could not ascertain what that was until she had solved the mystery of who had killed William Kent, Richard Banbury, and Elaine Charles.

  Still, Felicity would have traded everything to have her family back.

  CHAPTER 22

  Columns topped by a dome highlighted the classical marble facade of the National Gallery. Behind the face spread out the different exhibition rooms. When Felicity entered, the building was more subdued than usual, probably because of the full glory of the parade ready to proceed down the Strand.

  She had long admired the place for its humble beginnings. The British government had purchased thirty-eight paintings from the heirs of art collector and banker John Julius Angerstein for fifty-seven thousand pounds in 1824. Angerstein’s former townhouse at 100 Pall Mall was the new gallery’s first home. Years later, a building was constructed on the site of what had been the King’s Mews, which were the stables and carriage house for English monarchs. So masterpieces were displayed on the spot on which royalty had once kept their horses. Such was the history of art.

  She regarded the structure as another work of art, although the architecture had been criticized as hodgepodge. The light filtering though the dome cast the building in a hospitable glow. Patrons in fine clothing and others in humbler attire admired the art. The gallery’s mission was to open the collections to everyone, privileged and not. All were welcome, and Felicity loved that attitude.

  Drifting about, Felicity only half paid attention to the wondrous collection of paintings. In honor of Victoria’s fifty years on the throne, the gallery spotlighted several paintings of the Queen and her royal family throughout. Felicity climbed a set of stairs. At the top hung a painting twice her height. Depicted was an oak tree set in a typical English pastoral setting with small portraits painted on the branches.

  “A pleasant way to record a lineage,” said a young man with spectacles who appeared to be taking in Felicity as much as the painting. “Literally a family tree.” He chuckled at his joke.

  “What did you say?” she said.

  He adjusted his spectacles. “In the Queen, our country does have solid roots to support the mighty oak that is the British Empire.”

  Felicity stepped closer to the painting. At the pinnacle of the tree was a portrait of Victoria. On the branches underneath were the names and portraits of her still surviving children and grandchildren. On the branch immediately down was the likeness and name of the late Earl William Kent. On the same branch was the name of the now deceased Viscount Richard Banbury.

  “It can’t be,” Felicity said. Once she had touched an electrical current to see how much voltage the human body could accept without stopping the heart. After the initial zzzt throughout her body, her nerves had tingled for hours. She had the same sensation now.

  “Sheer blindness.”

  “Beg your pardon?” The young man’s voice climbed high as a woman’s.

  “Not you, me.”

  He threw her a quizzical look and walked away.

  The killer’s sole interest was not hunting down King Arthur artifacts. He might also be after the nobles who owned them. Two out of the three killed were royalty, and that percentage was good enough for a new l
ead in her investigation. Really, she had nothing more promising at this point.

  She studied the name and portrait on the branch directly below Viscount Richard Banbury. The next victim could be the Marquis Thomas Wessex.

  * * *

  At the National Gallery, Inspector Jackson Davies’s eyes went from Felicity to the legacy painting and back again to Felicity.

  “The victims are all there, Jackson. We must warn Thomas Wessex straight away. My carriage is waiting. We must not tarry.”

  Davies didn’t move.

  “Jackson, another person is going to die if we don’t hurry!”

  A few gallery patrons gawked at her with irritation. She was shouting.

  “Hold on.” Davies held up one of his large hands. “I thought you were convinced the murderer was after King Arthur items because of the medieval weapons he used. Now you’re saying the suspect is really killing off members of the royal family. Why?”

  She didn’t want to answer but had to. “I have no idea. But if we talk to Lord Wessex, we might obtain an answer to that very question.”

  “We?”

  “Yes.”

  He folded his arms. She had come to realize the gesture signaled skepticism. “Don’t you believe me, Jackson?”

  “Let’s go outside. We can have more privacy.”

  Davies led her through the doors of the gallery and across the busy street. They ducked the carriages and horse-drawn trolleys rambling past Trafalgar Square. The street noise reverberated even louder in her ears from her impatience to act. She couldn’t tame her rapid breathing.

  In the square, Davies walked to the 169-foot-tall monument of Lord Admiral Nelson. Images from Nelson’s battles and his death at the Battle of Trafalgar were etched on the bronze panels of the column’s pedestal. Topping the Corinthian-style column was the statue of Nelson in full-dress uniform, his face stoic and brave. He held on to a sword with one hand. The arm with the lost hand lay on top of his tunic. A mound of nautical rope behind him reminded all of his heroism at sea.

  “Nelson is one of my heroes.” Davies put his hand to his eyes to view the statue against the afternoon sky. “He led the country’s greatest naval victory against a Franco-Spanish fleet at the Battle of Trafalgar. My God, what bravery. Only to die when a French sharpshooter laid him low.” The inspector’s attention went to Felicity. “I must have been a naval officer in another life. How can you not dream of a sea adventure?”