Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  “I do appreciate you sharing your dream with me, but we are wasting time,” Felicity said. Her arms shot out. She couldn’t seem to control her limbs. She wanted to run. “We must find Lord Thomas Wessex straightaway.”

  Davies took off his hat and swiped a hand through his thick hair. “Felicity, I respect your intellect. But …”

  She was beginning to hate that word. But.

  “You can’t expect me to go to a member of the royal family, a knight of the realm, and tell him he is in jeopardy based on the suspicions of a young woman who is playing detective.”

  Her excitement at the discovery in the gallery gave way to disappointment. Her mouth tasted chalk. “My late father used the same phrase. Playing detective.”

  “There is only one detective on this case.” Davies looked away as soon as he spoke.

  “I thought we were friends, Jackson.”

  “We are. That evening by the lake, you trusted me enough to talk about your father.” His voice was kind. “I was so grateful you let me into your life.”

  She took his hands. “Because I did have faith in you not to betray my confidence, and that we could understand each other. Besides Helen, I counted you as someone I could talk with and share what was inside of me.”

  “Felicity …”

  “And I have shared the facts I have gathered on this case.”

  “That is not enough.” The kindness in his voice disappeared. He pulled his hands out of hers and took a step back. “I have listened to your theory. Although interesting … it is a theory and, I believe, a poor one.”

  The inflexible man she had first met in the British Museum had returned. Uncompromising as ever.

  Fatigue sank into her very bones. “Friends believe in each other. I thought you would trust me at this point. Near the lake you admitted these killings were odd. Well, the killing of royalty is supremely odd. No, it is extraordinary.”

  “If I tell my superiors about this, I will come off as a madman and you will come off even worse.”

  “I don’t care about what people think of me. Not when someone’s life is threatened.”

  “You’re brave as well as smart, Felicity.” He placed his hat back on his head. “But you should care about such things. If the newspapers find out and report how you unnecessarily alarmed a member of the royal house, your companies could be in trouble. Your income.”

  “I don’t give a hang about the money.”

  “You should. You should care about all the people who make a living at your mills and shipping line. All the people who work in your houses. What will happen to them? Have you thought about that?”

  “No.” She hadn’t, and the answer parched her tone. She swallowed. “Then it is up to you to warn him. You are the Scotland Yard inspector, as you so vividly pointed out.”

  “I’m sorry, Felicity. I just can’t.” His voice lowered. “I don’t believe what you believe.” He began to walk away.

  His words amounted to a blow to her stomach by a mallet swung by a giant. “Inspector Davies.” Her tone was as chilled as the bottom of the Atlantic.

  He stopped and turned to look at her.

  She pointed up at the statue of Nelson atop the picturesque column. “Are you familiar with your hero’s famous quote? ‘England expects that every man will do his duty.’ Isn’t it your duty to warn Lord Wessex he is in jeopardy?”

  Davies dug his hands in his pockets and walked away.

  Felicity glanced up at the naval hero on the pedestal. Lord Nelson, if he isn’t going to do his duty, I will.

  * * *

  The clerk eyed Felicity as if she was Mrs. Guy Fawkes ready to blow up Parliament with explosives packed in her small purse. “Lord Wessex has no time to see anyone, Miss Carrol.”

  “This is urgent, please,” Felicity said.

  “Can you state the nature of the urgency?”

  Felicity blushed. How could she tell this clerk that the Marquis Thomas Wessex could be the next victim of a murderer? She had to talk with Wessex personally to explain. That way the man would understand and take caution. “I can wait until he has time.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Is he in a meeting with the House of Lords?”

  “No, he is working in his chambers.”

  “May I go see him there?”

  “He gave instructions not to be bothered.” The clerk neatened his tie, which wasn’t crooked in the first place. “Lord Wessex is one of the organizers of Her Majesty’s Jubilee celebration.” He bowed his head when he mentioned the Queen. “In fact, earlier today, Lord Wessex signed off on a commemorative bust of the Queen by sculptor Francis John Williamson. So you can see, Miss, he is a very busy man.”

  “If I can’t meet with him, please give him this message.”

  The clerk picked up a fountain pen and shook it. Then he placed a piece of paper on the desk before him, smoothing the paper with his hand. The movements all slower than a Galapagos tortoise just waking from a nap. “Proceed, Miss.”

  “I must talk with Lord Wessex because it is a matter of life or death.”

  “Whose life? Whose death?” he almost giggled.

  “Please write it down.”

  He wrote “life or death” on the paper and placed the words in quotes, but didn’t stir a muscle as he did so. “I am sure the matter is important to you, Miss Carrol, but Lord Wessex is extremely occupied.”

  “Is he accepting visitors at his home? Where does he live?”

  She might as well have slapped the clerk on his freckled face.

  “Unless you are a personal friend, business associate, or on government business, I would not advise visiting Lord Wessex at his home.” His words became terse syllables.

  “Does he collect King Arthur artifacts?”

  “I have no information about his hobbies.”

  Felicity breathed out, handed the clerk her card, and wrote down the address of her London home on the back. “Please have him get in touch with me as soon as possible. I cannot stress how important it is that I speak with him.”

  The clerk took her card as if it was dipped in Fawkesian gunpowder. He placed it on the far corner of his desk, where she was sure the card would be forgotten or likely dispatched into the refuse.

  “I shall come tomorrow and wait,” she said.

  “Tomorrow is Saturday. The government offices are closed.”

  Felicity had forgotten. She might have to track the potential victim down another way. She curtsied to the man and he bowed, although she wanted to snap a finger on his ear.

  Not sure whether Thomas Wessex was a member of the House of Lords, she took a gamble and headed to the Palace of Westminster to warn him. Westminster was the meeting place for the House of Lords and House of Commons, which made up the Parliament of Great Britain. Sure enough, Wessex was a member of the House of Lords, but she couldn’t get past the maddening clerk there either.

  Discouraged, Felicity stopped in the octagon-shaped Central Lobby where the corridors from the two houses and Westminster Hall met. Grand mosaics and windows decorated the vaulted ceiling of the lobby. On the wall were mosaic panels portraying patron saints. Statues of the past kings and queens of England also stared down at the visitors. What history had passed through these doors and over the floors! The first royal palace had been built on the site in the eleventh century. Coronations and courts took place in Westminster Hall. A fire had destroyed the palace in 1834, but its subsequent rebuilding had turned the structure into the grand center for England’s government.

  Felicity paced the beautifully tiled floor. She didn’t have time to appreciate the splendor or the history right then. She was set on locating Thomas Wessex.

  The House of Lords was located south of the Central Lobby, the House of Commons to the north. Waiting for the clerk to turn away, she hurried down the hall to the House of Lords chamber. Attempting to look like she belonged there, she strolled down the arched and splendid hallway searching for a door belonging to Wessex’s c
hamber. She had seen his portrait at the National Gallery, so she knew whom to look for. A man with a noble, somewhat haughty face. Small eyes and mouth. Neat beard and mustache and dark hair behind a receding hairline. She didn’t know his height.

  The doors she did find were all locked, and she didn’t come across anyone to give her directions to Wessex’s chamber. Continuing on, she came to a door marked PUBLIC GALLERY. If the House of Lords was in session, she would wait and attempt to find him after the proceedings.

  She opened the door and stepped onto the gallery above the chamber. On the floor below were raised red benches running along both sides of the gigantic, opulent room. The benches were unoccupied. At the end of the chamber, the sumptuous and gilded Queen’s throne sat vacant. The tall stained-glass windows spread marvelous light on the emptiest of places.

  “Sorry, the House of Lords isn’t meeting today, young lady.”

  She spun. An older man carried a pile of papers. Wrinkles dominated his face, but his blue eyes belied his age.

  “Can you tell me where I might find the chamber of Lord Thomas Wessex?”

  “He just left Westminster for a meeting. He won’t be coming back today that I know of.”

  “Can you give me his address in London?”

  “’Fraid not, Miss. I’m only a clerk toting around the paperwork for them high-and-mighties.”

  She sat down.

  “When the place is bare like it is this afternoon, I often come here for the peace.” The older man sat down, also. “But when it’s filled with them lords, there’s too much talk and debate. Even shouting. I guess that’s what we call a working government.”

  Felicity returned to her carriage.

  The gigantic gothic building ascended behind her with its spires aimed at the skies. The Victorian tower with the gigantic clock and the massive reflection of the Palace of Westminster wavered on the Thames. They made her feel even smaller for her unsuccessful mission.

  She asked Matthew to drive her to the office of Morton & Morton, who might be able to find the home address of Lord Thomas Wessex. Once there, she discovered that the offices were closed for the weekend. She rattled the doors but chided herself for not making the request sooner.

  At home, she pulled her knees into her chest and wrapped her arms around herself in defeat. The clock’s ticking reverberated the setback. One minute, two minutes, three minutes. She could have been a prisoner in the Tower of London, fearing for the dawn and the executioner’s ax in the square.

  One hour, two hours gone. Now, three.

  Time was coursing on for Lord Thomas Wessex, and she could not stop it.

  CHAPTER 23

  Delivered by a clerk of Morton & Morton, the message arrived at five thirty in the morning to the London house. Felicity had paid the solicitor firm a retaining fee to keep her informed of anything out of the ordinary involving people of wealth or nobility. Murder was definitely out of the ordinary.

  If such a message should arrive, Felicity had asked the servants to wake her at any time of the night. And so, in her nightgown and robe and carrying a candle, Helen brought up the note from the solicitor firm to Felicity’s bedroom.

  Body of wealthy man found in Belgrave Square garden. Police arrived at the scene. Identity of victim unknown.

  “Please ask Matthew to bring out the carriage, Hellie,” Felicity said. “We’re going out.”

  Her friend curtsied and left.

  Felicity washed her face in the basin to wake but didn’t need the water. Her senses pulsed. Her dread swelled. Morton & Morton had no information about the victim, but she was certain who it was before taking a step outside her house.

  She closed her eyes and saw the body of Thomas Wessex lying in the garden. If she was wrong, she would give up this investigation. But she knew she wasn’t wrong.

  As she dressed, her feet were ponderous as stone and her brow perspired with guilt, which was turning into an unwanted acquaintance. Felicity felt her chest go taut as a sail in a high wind. She couldn’t save Thomas Wessex. She should have found his house and gone there. Beaten at the door until let in. Convinced him he had been targeted for death.

  She should have. Tears formed in her eyes and she wiped them away roughly with her hand. Use these feelings to become stronger and find the murderer, she told herself. Tears do no good.

  Felicity hurried down the steps where Helen waited.

  “Where we going this time?” Helen asked.

  “Belgrave Square,” Felicity replied.

  “At least your murderer is staying in the nice part of London.”

  * * *

  The garden of Belgrave Square was a tranquil summer refuge with trees downy as green clouds and a lush mat of grass. One of the oldest squares in the city, the property had been arranged for the first Marquis of Westminster and named for one of the Duke of Westminster’s other titles, Viscount Belgrave. Encompassing almost five acres of chestnut and lime trees, grass, hedges, shrubs, and gravel paths, the garden appeared to be a personal oasis for the wealthy who owned surrounding homes. The area was serene and untouched, really, except for the dark uniforms of the Metropolitan Police encircling a body at the north end. Helen grimaced at the sight.

  “Why don’t you wait in the carriage, Hellie.” Felicity placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You probably won’t like what you see.”

  “Probably not. Please be careful, Miss Felicity.” Helen headed back to the carriage on the street.

  “I’ll be back soon, soon as the police throw me out, that is.”

  Helen started to smile, but then her face went somber as if remembering why they were there.

  The pinkish light of morning tinted the sky. Milkmen delivered their wares to the elegant houses surrounding the garden. A horse tugging along a milk cart clomped on the stone street as the day began. Besides the vendor and the police, Felicity was the only visitor to the scene. She noticed Inspector Jackson Davies standing off to the side. He inspected the victim’s body with a look of distress. He raised his head and saw her. His face crumpled with irritation.

  Why did she have such an effect on men? Felicity asked herself. Was her interest in murder all that outrageous? No matter. She would rather he be annoyed at her than flattering and fawning. To Felicity’s ultimate surprise, the inspector motioned for her to approach the circle of men.

  As she came closer, several of the constables rolled their eyes and shook their heads at the sight of a woman in fashionable attire approaching a body. Felicity dipped her head to them to gain entry to a secret club of men.

  “Miss Carrol.” Davies moved his head in a less-than-inviting way.

  Obviously, he didn’t want the other police officers to know they were friends. Make that former friends. “Inspector. May I examine the body?”

  “Let her pass.” Davies told the officers. They moved aside like a gate.

  In her studies, she had seen cadavers in her medical classes. But examining the recently dead was another matter. The body was a pitiful sight. Love. Ambitions. History. Memories. They had all departed like the breath from what was once a man. In this case, they had been robbed by a killer.

  She leaned down to examine the face, white with mortality. “Lord Thomas Wessex,” she said quietly.

  “How’d you know?”

  Felicity raised her eyebrows.

  “Never mind,” he said.

  Davies wore his predictable black suit, though it was a bit rumpled. He had gotten ready in a hurry. One of the buttons on his shirt was askew. The stubble on his cheeks and chin was substantial.

  She leaned in closer.

  “How did you even find out about the body in Belgrave Square?” he said.

  “Informants, Inspector Davies. The best money can buy.”

  “I wish I could afford them.” His hands tightened on the notebook and pencil he held. “Go ahead, then. Have a look.”

  The body lay on its front. The head of an ax penetrated the middle of its back, almost square b
etween the shoulder blades. A metal handle, which was as long as her arm, rode down the victim’s body. In the dim light, the blood from the wound was dark as mortality.

  She focused on the victim. The deceased’s hair was immaculately cut and perfectly in place despite his position on the ground. From its appearance, his clothing had been tailored especially for him. The soles of his shoes were not worn. Even in death, his face held nobility. His left arm was at his side, but his right arm and hand were stretched out, as if reaching. She looked up in the direction where the dead man pointed. A terraced house with Corinthian pillars. A constable stood out front.

  “His home is right over there,” Davies said.

  “Dying within sight of his home and family. This is a horror,” she said.

  “Since you’re here, you might be able to help. You being a student of history and all,” Davies said. “What can you tell me about the murder weapon? That is, if you aren’t going to faint or anything.”

  “I never faint,” she replied.

  A few of the officers snickered.

  Davies threw a lethal look at them. “Settle down, officers. This lady is an expert in weapons of the Medieval Ages. If you all can tell me about this old ax, I will send her home.”

  The officers quit snickering.

  From her bag, Felicity took out the magnifying glass. “Oh well,” she said with a shrug. With no other choice, she knelt down on the gravel path and bent over to examine the weapon. The single ax-head had been polished, judging by the shine. “The ax and haft are made of steel, Inspector.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  “Quite old, from the etchings on the blade. Probably late fourteenth century, when battle axes were constructed all of metal. This is the weapon of a knight.”

  “I thought they used only swords.”

  “Not at all. Richard the Lionheart wielded many an ax in his battles. As did King Stephen of England in the Battle of Lincoln and Robert the First of Scotland at the Battle of Bannockburn. I could go on.”