“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Whoever wielded this weapon was strong, gathering from the depth of wound.” Half of the ax’s blade was buried in the back of Lord Wessex. “The weapon is in admirable condition. Polished and sharpened. From the location of the wound, the weapon probably pierced the heart and lungs, which would have caused fatal internal bleeding within minutes.” There was more to see. The victim’s trouser pockets had been yanked out. Scratches marred the ring finger on his left hand. She studied the angle of the weapon in the victim’s back and then clicked her tongue.
“What?” Davies asked.
“Inspector, don’t you see that the weapon leans toward the right? The killer must have been right-handed and very strong.”
Davies put out his hand to help her to her feet. She brushed dirt off her hands and skirt. While mad at him for not believing her theory, she was grateful he had allowed her to examine the body. “Why was he in the park at all, Inspector?”
“According to his wife, Lord Wessex went for a walk in the garden each evening before turning in. He did so last night, but also told her he was going to return to work on Jubilee business at Westminster after his stroll. As a result, Lady Wessex retired. A milk deliverer found the body.”
Felicity surveyed the park. A killer could easily conceal himself in the darkness under the many trees and tall bushes. She wanted to examine as many as possible.
“Where are you going?” Davies followed her.
“To look for clues. The killer hid somewhere and then sprang. The most obvious places would be close to the path.”
She checked the ground near several trees and bushes. Behind a large chestnut tree with branches almost touching the ground, she spotted a half-burned-down cigar and a match. With her gloved hands, she picked it up and inhaled. Strawberry and wood. She called Davies over to the spot.
“What did you find?” Davies said.
“A cigar. A pricy one.” She held it up to show him.
“How’d you reach that conclusion?”
“Expensive cigars are not usually sweet as taffy. This one is more like the kind my father used to smoke.”
“Not surprising at all. We’re in a pricy neighborhood.”
“Yes, but what kind of robber smokes such a costly cigar? This sort comes out of humidors and costs more than a shilling.”
“That cigar probably didn’t even belong to the killer.”
Since her outfit was already soiled, she got down on her knees and examined the ground with the magnifying glass. “Jackson, look. Deep boot marks in the ground. The murderer stood there for a while, smoking his cigar and waiting for Wessex.”
He bent down for a look. “Pure speculation.”
Ignoring him, she retrieved a ruler from her bag and measured the length of the print. “Almost eleven inches long.”
“An average size.”
“More than average. The man was probably six foot.”
“Why do you say that?”
“How many tall men have you seen with tiny feet?”
He didn’t answer.
“This also indicates the killer waited for Lord Wessex. The murderer must have known where he resided and about his habit of going for a walk at night. Therefore, this was not a random attack,” Felicity said.
“You can’t support that notion.” Still, he wrote the information down in his notebook.
A wagon arrived for the body.
“Well?” she asked.
“Interesting but inconclusive, like all of your theories.” Davies walked back toward the body.
Placing the cigar in her bag, she followed him. The morning sun was up and warming the park. “Before you remove the body, I would like to check the ax for fingerprints.”
“No.”
This man infuriated her. “Why?”
“Fingerprints carry no weight in any court in England. So there’s no need.”
She couldn’t argue because he was right about that point, only that point. “This is the fourth murder by the same killer.”
“Miss Carrol, this homicide is different from the others. Lord Thomas Wessex was robbed. and not of some King Arthur knickknack. He didn’t even own anything like that, according to his wife. Your theory is wrong.”
“What?”
Davies consulted his notebook. “His manservant said his lordship always carried two hundred pounds with him whenever he went out. Kind of an idio … idio …”
“Idiosyncrasy.”
“Yeah. One of those. Well, his wallet and the money are gone, along with his pocket watch and rings.” He returned the notebook to his pocket.
“That accounts for the pulled-out pants pockets and scratches on Wessex’s finger.”
“The killer did not take anything related to your King Arthur.”
“But a medieval weapon was used, just like the ones used on William Kent and Richard Banbury.”
He held up a finger. “Except for Elaine Charles. She was smothered. And you were correct about the cause of death, according to the postmortem.”
“Three of the victims were royals, for goodness’ sake, Jackson. That demonstrates a connection, a pattern.”
“So why did the killer leave the weapon this time, Miss Detective?”
“He probably ran out of time or heard someone coming. Try yanking out that ax, Mr. Detective.”
Davies attempted with one hand and then two. It barely moved away from the victim’s back. “All right. I can see why he left it behind.”
He signaled, and two men began loading the body into a wagon.
He brushed off his hands. “Maybe this is the work of some kind of lunatic who thinks he’s Sir Galahad reborn. Or an anarchist. In other words, your so-called connections are full of bloody holes. So many they could fill Buckingham Palace. These people were murdered because they had valuables someone else wanted. Time for you, Felicity Carrol of Carrol Manor, to retreat back into your money and books.”
“Inspector, I might agree a lunatic is involved, but one who employs weapons of medieval knights? Who chooses members of the royal family as his victims? You saw the painting. Their names were all there. The same person is responsible for all four murders.”
Davies held up his arms as if warding off her logic. She had to try another tack with him, although risk lay within. “Inspector, I told you the Marquis Thomas Wessex, a lord of England, was going to be the next victim, and you disregarded my warnings. So here we are, and he’s lying dead with an ax in his back. Aren’t you feeling a mite accountable for his death? Is that why you won’t listen?”
He glared. Her words had hit their mark in his sense of justice. Her voice turned intimate. “Jackson, you and I could have prevented his murder.”
His jaw tensed. “Constable Royce,” Davies called to an officer, who came running. “Please escort Miss Carroll to her carriage.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said the constable, who was built like he could carry her and her carriage. The officer saluted Davies and pointed his big chin toward the street. “Miss, shall we?”
“You aren’t going to kick me out of the park are you, Inspector?” Felicity said.
“Oh, yes, I am, Miss Carrol,” Davies said.
“Very well, but you have not heard the last from me.”
Davies turned back to the scene.
“Go on, there’s a good girl,” said the constable in a voice crushing as his physicality.
Felicity marched in front of him and walked to where Helen and Matthew waited near the carriage.
“Amateur,” the constable muttered loud enough for her to hear.
Felicity had tried all her life not to let words sting, but this one clipped into her like the battle ax buried in the back of Thomas Wessex.
* * *
Felicity lay on her bed. Not bothering with breakfast or luncheon, she had been there most of the day. Guilt crushed her chest, a load heavier than the Lord Nelson statute in Trafalgar Square. Every breath had to work its way thr
ough a maze of stony organs before leaving her body. She blamed herself for driving her father to a heart attack. She blamed herself for failing to save Thomas Wessex.
And her friendship with Jackson Davies had turned as cold as the body in the garden of Belgrave Square.
Not sleeping, she stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to crash down and send her into the void.
It didn’t.
After three hours, she shot up in bed. The pillows fell to the floor. Self-pity bored her worse than attending a ball with a gaggle of silly young people. As a young girl, she used to row out to the island on the lake to thrash about in self-pity over her father’s neglect and her loneliness. There she sank into the grass with her misery. After an hour, she would grow bored and start skipping stones on the water or eating the gooseberries on the many bushes. It took that long to understand feeling sorry for herself would not change a thing.
Felicity got up and smoothed the coverlet. She would just have to deal with the guilt about her father and Wessex. For how long? Forever, or until she forgave herself, whichever came first. The only other way to dispatch self-pity was to take action.
She would help another human who was in peril. The next name on the list of royalty who might be in danger.
Duke Philip Chaucer.
CHAPTER 24
Felicity gazed at her reflection in the water of the Serpentine Lake. An outcast wearing a nice dress and troubled face.
She had written to Duke Philip Chaucer asking him to meet her because she had an urgent matter to discuss. She didn’t want to involve the servants at the London house, so she’d thought of Hyde Park as a meeting place. She hadn’t been sure he would accept the invitation, but within hours, he had.
An unsettling thought arose as she waited. She didn’t want the duke to feel she was attempting to woo him into a relationship. When she had first spotted Chaucer at the Wheaton ball, other young women had talked about him as if he was a prize to be won. When they had met at William Kent’s funeral reception, his allure had been unmistakable. Yes, he was handsome and dashing and all those other verbs to describe a prince in a fairy story. But a captivating intelligence smoldered within him. To be truthful, it was darn near an inferno. As important, he had appeared to accept her for who she was—a young woman who valued education—and they had talked as contemporaries. That excited her as much as she didn’t want it to.
Turning around, she surveyed the scene in Hyde Park. Couples walked arm in arm. Parasols shaded women’s delicate faces against the sun while their gentlemen tugged at hats to greet other passing couples. Birds tweeted out of instinct and created a cheery sound. Boaters glided along the lake, missing swimmers chopping the water with arms and legs. Old men fed pigeons with bread crumbs from a paper bag. Nannies in black dresses walked their charges about in prams, while older children skipped ahead of their harried governesses. The air was freshened with cut grass and hope.
Like many places in London, the park had had its beginnings with royalty. The land had been owned by Westminster Abbey monks. Then Henry the Eighth basically took it away so he could hunt deer in the abundant woods. For one hundred years, the park remained a private hunting ground for monarchs, until Charles the First opened it up to commoners. George the Second’s wife Caroline saw to renovations, including the creation of Kensington Gardens and of the Serpentine Lake named for its snakelike form. Felicity believed it looked more like a bent ruler.
But Hyde Park had not always been filled with leisurely promenades or jolly picnics. It had also been the site of death and sorrow. Parliamentary troops had erected forts there during the civil war to defend London from royalist attacks. Noblemen dueled there. Londoners had camped out in the park to escape the Great Plague of 1665. And the pregnant wife of poet Percy Bysshe Shelley had drowned herself right in the Serpentine.
But on that bright day, the entire three hundred and fifty acres of the park appeared to be occupied with people having a good time. Even Helen, who sat a little ways away with her knitting, wore a peaceful expression. Standing on the stone Serpentine Bridge, Felicity sighed, unable to join their frivolities. Her dress weighed heavier than a sack cloth made from mortar.
Four people were dead, and she was far from a solution. She experienced an emotion she had not often felt.
Failure.
Glancing down into the lake, she clicked her tongue at the wavering reflection no longer belonging to Felicity Carrol. The face was that of the Lady of the Lake staring up and challenging her to stop her self-doubt. William Kent’s stolen manuscript and other writings had portrayed Nimue as a creature who worked to aid mankind. The Lady did not hide under the water, but arose to save Arthur and other knights. With Excalibur. With guidance. With love.
Be the Lady of the Lake. Aid mankind. That meant finding the killer.
“Miss Carrol.”
She jumped a little.
Duke Philip Chaucer stood a few feet away.
“Lost in thought, I was.” She gave the obligatory bow to a man of his station.
“You looked very picturesque on the bridge.”
“Probably more a wretched figure. Like Mrs. Shelley ready to dive into the water and float away to oblivion.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot about her.”
That charismatic smile sat on his lips as if placed there by the gods, if she believed in those sorts of things.
“You don’t come off as the type of woman to take her own life. I suspect endurance is in your marrow.” The duke took her hand and kissed it.
“The best praise I have ever received.” Perhaps he saw more strength in her than she did at that moment.
“Shall we have tea?” He pointed to a nearby café.
“I would like that. First I must inform my friend; otherwise she will worry. Helen is very protective of me.”
Felicity walked over to tell Helen of her plan. Helen started to rise, but Felicity touched her shoulder. “I shall be safe. He is a duke. Who wouldn’t be secure in the company of royalty?”
“The people beheaded by them.”
Felicity laughed, which felt good. “Helen, you are clever today.”
“I got it from you, Miss.”
“Shall I bring you back something from the café?”
“Just yourself, Miss. Safe and unharmed.”
The café sat on the edge of the Serpentine Lake. A small place with a few outdoor tables. The tea was weak, but Felicity believed the patrons were paying more for the atmosphere than the brew in their cups.
“So kind of you to meet me, Your Grace,” Felicity said. “You must be a busy man.”
“My pleasure.”
“What does a duke do, anyway?” The question slipped out.
He laughed. “Manage our estates and holdings, take part in the workings of the House of Lords, help with the operation of government. Those kind of dukely things.”
“A stupid question; forgive me.”
“Not at all.”
“I am honored you even remembered me after we met at Lord Kent’s funeral reception. That seems so long ago.” And yet Kent’s murderer had still not been caught.
His enigmatic face broke into a smile. “I have to say I find you very interesting, clever, and lovely, which is why I accepted your invitation.”
Her intellect usually prevented her from fully enjoying similar compliments from men. She wondered about their motivation. But this day, she found it hard to ignore the flattery.
Felicity nodded gratitude to the young man. “Then I am truly honored.” She folded her hands on the table. “As for the reason I asked you to meet me …”
His face feigned disappointment. “And I thought it was because you considered me appealing as well.”
“I do,” Felicity replied promptly, and grimaced slightly at the admission.
“Obviously, you want to discuss a serious matter. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so flippant.”
“I would like to talk murder. Specifically, the murders of William Ke
nt, Viscount Richard Banbury, and more recently Lord Wessex.”
He sat back. “Yes, dreadful.”
“What you may not be aware of is that medieval weapons were used to kill all three of them.”
“What has this to do with me, Miss Carrol?”
“William was my good friend. I’ve been conducting my own inquiry into the murders.” Her eyes scanned the nearby area to ensure no one was listening. They were alone. “Your Grace, I have reason to believe someone is killing members of the royal family. William, Lord Banbury, and Lord Wessex were in succession after the Queen’s children and grandchildren. You are next in that line and could be the next victim.”
He kept silent. His eyes set on her with a potent stare. No surprise, indignation, or even fright shaded his eyes, which astonished Felicity. She had just told him that a killer was targeting the Queen’s family. Was he so composed a person as to not show any emotion? Or did he have any emotion to give, despite his charm? What was he hiding behind those lovely gray eyes?
He tapped his fingers against the teacup. He wore no ring that day.
“You have talked to the police about this matter?” Chaucer said.
“Of course, but Scotland Yard is convinced robbery was the motive for the killings. Treasured King Arthur relics and art were taken from William and Lord Banbury. A young woman named Elaine Charles was also slain and her painting of Guinevere taken.”
His eyes stayed steady on hers. He picked up his cup and set it down without tasting the tea. “Say your suppositions are correct. The question is, why is this killer targeting the Queen’s relations?”
Felicity bit one side of her lip. “I haven’t determined his motive. I am confident that if I do, I will learn the identity of this murderer. I only ask that you use caution. If I am wrong”—she hated saying such a thing—“then no harm has been done, and forgive me for alarming you. But if I am right, your life might be saved.” She sat back.
The duke intertwined elegant fingers. “I believe you are quite wrong.”
Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit Page 19
