Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  He did say this quite politely, leaving her not so much offended as wanting to debate him. “Why do you say that, Your Grace?”

  “You attended university. You must have learned that, throughout history, man has always killed to take what he wants. Be it money, a woman, land, a throne. Or including, my dear Miss Carrol, a rare and priceless manuscript, a painting, and a tapestry about a fictional king. I submit you are romanticizing these murders and thefts.”

  “Continue.”

  “Consider this. Greed might indeed be the motivation for these murders, and not because the victims were titled. The stolen pieces were worth thousands of pounds. To some men, money is worth killing for.”

  His tone was not condescending but that of one talking with an equal. Felicity appreciated this, though she disagreed with what he was saying.

  “May I also point out that your theory is marred by two items, Miss Carrol. First, the deceased young woman was not a royal, and second, Wessex was not robbed of any King Arthur artifacts.”

  Was she so naïve? Because she had always had wealth, did she not consider that some people might kill just for gain? The crime stories she had read were chocked with such motivation.

  No, there were too many questions. “I do appreciate your view, Your Grace.”

  He winked. “Ah, but you do not agree.”

  “Let’s say I need more information before I make up my mind. In the meantime, I urge you to take care.”

  “I will. If only to please you.” He was smiling.

  “May I ask what is so humorous about this situation? Are you mocking me?” She couldn’t keep roughness out of her voice.

  “I’m not disparaging you at all, Miss Carrol. I’m smiling because I admire your bravery. That a young woman of your standing should put her reputation in jeopardy to warn me.”

  “This is my duty. I drew these conclusions from observations and reasoning by studying the crimes. William Kent was almost like a father to me. Because of that, I had no choice.” She didn’t mind being honest with Chaucer. He acted like a man who would not betray secrets.

  “You have gone to great lengths for William. I have many friends, and I don’t believe any would do the same for me.”

  “If they are true, they will. And, Your Grace, you are more fortunate than I in your number of friends.”

  Chaucer tilted his head. “I knew you were remarkable from our first meeting at William Kent’s house.”

  “Persistent more than remarkable. Shall we walk?” she said.

  Like other couples, they ambled along the lake banks, though not arm in arm.

  “When I saw you on the bridge, you stared into the water and were in the deepest of thought,” Chaucer said with empathy. “May I ask what you were thinking about?”

  “The Lady of the Lake,” Felicity answered. “She has been on my mind ever since the death of William Kent, along with the other tales of Arthur.”

  He gazed out at the placid lake. “Nimue. Such poetry in the name.”

  “ ‘A mist / Of incense curled about her, and her face / Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom; / But there was heard among the holy hymns / A voice as of the waters, for she dwells / Down in a deep.’ ” Felicity saw the words in her mind and recited.

  “Tennyson.”

  An educated man. Of course he knew the writing.

  “And what were you thinking about the Lady, Miss Carrol?”

  “How a character portrayed as lissome and ethereal turned out to be durable and forceful as the core of the earth. Without her, there would have been no Arthur. I wondered if she was down in the water of this lake waiting for another Arthur to appear and take Excalibur.”

  Chaucer smiled and glanced at the lake. “That would be something to witness.”

  They continued to stroll along the edge of the Serpentine Lake. Both looked out at the lake as a breeze slapped at the water, making it stir and ripple. Felicity was pleased Duke Chaucer had listened to her, though he didn’t appear convinced. It also crossed her mind to wonder if she might be jailed for unduly worrying a member of the royal house.

  CHAPTER 25

  “So this is Scotland Yard.” Felicity stood in front of the building. She had thought it might be as formidable as the Château d’If in France, where Edmond Dantès had been falsely imprisoned in The Count of Monte Cristo.

  She didn’t mind admitting she was let down. The Scotland Yard headquarters was ordinary as most London buildings. A structure of stone and shutters. The only thing setting it apart were the regular number of police officers going in and coming out of 4 Whitehall Place.

  In her hand, she clutched a copy of the Times.

  SUSPECTED KILLER OF MARQUIS THOMAS WESSEX CAPTURED

  She had to talk with Inspector Jackson Davies.

  After she asked for the inspector at the front reception, he came down the hall with a grin as if the case were all tied up with the prettiest of ribbons.

  “What a surprise. Well, maybe not. I was half expecting you,” he told Felicity.

  “You can’t believe this man is to blame.”

  “Let’s talk in my office.”

  He led her back down the hall. The building seemed populated only by men—if not officers, then others in suits like Davies. As she passed by them, they gave her a stern eye as if she had lifted the Crown Jewels.

  Davies’s office was a tiny space. Enough for a desk and chair. He had a pile of books in the corner. A window gave him a view of a wall.

  “Have a seat.”

  She did, but before she could talk, Davies started in. “The suspect’s name is Joe Crumb. Yesterday morning, he was arrested in Hyde Park. He was sleeping off a drunk under a tree on the other side of the park. The constable searched him and found these.”

  From his drawer, Davies took out a silver watch and two rings. “He also had Wessex’s wallet. All of the money was there except for ten pounds. It’d be no stretch of the imagination to say that Joe Crumb probably spent it on drink.”

  “There must be another explanation,” Felicity said. “Where would a drunken man get a medieval weapon to kill Lord Wessex? Surely you aren’t taking this seriously.”

  “You bet your fortune, I am. I don’t care where he got the ax; he had property from the victim. I’d call that evidence even if you don’t.” His voice took on a hardness of conviction.

  “Did the man say anything?”

  “Only that he was innocent.”

  “How did he explain having the wallet, rings, and watch?”

  Davies grinned. “Get this. He said he woke up and the items were in his pants pockets. He thought an angel put them there.”

  “May I speak with him?”

  “Why?”

  “To see for myself.”

  He blinked. “I do owe you. Wait here.”

  After a while, two constables brought in a man with dark-blond hair who was a head shorter than Davies. The stink of stale ale and cigarette smoke emitted from his clothes. Purplish veins colored the man’s otherwise wan cheeks, true signs he was a drinker. Torn, patched, and worn, his pants and shirt only barely resembled clothing. The man was as slender as a bad excuse. Perhaps in his early twenties, he had been aged beyond those years by drink. His red-lined eyes darted around the room with fear.

  “I ain’t done nothing, I tell you,” Joe Crumb said. “Never hurt no one, sir. Never even seen that money or those trinkets before.” His breath was fierce.

  “Then why did you have them in your pockets?” Davies said.

  Crumb batted at his head. “I can’t say how they even got there.”

  “Do you remember killing Lord Thomas Wessex two nights ago?” Davies said.

  “No, sir. But I can’t remember a lot anymore.”

  “What were you doing in the park at Belgrave Square if not to rob and kill a rich man?”

  Crumb shook his head with such force, Felicity worried he might hurt himself. “’Tweren’t me. I like sleeping it off there when the weather is nice. I
got a nice spot where the coppers can’t see me. Like most nights, I had too much to drink and fell asleep. Then next thing, some bobby’s kicking me feet and searching me pockets. I’m a drunkard, Mr. Inspector, sir. I got troubles enough without killing anyone.”

  “If you sleep in the park so often, you knew Lord Wessex’s habit of walking there.”

  Crumb began to sob. The red of his nose matched his cheeks. “I’m a peaceful lad, even when I’m in my cups.”

  “Mr. Crumb.” Felicity placed her arm on his.

  “You the angel who left those treasures with me?”

  “Afraid not. But maybe I can help you.”

  “Be most appreciative, Miss Angel.”

  She turned to Davies. “Were these the clothes he was wearing when you arrested him?”

  “I think they’re the only ones he’s ever owned.”

  Taking out her magnifying glass, she examined the ratty shirt and pants. “Now, please, turn out your pants pockets, Mr. Crumb.”

  He did. In both were rips the size of a fist.

  “May I also see the bottom of his shoes?” Felicity asked Davies.

  The constables looked to Davies, who nodded, but with so much reluctance his head barely moved.

  “Which foot?” one of the constables asked Felicity.

  “Doesn’t matter. I will also need a ruler, if you please.”

  The constable lifted the man’s right leg, causing Joe Crumb to close his eyes as if ready to sleep. She measured his shoe size. On the bottom was a hole in the middle the size of a halfpenny. She dared to lean closer to Crumb and took a long sniff. Crumb lifted his head to wink at her. A heavy dose of sweat and urine made her nauseous.

  “If you’re quite done fitting him for a shoe, I’d like to send Crumb back to his cell.” Davies pointed to the constables to remove the drunkard, who slumped and blubbered about his innocence as they took him away.

  Felicity stood up. “His shoe measured nine inches. Smaller than the print we found under the tree at the park. In addition, those prints were smooth. Joe Crumb has a hole in his shoe, which would have showed up in the soft ground. He stinks, but not like the cigar butt left on the ground. There are no traces of blood on his clothing. And I doubt he could swung an ax hard enough to penetrate a piece a cheese. Inspector, this man could not have killed Lord Wessex.”

  “You’re assuming those were the killer’s prints by the tree.”

  “Then may I also point out that because of the sizable holes in his pockets, he would have a hard time keeping anything in them, much less the watch and rings.”

  He scowled. “The wallet, watch, and rings are evidence he is guilty.” Davies tapped a foot. “I’m sorry this suspect didn’t fit your shoe idea.”

  If Crumb hadn’t killed Wessex, it was obvious he hadn’t killed the others. She wanted to yell about Joe Crumb’s innocence. Remain calm, Felicity, she had to remind herself.

  “One other item. Thornton Rawlins and his brother Robert the art thief were in Paris at the time William Kent was killed. And we can’t find anything at the shop to link them to the murders of Lord Banbury and Elaine Charlies. They will, however, still be going to prison for a long time for their stealing.”

  She had hoped for better news.

  “As for the killer of Lord Thomas Wessex, we have our man.”

  With as much certainty as she could marshal, she looked right at Davies. “Inspector, you’re making the gravest of mistakes.”

  * * *

  As soon as she entered the shop, Felicity’s eyes watered from the concentration of tobacco.

  Not being a smoker, she had no idea where to start and had asked her driver Matthew for help. He knew where to go. He had seen a shop near the office of her solicitor, Martin Jameson.

  Walking into Monroe Cigars was another first for her. A maiden entry into the world of men and their tobacco.

  A salesman with a neat mustache lifted profuse eyebrows at her. “May I help you, Miss?”

  From her bag, she produced the cigar she had found in the park where Wessex was killed.

  “Can you please identify this brand?” she asked the man, and held out the cigar stub.

  He reached for it, but she didn’t want him to smear any fingerprints she would attempt to record later. “I will hold it, if you don’t mind.”

  His eyebrows went even higher. “Very well.” He sniffed the cigar and in an instant answered, “This brand is a Hollinger. Strawberry and oak scent and taste. Delicious.”

  “Expensive?”

  “Very.” His smile was frightening.

  “Do you sell them?”

  “Of course. Many cigar shops do, or should I say the exclusive shops selling the most refined brands,” the salesman said.

  “Can you tell me who buys this brand?”

  “My dear madam. We never reveal the identity of our clientele.”

  Felicity placed the cigar back into her bag but pulled out a fifty-pound note. She gave an innocent smile. “Can’t I persuade you?”

  “No, you can’t.” He gasped with indignation.

  “I suppose the other shops will tell me the same thing.” She replaced the money in her bag.

  “Only the reputable ones selling Hollingers,” the salesman replied.

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  He grinned with satisfaction. “Would you like to purchase a box for your husband?”

  She did buy one because the salesman had told her the brand. She would hand them out to the servants at the London house.

  Felicity still visited six other shops selling expensive cigars. The salesmen there repeated what she had already learned. The cigar dropped by the killer of Thomas Wessex was a Hollinger, a costly and popular one among those who could afford them. They also refused to identify their customers.

  Leaving the last shop, she dragged her feet with disappointment until she remembered the important fact she had learned. The killer had a gentleman’s taste in cigars and could afford to buy one of the best.

  Nearing five o’clock, she directed her driver to Landon and Son. Through the window of the shop, she saw Landon Senior shutting off the gaslights. A CLOSED sign hung on the door. She knocked and waved.

  “Miss Carrol.” His voice and smile were most welcoming as he unlocked the door and let her inside.

  “Good to see you, too, Mr. Landon. I’m sorry to bother you at this time of the day, but I had a question about medieval battle axes.”

  His large face broke into another smile. “The Scotland Yard inspector has already been here to ask about them. He even produced a superb fourteenth-century battle ax.”

  “And what did you say, Mr. Landon?”

  “That I had never seen that ax before.”

  Her shoulders drooped.

  “You all right? Would you like a glass of water?”

  “I’m fine. Tired is all.”

  “Do you mind if I continue closing up the shop?”

  “Not at all. May I help?”

  “All under control.” He shut off more of the gaslights. “I asked the inspector whether I could purchase the ax, but he told me it came out of the back of a marquis of England. I changed my mind about buying it.”

  “Totally understandable. I will take my leave, Mr. Landon. You have been most kind.” She left her card. “Please send word if you come across any information about the ax or anything else of interest related to the murders.”

  Landon said he would and walked her to the front. In the unlit shop, the armaments on the walls turned sinister with their sharp edges and points.

  “These medieval weapons have become antiques and are meant for those people who appreciate history,” she said to the older man. “Such a pity they have been used to kill again.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Felicity had read about the Café Royal on Regent Street in Dickens’s Dictionary of London. The book was a grand resource for activities and places within the city. Previously, she hadn’t had a chance to consul
t the guide because her days and nights had been taken up with schooling and those silly social events her father had asked her to attend.

  When she had gotten home the previous evening, she had found a note from Duke Philip Chaucer asking her to meet him there the next day.

  Arriving fifteen minutes early, she asked for a seat in the corner of the opulent restaurant. Gold-colored ornamentations adorned the ceiling and pillars. The café air was fragrant with sweet pastry and mild tea. She smiled as she mentally compared the Café Royal to the simple restaurant where Inspector Jackson Davies had taken her near the coroner’s office. The places were a continent apart even though they were located on the same island.

  And such was the distance between Davies and Chaucer. Far apart in rank they were. One a duke, the other a police officer. One wealthy, the other decidedly not. She had no interest in the money or their station in society. More beguiling were their other differences. Such as how they wore their clothing. Chaucer engaged his costly suits with aplomb, as if they were part of his title. Davies occupied his clothes, sturdy as brick making up a building. Both fine-looking men. Davies’s manner was straightforward as the law. The duke’s was indefinable, which made her only want to learn more.

  Felicity checked her watch. Few people sat in the café. When she had told Helen of the invitation, her friend had been horrified. The very idea that her young mistress would meet a gentleman at a public restaurant with no chaperone. But then, Felicity had expected this reaction.

  “He is a duke,” she had told Helen.

  “I don’t care if he’s Prince Albert himself. What will people say?”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t care. He may have important information about the murders.”

  Before she left, Felicity kissed Helen’s cheek. “The year is 1887, my dear. If this country can enjoy steam engines and electricity, England can accept a woman meeting a man for tea. And if this makes you feel any better, our discussion will be all business. Besides, Matthew will drive me.”

  “How do you know he wants to talk business?”

  “What else could it be?” Felicity hadn’t given thought to the duke courting her, nor would she.

  “I will still say a prayer,” Helen had replied.