Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  The Duke arrived right on time. The sunlight through the windows cast him in an agreeable light.

  She rose and bowed. “Your Grace, thank you for the invitation.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.” He motioned for her to sit.

  A young waiter in an immaculate white apron appeared with a silver tea service, which he placed down before them.

  “I ordered tea, unless there was something else you wanted,” Felicity said.

  “Tea is fine.”

  The young waiter poured them each a cup and left as quickly as he had arrived.

  “Do you often come here?” Chaucer asked.

  “Never.”

  He laughed. “Miss Carrol, I don’t believe I have ever met anyone like you.” His smile could have been a magnet.

  “I am nothing special, Your Grace.”

  “I must disagree with you there.”

  They tasted the tea, which was smooth with a trace of orange.

  She placed her hands on her lap, ready to talk homicide. “May I ask why you wanted to see me?”

  “Do I need a reason?”

  “What?” She almost choked on her tea.

  “I have thought about you quite often after our meeting at Hyde Park.”

  Was he courting her? No. Perhaps he just liked talking with someone other than royalty. “I don’t know what to say, Your Grace.” And she really didn’t. Yet, there he sat across from her, and she would put the time to good use—more than romance. “Police say they have caught the man who killed Lord Wessex.”

  He nodded.

  “However, Scotland Yard can’t link that suspect to the murders of William, Lord Banbury, or Elaine Charles.”

  “So what does that tell you?”

  Felicity paused before answering to give heft to what she was about to say. “That the murderer is still out there, and you should remain cautious.”

  Chaucer sat back.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Miss Carrol, your determination is quite extraordinary.”

  Now she smiled. “I believe some find it maddening.” She thought about Inspector Davies. “I know you probably wanted a pleasant tea, but your safety and finding the killer is a priority to me.”

  “Quite extraordinary.”

  Felicity could accept that praise.

  “I understand your father recently died. My sincere condolences.” He put a hand over his heart.

  “I was a disappointment to him. He desired a daughter who fit nicely into society and marriage. I didn’t suit his vision.” She sipped her tea and placed the cup down. “And your father? Is he still living?”

  “He died when I was twelve.”

  His tone was similar to hers. The duke must have had the same relationship with his father as I had with mine, Felicity thought. “I am an orphan now. My mother died when I was less than a year old. Is your mother alive?”

  “She passed three years ago. My mother was a singular person.”

  His voice became husky and his eyes glittery as the sun’s reflection on water. Felicity’s mouth widened. Until that point, Duke Chaucer had given the impression of a young man who would never allow sentiment to fracture his composure. But fracture it did at the mention of his mother. Felicity was more intrigued than ever.

  “She must have been a very special woman,” she said.

  “My mother was passionate in her belief in me and my place in the world. She made me realize my purpose. You could say she helped mold my existence and reason for being.” He turned to Felicity, his eyes blinking gently as if waking from a dream. “Too little expectations are as arduous as too many, I fear.”

  She shuffled her feet under the table at what she believed was a bond that had formed between them, on her part anyway. He was an orphan, too. He appeared to be holding on to great emotion but was fearful of letting anyone see it. Chaucer was like a complex mathematical formula. How different from Jackson Davies. The inspector placed all his thoughts on the table as if serving up a roast beef dinner—even those thoughts she didn’t care to hear.

  Chaucer’s reserve returned. He took a drink of tea, sipped, and set down the cup. “Have you learned anything new in your investigation?”

  “Only what I have mentioned, Your Grace. It’s sad to think the tale of Arthur has been mixed up with these terrible crimes.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I loved the stories. As a young girl, I wanted to be a knight. To carry a sword and slay dragons.”

  “You would have made a spectacular one.”

  “Being related to a queen, you must also have imagined yourself a Knight of the Round Table.”

  “What boy didn’t? One time I took my father’s fusilier sword from his study, threw it into a pond, and then drew it out, pretending I was taking Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake.” His voice could have been that of a youngster. “I returned it to the study but forgot to dry it, so the sword left an awful puddle. My father was very cross.”

  She laughed. “Do you collect any Arthurian treasures, Your Grace?”

  “Only a few items, and nowhere near what my late cousin William Kent had gathered.” He smiled again, pouring on charm thick as pudding.

  “Small as your collection is, has anyone ever attempted to steal or buy any of your Arthurian artifacts?”

  He gave his head a slight shake, and she didn’t hide her disappointment.

  “Not the answer you expected?” he said.

  “The unexpected is common for this case,” she said.

  He reached out to touch her hand. “Am I just a case?”

  “Much more than that. You are someone to be protected.”

  “Then I shall keep watch. I promise. And please call me Philip.”

  “Is that allowed?” She knew many things, but dealing with royalty had not topped her list of educational priorities.

  “If I say it is.” The duke checked his watch. His eyes shifted toward the entrance.

  “I’m afraid I’m keeping you,” she said.

  “I have an appointment. But I do hope I may see you again.”

  “That would be nice.” Unfortunately, she meant it.

  “Let me escort you out.”

  The front entrance was decorated with four pillars and a crown above the Café Royal sign. The day was already hot. The sounds on Regent Street blared after the quiet of the café.

  “Until we meet again.” Chaucer took her hand and bent down to kiss it. When he rose, his eyes shifted fleetingly across the street and then back to Felicity. She gazed in that direction, also.

  A silhouette of a man with a crossbow stood on the roof of a building across Regent Street. He aimed the weapon at them. “Watch out!” Felicity pushed Chaucer to the ground and dove down beside him.

  Thwap. Thud.

  “Really!” Chaucer huffed at her push.

  All around them, women screamed and men scattered.

  A metal bolt was imbedded in the pillar behind where they had stood. Felicity scanned the top of the building. The assailant was gone.

  She stood up and pointed to the bolt, which resembled the one that had killed William Kent in the British Museum. “This is why I pushed you out of the way.”

  Chaucer stood and inspected the thick, arrowlike object. “I must admit I was a bit skeptical about your assertions, Felicity. But this is reality.”

  “Someone call a constable,” a few people muttered in the crowd.

  Felicity had to move and didn’t have much time. “I can’t stay. I must remain in the background.” She feigned panic and hoped he didn’t detect her falsehood. She wanted to search the building across the street for any evidence that might have been left behind by the man who had tried to kill Duke Chaucer. Certainly this was the same man who had murdered William Kent and the others.

  “I shan’t mention your name. Leave, and we’ll talk soon.” Chaucer turned back to inspect the metal object that would have ended up in his head if she hadn’t pushed him out of the way.


  Hurrying across the busy street, she promised herself to buy shoes more suitable for running. She slid here and there in the small-heeled boots she wore as she ducked the horse-and-carriage traffic, as well as the manure on the street.

  The killer had stood on the roof of a dressmaker’s shop named Madeline’s. Felicity rushed in through the door. A young woman with stacks of blonde curls on her head swiveled in her direction. The clerk wore glasses and a pinched face as if her high collar had strangled all the zest out of her.

  Before the woman could speak, Felicity asked, “Has anyone visited this shop in the last ten minutes?”

  “No, Miss.”

  “Is there a back entrance?”

  The clerk pointed to a door at the rear of the shop. “Would you like to see our newest fashion?”

  “I would like to see the roof.”

  Felicity’s questioning was so vigorous, the woman clerk answered, “Through the door.”

  Felicity ran to where the clerk pointed. The door opened to a neat room with two sewing machines, shelves of fabric, and dressmaker forms. At the back end was a wooden door flung wide open. She ran into the alley. The man was gone, but she hadn’t expected he would be hanging around after attempting to kill a duke of England. The killer had vanished as if he had never been there.

  Gathering up her dress, Felicity rushed up the wooden stairs two flights. Another door opened to a flat roof with a waist-high ledge around it. She bent down, seeking any clues. A cigar smoldered. She sniffed it.

  “Hollinger,” she said out loud. The same variety as the one she had found at the Belgrave Square garden where Thomas Wessex was slain.

  Felicity peeked over the ledge. Several police officers talked with Duke Chaucer, who pointed at the shop. She replaced the cigar where she had found it. This was evidence, and she hoped the police would pick up the clue. Besides, she had the cigar remnant she had collected near Wessex’s body to examine further.

  Finding nothing else, Felicity ran down the stairs and back into the shop. Through the front window, she saw two constables dash across busy Regent Street. They were slowed by a stream of carriages. Calming her breathing, she hurried to a display of dresses and gowns on forms and ran her fingers over the fabric of one. The police officers charged into the shop.

  “I am so very interested in having this gown made for me,” Felicity told the clerk, whose confusion was enough that Felicity thought she might swoon.

  “Has anyone come through here?” one of the officers asked the woman.

  “This lady was just …” the clerk began.

  “I simply must have it for a ball.” Felicity interrupted and actually noticed the dress she was touching. An awful purple gown with frills and lace enough to stifle every woman in London. “So lovely.” She tried to sound enthusiastic.

  “Excuse me, Miss, but this is police business,” one of the officers told Felicity, and turned back to the saleswoman. “How do we get to the roof?”

  The clerk pointed the same way she had for Felicity.

  The constables ran toward the door.

  Felicity breathed and approached the young woman. “I am grateful you didn’t tell the officers about me. An acquaintance of mine was almost killed by someone on your roof.”

  The saleswoman paled and swayed.

  “There, there. The man did survive,” Felicity said.

  The girl swayed again.

  “Terrible things are afoot in the world, and you should get used to them.” Felicity slid a twenty-pound note from her bag and handed it to the saleswoman, who did not sway as much. “For your troubles and your silence about my visit to the roof.”

  “Do you still want to order the dress?” the clerk asked.

  “Not really my color.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Felicity had not returned to Carrol Manor since her father’s funeral. She had been living in the London house. But she realized she had to return to make sure nothing required her attention. She doubted anything would, given the efficiency of the people who worked there. However, she was mistress of the estate now and accepted the responsibility. The house was not only her home but also home to the many servants working there. Yet the thought of Carrol Manor unsettled her, as if her father’s ghost might haunt her.

  Before departing London, she had stopped at the firm of Morton & Morton to ask that they also research the life of Duke Philip Chaucer. There might be a clue in his background as to why he had also been targeted for murder. While she was there, a clerk handed her a packet of information on Elaine Charles and Lord Thomas Wessex.

  Felicity’s arrival at the manor later in the morning allayed her dread about returning there. The atmosphere among the servants seemed light, as if a holiday had been declared. They smiled and greeted her with a “Welcome back.” Fresh flowers in vases decorated the house. The men whistled while doing their chores, and the females appeared to have added a skip to their step.

  Her late father’s style of dealing with the servants had fluctuated from domineering to disregard. Without him there, they might be feeling a measure of freedom. Then again, she might be placing her own impressions on them.

  Making a quick tour of the house, she saw that everything was in order. She complimented Horace Wilkins on the good condition of the house.

  “If that is all, Miss Carrol,” he replied, with indifference to her praise.

  “Good to be home,” she said out loud after Wilkins had left.

  She was happy to chat with head groundskeeper John Ryan, who was working with builders on her new laboratory west of the manor. The plans called for a small building with many shelves and counters, as well as electricity. She had already ordered laboratory equipment, including the most up-to-date microscope she could locate. Ryan approved of the plan and even suggested expanding the ventilation system. Felicity had not taken that feature into account and grinned at the idea.

  “Maybe I will invent something of worth one day,” she told Ryan while they studied the plans.

  “I’m sure of it,” he replied, “if you don’t blow up the place first.”

  While eating dinner, she read the financial reports of the family’s holdings sent on by Martin Jameson. As she did, the food became tasteless. She had no idea of the breadth of her father’s business. She should have asked, but he wouldn’t have told her.

  Tired of those papers, she went to the library and started in on the reports from Morton & Morton about Elaine Charles and Lord Wessex. Each of the victims had led an exemplary life with no suggestion of scandal. Although Elaine’s heart condition had been worrisome, she had done well with the ailment. She had headed a few charities but mostly remained close to her home, probably because of her heart. Neither she nor Lord Wessex had had any enemies the firm’s investigators could uncover, nor had they attended the King Arthur exhibit reception before William Kent’s murder. Aside from the painting in Elaine’s bedroom, neither was a collector of King Arthur relics.

  Wessex had been in excellent health and was dedicated to his wife and young son. In addition to his spot in the House of Lords, Wessex was one of the architects of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee celebrations, which Felicity did know. From the reports, both of the victims appeared to be fine people, and it upset her that they had been so cruelly dispatched.

  Placing down the reports, she dismissed robbery as the primary motive. Three of the victims were royalty. Duke Chaucer might have been the fourth if she had not pushed him out of the way of the crossbow’s bolt.

  Royalty.

  England and the royal family did have plenty of enemies both outside and within the country’s borders.

  Between 1881 and 1885, supporters of an independent Irish Republic had protested British rule in an explosive way. They had set off a campaign of dynamite explosions at sites around London, including one at the House of Commons and Tower of London. Yet the Irish Republic group had directed the blasts against government buildings and not necessarily against people with regal blood. Only Wil
liam Kent and Thomas Wessex had been members of the House of Lords, which was part of Parliament. So, the killer’s motivation did not smack of politics.

  Her Majesty had also been marked for assassination. Seven attempts had been made on Queen Victoria’s life since 1840. Men had taken gunshots at her and Prince Albert, mostly when they were on their way to and from their palaces. In a majority of those cases, the would-be shooters were described as having mental problems or being on a crazed quest for infamy by killing the monarch.

  This recent spate of murders was not the work of a madman. The murderer had been clever enough to elude Scotland Yard and her. The killings had been carried out by someone with single-minded resolve.

  Murder was a violent act, no matter the form it took, be it from poisons or pistols. Considering the pitiless methods he used, this killer also wanted to punish his victims. A crossbow. A flail. Suffocation. A battle ax. Cruel and unusual methods. As if the murderer had practiced his own horrible execution of those people. But why? She felt the answer was so close, which was exasperating.

  Felicity headed to her favorite place to quiet her mind, which zipped along faster than a horse at Ascot. She was frustrated that the reports revealed nothing new. On her way to the lake, she gathered wildflowers and took a detour to the family cemetery, enclosed by black wrought iron. Her grandparents’ headstones stood polished and white. The lawn was trimmed around them.

  The crypt her father had constructed for her mother and brother was a temple to his grief. Created out of pink-tinged marble, the crypt resembled a miniature cathedral with spires. Now he had joined them there. Felicity had not visited the grave site since he was buried. She stayed away because she imagined his soul would accuse her of failure. Failure to find William Kent’s killer. Failure to find her purpose in life. Whispery accusations from the grave.

  Tree branches above her swayed with the same indictment as she placed the flowers before the crypt.

  She reached the lake. In the falling sunset, the water took on the purple and orange colors of the sky as she rowed out to the pavilion on the island. The boat skidded through water inky in the evening light. Nocturnal birds began their serenades.