Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  She sat on the bench where she had rested many times as a girl enjoying novels. The water lapped against the shores of the island with a soothing rhythm. The flowers growing wild around the pavilion enticed her with fragrance, as did the sweetness of the gooseberries on the plentiful bushes. She hoped the familiar place might placate her anxieties. But her mind bubbled with misgiving.

  She had been sheltered all her years, either at the manor, with tutors, or at the university. Life had been something she learned out of a book. Was she so prideful she wouldn’t listen to or accept the views of others? Had she been blinded to all else because she was so sure of her deductions? Had she become as inflexible as Inspector Jackson Davies? Despite the discrepancies in this case, was money and greed the cause of it all?

  The breeze whooshing over the water raised goosebumps on her arms. Not from the chill, but reservations about her own observations and conclusions. Worse, she had been arrogant to believe she could solve these murders. Jackson Davies was accurate in his accusations. She had no proof to take to a magistrate.

  She was an amateur. She was playing detective.

  Placing her head in her hands, Felicity slumped forward.

  A stick crunched behind her and she jerked upright. Another crunch. Too loud for a bird or animal to make. They were footsteps. She was not alone.

  It was too late to row back to shore for an escape. She had to face what was there with her on the island. She didn’t want the intruder to realize she had been alerted to his presence. Surprise could be a weapon. That and a big rock. With as much casualness as she could fake, she walked out of the pavilion and bent down to pick up one of the stones encompassing the flower bed.

  Another crunch, then more. The footsteps quickened behind her. She heard sharp breaths. She spun toward the man, whose left hand went around her neck. Because of the night, she had no clear view of her attacker.

  “For my sovereign.” His words were powerful as his grip. He began to squeeze. She began to gasp.

  How could she stop this man with the stone in her hand? Seeking a vulnerable spot, her mind sped through the pages of medical books she had read. Fueled by terror and incensed at the attack, she slammed the rock down on the bridge of the attacker’s nose. He yelled and his eyes watered. He put his hands to his face from the pain that was probably spearing through his head.

  Good.

  He staggered back. With both arms aimed at his chest, she ran at him and pushed. He flew into one of the thick gooseberry bushes on the island and yelled from the spines. Picking up her skirt, she bolted to the boat, pushed off, jumped in, and rowed as she never had. She heard a splash in the water. He was coming.

  His left hand clamped on to the right side of the boat, making it rock. Felicity brought down the flat end of an oar on that hand. The man cried out and let go. She continued her frantic rowing. Daring to turn around, she saw she was near the shore. At once, two hands grabbed the back of the boat. The man was pulling himself up. Swinging another oar with both hands, Felicity clipped him hard on the side of the head. He yelled again and splashed back into the water.

  Reaching the shore, she leapt out of the boat and onto the ground, ready to run for help. Skidding to a stop, she spun around. The man floated in the water faceup, arms out in an unanswered prayer.

  She did not normally curse, but this appeared to be a proper time to start. “Damnation!” she said.

  Sprinting back to the shore, she sprang into the water. With caution, she swam out to the man. He didn’t react when she poked him in his bleeding face. Sure he was unconscious, she put one arm around his neck and swam back to the shore. Tugging on his clothing, she dragged him onto the shore, though water kicked at his legs. She placed her fingers on his jugular vein. The pulse was robust. He might not remain out for long.

  Yanking the laces off his shoes, she tied his feet together with sturdy knots. Pulling off his belt, she used it to bind his hands behind his back. Her job complete, she sat back on the grass, her breathing reckless. Her heart clapped like a grateful audience.

  She was alive.

  She also had time to think. This man was not the killer. He was left-handed, whereas all the evidence pointed to a right-handed villain. She was elated, however. If someone wanted her dead, she must be on the right path to solving this case.

  After dashing back to Carrol Manor, Felicity asked the servants to rouse John Ryan. Ryan and three male servants rushed to the lake and dragged the man to the house, where they placed him in a wagon, hands still bound. Her assailant said nothing but glared at Felicity.

  They drove the attacker to the nearby town of Guildford. Felicity and Helen followed in the carriage. On the way, Felicity comforted her friend, who cried after seeing her. Felicity was a mess, which she noticed after passing a mirror in the foyer of the manor before they left. Hair wet and stringy. Torn blouse and skirt, muddy hems, and red marks popping up on the left side of her throat. Her eyes resembled wild insects that had misplaced the light.

  “Why did he try to hurt you, Miss?” Helen’s voice trembled with the question.

  “That, my dear, is what I’m hoping to find out.” Since her attacker was not the killer, that meant he was still out there. But Felicity didn’t want to tell this to Helen, who was already upset.

  Once in Guildford, Felicity asked the constables to telegraph Inspector Davies about the incident.

  The constable in charge at Guildford was stout as strong ale. His white hair contrasted with his uniform, but he appeared capable of tearing down the constabulary building brick by red brick. His nightshirt hung out from under his jacket.

  A blanket wrapped around her, Felicity remained in her damp clothes. In another room, she provided details of the assault to the constable in charge. He wrote down the information on a piece of paper. Helen, meanwhile, stood a few steps from her young mistress. Her hands balled in fists. Felicity sipped a cup of tea offered by another constable.

  “Did he say anything to you, Miss Carrol?” asked the constable in charge.

  “He said, ‘For my sovereign.’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Haven’t a clue.” Felicity didn’t tell the constable her theories about the murders, especially the reason she believed the man had tried to choke her to death. She would save the explanation for Inspector Davies when he arrived. If he arrived.

  The constable stood and pulled up his sagging trousers. “Time to have a talk with the man.”

  “Please, may I be in the room?” Felicity said.

  “No, Miss!” Helen said.

  “I am perfectly safe. I am protected by these fine officers.”

  “And so you will be,” the constable said.

  The officers had removed the belt Felicity used to bind the assailant’s hands and replaced it with metal handcuffs.

  “Who are you?” the constable asked the man who sat in the middle of a claustrophobic interrogation room.

  The attacker said nothing. Felicity assessed him under the gaslight. This was no ordinary criminal.

  He was in his late twenties and slim. Clean-shaven with a muted blond mustache, the same color as on his head. From the clip of his hair, he had been to the barber lately. His clothes were simple, but not torn or patched, and his shoes were new, although wet and muddy from the lake. His shoe size appeared to be smaller than the prints she had found near the body of Thomas Wessex. The observation supported her conclusion. This was not the killer, but he knew who the killer was.

  The man sat on the chair with a straight back. His eyes were steady, his mouth a smirk. His expression held arrogance, as if he was superior to the predicament in which he found himself. Not exactly the picture of a crazed man who strangled women. His left hand had gone blue from where she had smacked it with the oar. From the slant of his nose, she had broken it with the stone. A horizontal gash running the full length of his cheek marked the right side of his face. The wound had been stitched by the Guildford doctor. Felicity’s cheeks heated
at the violence she had inflicted on the man sitting a little ways from her. Then she thought of how he had meant to murder her. The hand marks on her throat throbbed as a reminder.

  “Why’d you try to kill this young woman?” the constable asked the man.

  Again, no answer.

  “Did he have anything on him?” the constable asked another officer who stood near the door.

  “Nothing at all, sir. No identification. Not even a farthing in his pocket.”

  The constable confronted the man. “Don’t matter to me if you don’t speak, mister. You don’t have to say a word either when the judge sends you to prison for trying to choke the life out of this nice young woman.”

  The attacker moved his head to look at Felicity and smiled.

  “Don’t you dare put your eyes on that lady.” The constable pushed him back against the chair.

  “I am thirsty. May I have a glass of water?” the man asked.

  From his accent, he had an education, Felicity concluded.

  “Polite, aren’t you?” the constable said.

  Another officer brought him a glass. The assailant picked it up with his left hand and drank.

  “Well, mister?” said the constable. “You’ve quenched your thirst. Time to quench ours.”

  “I have nothing to say.” The attacker smirked again.

  The constable turned to another officer in the room. “Lock him up good and tight.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” The officer yanked the man to his feet and took him away.

  “That is one peculiar fellow,” the constable said to Felicity.

  “Constable, you would make a fine detective.”

  “And you, Miss Carrol, a fine scrapper.” He blushed at using such a word. “I must say, you are the bravest woman I’ve ever met. Few females would battle back.”

  “Females are among the fiercest fighters in the animal kingdom. So why not humans?”

  “Never thought about that, but you got a point,” he said, and tucked his nightshirt into his pants.

  “One thing. May I have his glass?” Felicity asked.

  “But he drank from that one.”

  “Call it a trophy.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “All yours.”

  Felicity asked Helen for her handkerchief and picked up the glass carefully so as not to smear his fingerprints.

  Fatigue settled on Felicity as she and Helen rode home to Carrol Manor near midnight. Helen dozed and startled herself awake, as if to make sure her young friend was safe in the carriage.

  Back at the manor, Felicity bathed and went to bed. She did not sleep well. She dreamed she was on the boat on the lake. The Lady of the Lake rose out of the water wearing white, her hair waved over her shoulders like the leaves of a water plant. The Lady held a mighty sword in her right hand and skimmed over the water toward Felicity in the boat. As the Lady neared, a man with large hands grabbed Felicity and jerked her down into the dim waters of the lake. There, Felicity sucked in water instead of air. She reached out to the Lady of the Lake for help, but the woman sank deeper and then out of sight, taking the sword with her.

  Felicity bolted up and wondered if she would be able to have a good night’s sleep ever again.

  * * *

  Inspector Jackson Davies appeared at Carrol Manor at eight the next morning. His eyes went to the marks on Felicity’s neck, which had turned a nice shade of blue in the shape of a clear handprint.

  “What have you gotten yourself into?” he asked with a mix of anger and worry.

  “Good morning to you, Jackson,” she said. “It was a long night. Join me for breakfast.”

  He stayed quiet and followed her into a smaller dining room. Since her father’s passing, Felicity had asked for the food to be set out on a side table from which she would serve herself. She had always disliked being served like a tyrant over the servants. She had imagined Horace Wilkins might explode like her homemade dynamite at the idea, but he had only swallowed and remarked, “As you wish.”

  Felicity asked Wilkins and the servants to leave her alone with the inspector.

  “Don’t be shy, Jackson.” She filled her plate with eggs, sausages, and toast. “I am famished.” She told herself she shouldn’t be in such good spirits after the previous night.

  Davies remained standing. “What is going on?”

  “Have a cup of coffee.” She poured one for him and one for herself. She stirred in two teaspoons of sugar.

  “Jackson, I have much to tell you. I realize this is terribly rude, but may I eat as I talk?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Promise me one thing,” she asked with a smile.

  “What?”

  “You won’t get upset.”

  He sat down. “I’m already upset.”

  Felicity took a bite of toast, followed by a sip of coffee. “Good, then it won’t matter.”

  She told him about what had happened, starting with the near murder of Duke Philip Chaucer at teatime and ending with her attack at the lake.

  “What’s all this mean, then?” he said when she wrapped up her narrative.

  “I had begun to doubt my conclusions in this case. But the assault on me was the clearest of signals. I am headed in the right direction.”

  “I read the report about what took place in front of the Café Royal. I had no idea you were the woman involved. On my way here, I stopped at the Guildford constabulary for its report on the incident last night. I tried to interrogate the suspect, but he wasn’t talking. Why did he attack you? Did he …?”

  “It was not that type of assault.” She picked up a forkful of eggs. “But I am convinced the man who tried to kill me last night did not murder William Kent and the others.”

  Davies said nothing. She chewed and swallowed.

  “Jackson, my attacker is left-handed. The murderer who swung the flail at Lord Banbury and the ax at Lord Wessex was right-handed based on the wounds we both saw. My assailant also was only a bit taller than me. The man who shot the crossbow at William Kent at the British Museum was much taller. So if he didn’t kill those two, then he didn’t kill Elaine Charles or Lord Wessex, because the same man murdered them all.”

  “You’re making my head hurt. We have the drunkard Joe Crumb in custody for Wessex’s murder.”

  “Oh my God. He’s just a diversion.” She had been too scattered to see that possibility despite the facts glaring straight at her. She slapped her fist down on table.

  “What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

  “Joe Crumb was meant to divert Scotland Yard’s attention away from what really happened. It’s only logical.”

  Davies finally sat.

  “The real killer must have placed Lord Wessex’s watch, rings, and money into the pockets of Joe Crumb to give the police a scapegoat. And why not do the same with Elaine Charles?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The death of Elaine Charles was the only flaw in my theory that this killer is after royalty. She didn’t have any royal blood. But she was murdered to direct investigators away from his other victims.”

  “So why kill her at all?”

  “The murderer still wanted Elaine’s painting. What the crimes have demonstrated is that this villain does have a perverted passion for King Arthur. In addition, he must have known Elaine Charles and about the painting.”

  She used her fork to emphasize her next point. “Before my attacker tried to choke the life out of me, he said, ‘For my sovereign.’ ”

  “He must be crazy. Why would Queen Victoria want you killed?” Davies spoke each word with emphasis.

  “There’s no reason Her Majesty would want me dead. Neither would she order the deaths of her own cousins. So my assailant must have been referring to someone else.”

  “I hate to admit it, but I agree with you.”

  “You interviewed the man. Did he appear insane to you?” Felicity cut up a piece of sausage.

  “No. Then, he didn’t say much.”
>
  “I was hoping you might, what you call, ‘get it’ out of him.”

  “Want me to put him on the rack?” Sarcasm thickened his voice.

  “How absurd.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Is that even allowed anymore?”

  Davies emitted a low growl. “All right, I’ll give you that the suspect may not be a lunatic, but why in heaven’s name did he try to strangle you?”

  She placed down her fork. “Because he thinks I can name the killer.”

  “Can you?”

  “I wish I could.” She dabbed a napkin to her lips. “I have formulated a new theory, however.”

  “God help us.”

  “When he proclaimed ‘For my sovereign,’ he meant an allegiance to his king. This so-called king was the person who killed William Kent and the rest. Though why he is going after royalty still eludes me.” She took a breath.

  “I’m sorry what you went through. But to enforce the law, I must have evidence to take before a judge. Without it, we have no case against anyone. That means we have nothing, barely a vague notion of a motive. We are no closer to finding the murderer than the day we first met.”

  “Jackson …”

  “The man who tried to kill you at the lake will face a judge for the crime. There will be justice.” He stood up and left.

  Felicity pushed away her plate. Her reservations had evaporated. She was right; otherwise, why would someone want her dead?

  She poured herself another cup of coffee but didn’t concentrate. The coffee overran her cup, spilling onto the cloth. How did her attacker even know she was investigating the murders? In her mind, she listed all who knew and blew out a breath at the number of people. She had accompanied Davies on several interviews and shown up at the scenes of the crimes, including Belgrave Square, where the body of Lord Wessex had been discovered. In a public café, she had had tea with Duke Chaucer, another intended victim.

  Martin Jameson had had her followed at her father’s behest. She must have been observed again. This time at the request of a killer.

  CHAPTER 28

  Felicity stared at the glass on her desk. Her disposition was as miserable as her recurring nightmares about drowning in the lake.