Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  She tried the doors. Locked.

  Predicting she would run into secured doors during her investigation, both literally and figuratively, Felicity had obtained door-opening tools from a grizzled locksmith in Guildford. She had told him she persistently lost her keys and asked for lessons on how to get past a lock. The locksmith told her she proved a topnotch student. In fact, if she had not been a lady, she could have earned a proficient living as a thief, he said. That was the best compliment she had ever received, she replied, much to his mystification.

  From her evening bag, Felicity drew out a skeleton key and inserted it into the lock, but the door did not budge. Withdrawing the key, she used a file to shave off bits. She kept filing and trying the key until it turned. Getting down on her hands and knees, she lifted the rug and blew the filings underneath to hide her trail.

  She opened one of the heavy oak doors. The room felt immense as the inside of a whale. Without lights, she could not see to the other end. Her slippers made no sound on the wooden floor, while the noise from the ball below faded to nothing when she shut the door behind her and locked it so no one would know she was inside. She took a sniff. Almonds. Faint but unmistakable. A bank of sizable windows on one wall provided vague light. She dared not ignite the gaslights on the wall.

  The servant had been correct in her description of the room. A place to rival any museum. On the walls hung tapestries and paintings of figures and scenes from medieval times. Grand ladies dancing, knights upon steeds with swords drawn. Jousting tournaments. From what she saw, a majority of the artwork depicted King Arthur in various stages of his life, from young boy to glorious ruler to dying king. Other paintings were of Guinevere, Merlin, Lancelot, and other knights. Medieval swords, javelins, spears, and daggers hung on another wall. Under them were shelves of books. As at William Kent’s home, they were stories about King Arthur, from what she could tell.

  Felicity was awestruck at the Arthur treasures Duke Chaucer had gathered, especially since he had told her he had only a few items. From the magnitude, this man truly loved the legendary king. But the size of the collection also attested to someone obsessed.

  Slowly turning around, she let her shoulders droop. She would need hours to comb through the pieces to find clues about why Chaucer and the others had been targeted for murder. Why had he lied to her about the scope of his collection?

  She walked toward the marble fireplace at one end of the room. A few feet in front, the floorboards imitated the squeak of mice. She stepped on them again. More squeaking. If she had time, she would investigate further.

  Above the fireplace was a large carving of the chimera wearing a crown. Below the carving was a mounted sword, luminescent, magnificent, and deadly even in dim light. She estimated the double-edged blade to be forty inches long and four inches at the base near the golden hilt. Set on a field of purple velvet, the sword was exhibited in a reverential way. On the grip was the same chimera motif.

  “Excalibur?” she whispered to herself. Her mind set on Lord Tennyson’s description of the famous sword in his Morte d’Arthur poem. The mortally wounded Arthur ordering Sir Bedivere to throw Excalibur into the water. From water was how Arthur had first received the renowned sword from the Lady of the Lake:

  Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,

  Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how

  In those old days, one summer noon, an arm

  Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,

  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

  Holding the sword—and how I row’d across

  And took it, and have worn it, like a king

  Her fingertips tingled. There was something unsettling about this sword. As if the chimeras depicted on the handle, carved above the fireplace and into the doors, would be set free—and not for good. Did Philip Chaucer actually believe he owned the sword given to Arthur by the Lady of the Lake? No, he was much too intelligent for such a notion. But the displayed sword said otherwise, and that made her even more worried.

  She guessed she had a half hour left before the Queen would take her leave. She had to hurry and examine what she could. Her attention was drawn to two large desks shoved together in the middle of the room near the windows. The desk drawers were unlocked but empty. There, the almond odor was strongest. Removing her gloves, she ran her hands over the tops of the wooden desks. Lengthwise scratches covered them, as if something had been dragged along. Besides the scent of almonds, there was something else.

  Click.

  Someone was opening the door. Dropping down behind the large desk, she scooted underneath. She cursed all the fabric in her gown, which created a racket in her ears. She gnashed her teeth. Perspiration formed on her forehead, and she was furious at herself for the panic. Be strong, Felicity Carrol, be brave. For the moment, at any rate, she added as a postscript. She did congratulate herself on not wearing any perfume to give away her presence.

  She tried not to breathe but did listen. It had to be Duke Chaucer, since he didn’t even allow servants in there. Chaucer walked around for a bit. From the clack of his footsteps, he stopped in the middle of the room, turned, and walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Whoosh. Felicity breathed out.

  She got up, but her hands were coated in grit from hiding under the desk. She put her palms up to her nose. Almonds and acid. What was this substance? She cursed herself for not bringing any envelopes, but then she hadn’t known she would find anything to collect.

  She had an idea. Getting back on her knees, she took off one of her gloves and brushed the coarse material into it. Patting the floor, she came across something else wedged in one corner of the desk. She pinched the material between her fingers and took a whiff. No scent, but rougher than the other substance. Removing her other glove, she brushed the specimen into that one. She rolled up her gloves and placed them in her bag. She had to get back downstairs soon, but swiveled in a circle in case she had missed something.

  On the far back wall was a display of crossbows. She walked closer for a better look in the muted light. Among them was a crossbow with a pull lever—the same type used by the man on the roof. Alongside the crossbows was a framed set of identical bolts on velvet. The bolts were similar to the one shot at Chaucer in front of the Café Royal. From the indentation in the velvet, one of the bolts was gone. Her mouth parched. Was Chaucer involved? And to what end? She became dazed and nauseous. She felt betrayed and deceived by a man she had come to admire.

  Stumbling, she reached the door and peeped out. The gallery was clear and she left the way she had come, by the servants’ stairway. Throughout the ground floor of the hall, the ball continued. She saw Helen looking for her, and when their eyes connected, relief emanated from Helen’s face.

  “I’m so glad you’re back and in one piece, Miss. But you look quite pale.”

  “Where is the Queen?”

  “She left a mere five minutes ago. Shall we go, too?”

  “I don’t want to call attention to myself by leaving so soon after breaking into a private room. So we’ll relax and have some wine. I need it.”

  Felicity sipped the wine, which did little to give her any peace. She looked up. Duke Philip Chaucer stared at her, his eyes wide as if amazed to see her.

  Turning around, she placed the glass on a table. “Blast,” Felicity mouthed, and then turned around, putting on a smile. She headed to meet him. To do otherwise would ignite suspicion about why she had attended the ball or what she had discovered upstairs.

  “Felicity, how kind of you to accept my invitation. Why did you not come and find me sooner?” His charm was abundant this evening, as always.

  “You appeared engaged with all your guests. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  He took up her hand. “I hope you might reserve a dance for me.”

  The music started in the ballroom. “Shall we?” He put out his hand.

  She took it. He glanced at her bare hands, which stood out among the ot
her women who wore gloves. “I spilled wine on my gloves and took them off.”

  “No matter. You look beautiful tonight,” he said.

  “And you very dashing.”

  He held her and they danced.

  “Thank you for the lovely book of poetry.” She gazed right at his face, hoping for an explanation of what she had seen upstairs. “It wasn’t necessary.”

  He smiled. That captivating smile. “So little reward for saving my life. Without your intervention, I would have died most horribly.” His voice trembled a bit from emotion.

  “I didn’t mean to push you to the ground.”

  “I was a bit surprised at your strength.”

  “It arises when needed. Have the police found a suspect?”

  “I’m afraid they couldn’t find their headquarters without a sign.” He swirled her around.

  “Well, the book you sent was most appreciated.”

  He brought her closer to him. “The first tales of Arthur were love stories.” Raising her hand to his lips, he kept it there. His breath warming her fingers. “They were stories about ladies yearning for knights and suffering from broken hearts when their attentions were not returned.”

  “Or betraying love, as did Guinevere.”

  “Tish, tish. Are you so harsh toward your own gender?”

  “Do I strike you as a yearning woman? A woman who would do anything for love? Even destroy a kingdom like Arthur’s wife?” With more feeling than thinking, she stepped closer to him.

  “I would love to discuss this topic more, Felicity. In depth.”

  They glided among the landscape of black coats and twirling gowns. “In spite of the frivolity tonight, there is also a tragedy. The death of Lord Thomas Wessex, who helped organize the Jubilee events,” she said.

  “There is always tragedy in the world.” Despite the sympathetic words, Chaucer’s bearing was the depth of arctic waters.

  “Were you and Lord Wessex friends?” It couldn’t hurt to find out.

  “A woman’s question.”

  “I am still curious.”

  “Not close, although we were related.”

  His pressure on her hands tightened slightly, as if he feared she might run away. His lips firmed. His posture aligned so fast, she could have sworn his vertebrae clicked. She recalled what Sir Francis Bacon had stated on the subject—the body would reveal what the mind was thinking. From his posture, she inferred that Chaucer and Wessex did not get along.

  “How thoughtless of me to discuss such a sad event at this joyous occasion,” she said.

  The song ended, but he did not release her.

  “Thank you for the dance, Felicity.”

  “And you for a remarkable evening.”

  He kissed her hand and took his leave. Felicity watched him blend back into the crowd. Turning around, he eyed her as if she might disappear.

  She didn’t disappear. She didn’t want to appear too conspicuous. Amid the crowd, he often caught her eye and smiled. She returned it. But she was anxious to get back to Carrol Manor to analyze the materials she had found. When the fire had broken out in the east wing, she had managed to save much of her equipment, which she had stored in her room at the manor until her new laboratory could be completed. Since her father died, she had left the wooden boxes stacked in a corner. She needed to unpack the equipment.

  After twenty minutes, Felicity signaled Helen it was time to leave.

  “What did you find up there, Miss?” Helen whispered as they waited for their carriage in a hallway off the main doors.

  Felicity rubbed her head. “Enough to give me another nightmare.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Felicity leaned back from her microscope. During the examination, her breathing had quickened, and now she forced herself to take slower breaths at the evidence coming into focus under the lens.

  She had identified the material acquired from under Chaucer’s desk as dried wood pulp. But there was another coarse white material mingled with the wood pulp, which she meticulously separated out. Suspecting its nature after also studying it under the microscope, she placed a tiny bit of both substances into a ceramic bowl and threw in a lit match.

  Whoof.

  The material flashed a lilac color. The particular shade indicated the white grains were potassium nitrate, more commonly called saltpeter.

  Potassium nitrate and wood pulp. The two ingredients, mixed with guncotton liquefied in nitroglycerin, all went into the making of blasting gelatin.

  Duke Philip Chaucer had created a bomb.

  She was positive about the ingredients because she had made her own version of dynamite several weeks ago to stop the spreading fire at Carrol Manor. Unlike its cousin dynamite, blasting gelatin was supposed to be safer to handle and could be formed into shapes but did require a detonator to set off its destruction. Gelatin explosive had been invented by Swedish chemist Alfred Nobel, who had also given the world dynamite.

  The gelatin explosive had the odor of almonds, which is what she and the servant had smelled in the room.

  The other material Felicity had discovered under the desk turned out to be a dried ceramic the color of stone.

  “My God.” She stood up.

  Chaucer, who had earned a chemistry degree from Oxford, had made the explosive gelatin and placed it in some type of ceramic for concealment. No wonder he didn’t allow the servants to clean the room. Thank goodness aristocrats were not efficient at cleaning up after themselves and she had been able to find traces of the ingredients left behind.

  But why and where would he set off the device? This case had developed more limbs than the mythical kraken sea monster.

  Felicity stared out the window of her room. Outside, summer had created a masterpiece of green and gold. The servants working under the sun had a fine sheen of perspiration. The sky was the bluest color imaginable above Carrol Manor. Birds flitted in nature’s dance. But inside, the day was gloomy and ruined by her discovery and the realization that she had been very much fooled by Duke Philip Chaucer.

  In her mind, she replayed the actions in front of the Café Royal. She slowed down the movements as if watching a stage play in the slowest of motion in hopes of detecting a motive.

  The would-be assassin standing on the roof of the building across Regent Street.

  The assailant bringing up the crossbow to aim.

  Pushing down Duke Chaucer.

  The bolt striking the pillar behind them.

  Her flight to the dressmaker’s shop.

  The expensive cigar smoldering on the roof.

  Again and again, she rewound the events. For one run-through, she focused on the man who had stood on the roof of the dressmaker’s shop. She wanted to remember every detail.

  He was slim. A bowler hat low on his head. Wearing a suit. The crossbow had a pull lever to stretch back the bow. The bolt was iron. Thick and deadly. The same as the weapons she had spotted at Chaucer’s house.

  One more time, she thought through what had happened. This time, her mind only on Duke Philip Chaucer. His eyes. His flawless gray eyes. Seconds before the bolt struck the pillar, he had glanced up and across the street as if looking for something. Or someone. She had noticed the direction of his eyes, and that’s why she had looked up in time to see the assassin and pushed him out of the way.

  Chaucer must have seen the man on the roof, but hadn’t said anything. She chewed on her lower lip, but stopped. The biting of one’s lip was a bad habit. Instead, she placed her hands on the table and pressed down with an alarming conclusion. The assassination attempt on Chaucer had been a farce, one to lead her and anyone else to believe that he was the intended victim. His bomb-making told her otherwise.

  She had been so intent on saving Chaucer in front of the café, she hadn’t grasped the discrepancies under his lies. Seen him as potential prey rather than a predator. She had been blinded by her attraction to him. He was the chess master behind everything.

  And that made him the killer. But wh
at was his motive? What did he have against others who shared the same royal blood?

  Felicity sat on her bed and shook her head at the terrible, terrible likelihood.

  “No, no, no.”

  The validation might be found at a madhouse.

  * * *

  The administrator tapped bony fingers together. His straight reddish hair was acutely parted in the middle of his head. The sun coming through a window reflected in his glasses, so he appeared to have no eyes.

  “We at Garbutt’s Asylum are most discreet, Miss Holland.” His voice was soothing as a toothache.

  “How comforting,” Felicity replied in a high-pitched voice. All part of her disguise. She didn’t want to reveal her identity in case word got back to Duke Chaucer.

  Along with providing a phony name, she had pulled her wavy hair to the back of her neck. She wore round spectacles she had borrowed from one of the servants, promising him a new pair when she returned. Her dress was as quaint as she could find at a shop near the station where she had caught the train to Dunston, some 280 miles from London. She had chosen a brimless toque hat of blue satin with a ribbon at the back. More importantly, a patterned blue netting covered her face, to which she had added extra face powder and a beauty mark on her right cheek.

  “I don’t want anyone to find out about Uncle Otto’s peculiarities.” The fictitious relative went along with the disguise. Felicity had made up a mental illness for him. “His alternating fits of screaming and laughing. Hallucinations of the strangest kind.”

  “I’m sure he would be very comfortable here,” the administrator said.

  “I understand that for families with means, you can house relatives in small cottages on the asylum grounds,” she said. At such a house, Lady Chaucer had lived for many years, according to a report from Morton & Morton.

  “We have several such cottages.”

  “Well, you do come with high recommendations. I heard you even cared for Lady Chaucer during her stay at the asylum.”