Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  His face barely broke a smile. “We never discuss our clients.”

  “I hoped you might say that. But a friend of a friend of a friend says her caretaker was exceptional. May I hire the same person for Uncle Otto?”

  The administrator swallowed. His Adam’s apple rolled up and down in his thin neck. “She is available.”

  “May I interview her to see if she would be a right fit for my beloved relative?”

  “I shall go and find her. Why don’t you wait in the physician’s office? He is gone this week on holiday.”

  He led her down a long hallway in the brick building. The asylum consisted of the larger rectangular structure and several smaller square buildings. They were set down in a complex surrounded by a brick fence in the middle of a hay field. From afar, the asylum had the look of a large farm, except for the screams coming from elsewhere in the buildings. The place reeked of cooking potatoes.

  While Felicity had waited to meet with the administrator, a woman in a plain gray dress had walked by hitting her head with both fists. Her eyes spoke of an inner hell. Behind the inmate walked a nurse in a black dress and white apron, Spartan as her demeanor.

  A nurse entered the room. “The administrator said you had questions for me, Miss.” She smiled.

  “Jane Holland,” Felicity said, and asked the woman to take a seat.

  She was daunting even sitting down. Big and durable. She held dry hands on her lap. But her eyes were not what Felicity had predicted. Instead of being hardened by the madness she had seen, the nurse’s eyes were sympathetic and gentle. Felicity estimated her to be in her forties. On her black dress was pinned a small cameo. The nurse’s mouth was a straight line in a face more masculine than feminine. But her hair was stylish under her nurse’s cap and smelled of lavender. She used nail varnish, her eyebrows were plucked, and her lips were glossy with beeswax. She wore no wedding ring. Clearly, the nurse wanted more than her lot. She was an ugly duckling who dreamed of being a swan. And although she knew she never would be, she never stopped trying.

  “I am investigating places for my Uncle Otto, who has lost his mind. I understand that until three years ago, you tended Lady Chaucer.”

  “We are told not to give names.”

  “I understand and applaud your prudence,” Felicity said. “How long have you worked here?”

  “Ten years, Miss.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I like helping people who have lost their way.” She pointed to her head. “In here. Most times, they never find their way home.”

  “Excuse me for saying this, but you are no ordinary nurse.”

  Her expression transformed into mistrust.

  “I meant that as a compliment.”

  The woman shifted her head as if not used to hearing one.

  “You care about your appearance in a place where no one else does, especially your male coworkers. Not born a beauty, you did not become embittered or surrender to sour envy. You see more in yourself than what your mirror reflects,” Felicity said. “Although this is a demanding place, I see no cynicism in your eyes. You are kind to those in your charge. You’re proud of your work, for it is your life. That makes your life noble.”

  The nurse’s eyes watered. “It’s like you read what’s carved in me soul, Miss.”

  “I only report what I observe.”

  She smiled. “I did care for Lady Chaucer for the years she spent at the asylum.”

  “I understand she was a remarkable woman.”

  “She was that. She was also angry.”

  “May I ask about Lady Chaucer’s malady? I will tell no one.”

  “Don’t know the medical name for it. Most of the time, she would read or knit in her chair. Then she’d head into her nasty moods. She paced, shook her fists, and ranted on about how she should have been queen. How her family was the true heir to the kingdom. How they were cheated.”

  “How curious.”

  “During her rages, Lady Chaucer would yell that Albert’s affections were stolen from her. He ended up marrying his first cousin, Victoria.” The nurse raised her eyebrows up and down. “And you know the Victoria I mean.”

  Felicity put a handkerchief to her mouth to feign distress. “That is shocking.”

  “I felt like a traitor even listening to Lady Chaucer’s rages, but it was part of my job.” The nurse leaned in and lowered her voice. “She even had photos of the late Prince Albert all about her room.”

  “Did her son the duke come often to visit?”

  “Twice a month like clockwork. Handsome he is, but never a good-morning or hello to me,” the nurse said. “He’d only ask me to wait in the other room while they visited.”

  “What did they talk about, I wonder?” Felicity said.

  She shook her large head. “The duke always closed the door. Then, after a bit, his mother started up her regular shouting and carrying on. About his legacy and destiny. Then all would go quiet. I heard her talking to him but couldn’t make out the words. She was like a bee buzzing in his mind.”

  “How did he look when he left his mother?”

  “As if his face had been whittled out of oak, firm and set. Now, about your uncle.”

  “You would be a fine caretaker for Uncle Otto. But I’m wondering whether it might be best if he stayed closer to home.”

  “I understand, Miss.” She stood.

  Felicity handed the woman a fifty-pound note. “For your kindness and time, and your silence if anyone inquires about our visit.”

  The nurse blinked in awe and gratitude.

  Traveling back to London, Felicity clutched her hands together, the sound in her ears whirring like the wheels of the train. She was right about Duke Philip Chaucer. She had probably realized it when she stepped into his room full of King Arthur antiquities.

  He wanted to be king and was killing everyone in his path to the throne.

  He had slain those ahead of him one by one, but more relations stood between him and the crown. The explosive he made was meant for a larger number of victims in one location. Where was he going to set it off?

  According to the report by Morton & Morton on Chaucer’s life, the duke and Lord Thomas Wessex were among the architects of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee celebration. Several of the jubilee events had already taken place, such as the parade and the gala ball Felicity had attended the previous night at Chaucer Hall. The final event of the year was going to be a service at Westminster Abbey. Before that was an official family photograph taken at Glastonbury Castle in Somerset. The photograph would be taken in three days’ time. The entire royal family would be there. The Queen would be there. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

  Glastonbury.

  In the 1100s, monks at Glastonbury Abbey had claimed to have found the remains of King Arthur and Guinevere. The tale was considered a lie, supposedly told to garner fame and revenue for the abbey. Folklore also had it that Joseph of Arimathea, the keeper of the cup of Christ, had requested the abbey be built to house the Holy Grail. The grail that Arthur and his knights had sought for many years.

  Since the duke had helped scheduled the Jubilee events, she imagined he had probably suggested the site. Like many castles in England, the one at Glastonbury was constructed of stone. Stone, she would bet, that was the same color as the ceramic she had found in Chaucer’s room full of Arthurian artifacts. Chaucer’s servant had told Helen that the duke had given a two-day holiday to all his servants just weeks before the Jubilee ball. That was probably when he had moved the explosive to Glastonbury. He must have had help from the man who had shot the crossbow bolt in front of the café. The man who had later tried to strangle her at the lake. Chaucer had wanted her out of the way because she was asking too many questions, perhaps getting too close to naming him as the killer.

  She closed her eyes to see again the painting in the National Gallery. The painting of the mighty tree with the names of the royal members written upon its branches. In nature, a tree
was as strong as its trunk and its roots. In the case of the British monarchy, this represented Queen Victoria. And Chaucer was attempting to topple the tree. Not topple, slaughter his way to the crown.

  Felicity opened her eyes. The Queen and her family would go to Glastonbury Castle. They would be photographed for posterity and perhaps for the last time. He was going to kill them all.

  CHAPTER 31

  The effect was a good one. In the mirror, she resembled a nondescript young man. Albeit, a lad with a trace of apprehension in his green eyes. Her braided hair went up inside the boy’s cap. She had obtained pants, a shirt, jacket, and suspenders from one of the young male servants at Carrol Manor. Offering a nice amount of money for the outfit, she had paid the young man extra not to tell anyone she had bought them. She wore her own riding boots but scuffed them up with a rock so they didn’t appear new.

  Sitting on the bed, she appreciated the comfort of her room at Carrol Manor. She would soon be leaving it to stop a killer from killing again. Yes, she was frightened down to her soles that she might never return. But her biggest fear was what would happen if she didn’t make the journey.

  No rail lines connected Guildford to Glastonbury, so she would have to ride there on horseback. She didn’t want Matthew to drive her because she wanted no questions about the trip, especially from Helen, who watched her closely after the incident at the lake. Felicity prepared to slip away.

  Before dawn, she rode off from Carrol Manor. The trip would take two days, and she would stay at an inn that night. She needed to be at the castle before the royal family arrived for the official photograph. She needed to be there to find the bomb Duke Philip Chaucer had hidden.

  In a leather hunting bag she had borrowed from one of the cooks, she included an oil lantern and her lock-opening tools, as well as enough money to pay her way on her journey. She placed a box of matches in her pockets. Her father’s pistols were at the London house and John Ryan and his groundskeepers carried only rifles, so she had no weapon. If she had one, would she shoot Philip Chaucer to stop him? She hesitated in her answer. Anyway, it was all academic, since she didn’t have a gun. She would just have to find a different way to contain him. But first, she had to locate the bomb and disarm it to save the royalty. Then, hopefully, the police would take care of the duke.

  As she rode to Glastonbury, her mind moved as swiftly as her horse clopping on the dirt road. She had thought—though not for too long—about informing Inspector Jackson Davies of her plan to foil the duke. Yet, the Scotland Yard inspector had failed to believe her three times before. She was certain he wouldn’t this time either. Even if she supplied him the evidence of the bomb-making, she had found it by breaking into the duke’s room. She suspected the Metropolitan Police might discount her proof because of how she had obtained it.

  Must not fail. Must not fail. Must not fail. Her thoughts echoed the clomping of her horse on the road.

  Back at Carrol Manor, Felicity had left a note for Helen telling her she had wanted to get away from recent events and set off on a trip. Felicity had sent another letter to the firm of Morton & Morton to be opened in the event of her death, which might be likely. With no family except Helen, she left a generous bequest to her, as well as to all the servants who had helped raise her. The will also called for Carrol Manor to be turned into a school for girls. Any girl of any class or station who wanted to learn would be admitted. She had also named Joshua Morton as the executor since his firm had performed so well for her in the past.

  In the parcel with her will, she had placed her notes on the case, the evidence she had collected during her investigation, the name of the suspect, and his inspiration for murder. If she died, the solicitor firm would deliver the package to Davies so he could bring the killer to justice if she was unsuccessful.

  Must not fail. Must not fail.

  Uncertainty in her chances at success clung to her like mud to the horse’s legs. The duke might not even be the one to detonate the bomb. He might have other associates working for him. She forced down her doubts. She needed resolve and concentration. Nighttime was coming. She clicked her tongue for the horse to speed up.

  Helen had once asked her what she would do if she did find the murderer. At last, Felicity had a reply. An answer to her father’s question about what she would do with her life. An answer to her own question about her future. And it all waited for her at Glastonbury Castle.

  Up ahead were the lights of Salisbury, where she would stay for the night. Felicity rode on, relaxed compared to when she had started out with the emerging sun. All her life, she had been heading to this destination.

  * * *

  The sunset softened the outline of Glastonbury Castle on the horizon. Thanks to a book she had found at the London Library about English castles, she had memorized the layout of Glastonbury’s historic stronghold before her trip. The castle had been built in the 1200s as a protection for the region and Glastonbury Abbey, in those days one of the richest and most controlling in the country. Minor compared to the infamous Tower of London and other fortresses still standing in Great Britain, Glastonbury Castle did provide an impressive picture of majesty and power.

  Jutting out of the tranquil plains, the walls of gray sandstone were seventy feet high and more than ten feet thick. Rounded towers were set at each corner. The walls of the rectangular-shaped fortress surrounded a courtyard of stone and grass.

  A number of the castles in England had descended into ruin, while others had been protected, restored, and opened to visitors fascinated with the country’s past. Glastonbury Castle was among the latter. But the place had been closed to visitors in preparation for the Queen and her progeny and their official photograph scheduled for the following day. That gave Felicity plenty of time to find the bomb. She hoped, anyway.

  After tying her horse to a tree a few feet away, she walked to the castle. She flung the hunting bag across her shoulder. In the compelling light of the full moon, her shadow appeared tiny as a child’s. Felicity threw back her shoulders to give the silhouette substance and herself courage.

  Since the royal family was not scheduled to arrive until the next day, there were no guards stationed at the sturdy metal gate at the front entrance. From what she had ascertained from her research, only a gatekeeper resided in a small house off the entrance. Her watch read ten thirty, which meant the gatekeeper was probably asleep. No lights shone in his house.

  Felicity peeped through the front iron gates. In the courtyard, workers had built a wooden stage where the royal family would sit for the photograph. The stage was built at the foot of the castle keep. The central tower stood more than ninety feet high and was located in the middle of the wall on the right side of the castle. That’s where she would start her search for the explosive.

  She would enter through a door at the back of the castle. The door was twice her size and secured. Using her tools, she went to work on the lock, lucky to be hidden in the shadow of the massive door sunken into the wall. With a rusty click, the lock opened, though she had to push hard on the door to get through. She closed it behind her. The place was clammy with condensation and age. With the matches in her pocket, she lit the oil lantern she had packed in the hunting bag.

  From the drawings of the castle she had reviewed, she had to take a few right turns to find a door leading to the courtyard. Caution made her perspire, and she mopped her brow with her sleeve. In the shadowy, narrow halls, she could have been walking through a netherworld forged by a murderer. The light from the lantern formed specters on both sides of her. She was fairly confident that Chaucer, or whoever he would send to set off the bomb, would not arrive until the morning. Although she moved quickly, time slowed as if her feet were heavier than the rock walls engulfing her.

  She came to a great hall. Windows high above the room let in slices of moonlight. Once lords and ladies of the castle had feasted and danced there, above them banners of their houses hung with grandeur. Her boots snapped in the emptiness. Set aga
inst one wall were two cameras, tripods, and a box of flat magnesium ribbons to light the flash lamp for the photograph of the royal family. Stacked against another wall were lines of golden chairs on which the royals would probably sit for the photograph.

  A door off the hall led out to the courtyard, but it was locked. She went to work on opening it, which it did with a moan. She stepped outside.

  On the grass, the stage had been built four feet tall and fifty feet long and wide, from her estimate. On top were rows of wooden risers upon which the chairs would be set. Red carpeting had been laid on top, at the front, and on two sides. Carpeted stairs led to the top. The stage had been built four feet from the castle keep. The back section of the stage was open. Felicity checked her watch. Eleven. In case she was incorrect about where Chaucer had placed the bomb, she had time to explore.

  Felicity crawled underneath the wooden structure and started her search using the lantern to light her way. She saw nothing but wood and nails. She grimaced and clamped a hand over her mouth as an exposed nail dug into her right calf.

  She crawled back out and stood up. The castle keep rose above the stage like a round mountain. The duke had used gray ceramic. He must have concealed the bomb among the stones of the castle walls. The blast would cause the wall of the keep to crash down on the people below. She searched the outside wall for any indication the explosives had been placed there. With a metal tool used to open locks, she rapped at the stones. They had not been disturbed.

  She returned through the door, which locked behind her, and retraced her steps back into the castle. By her estimation, she had reached the point in the keep directly in back of where the royal family would sit on the stage. She had expected to see Chaucer standing there gloating and wringing his hands in triumph like the villain in a bad play. He was not there, nor was there any sign of his bomb. If he was going to set one off, that would be the spot. From her study of the castle plans, the wall was less than two feet thick at that point.

  “It has to be here,” she whispered. She removed the hunting bag from her shoulder and dropped to her knees, feeling the wall with her hands.