Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  Beneath her knees were crumbles of mortar. In the light of the lantern, she examined the grit. The material was much like what she had found at Chaucer Hall. This was not dry ancient grout, however, but damp. She used the skeleton key and dug the mortar from around one stone near the bottom of the wall. Pulling out the stone, she turned it over. One side was hollow and filled with the molded gelatin explosive.

  He was going to topple the whole keep down on them all.

  She moved her hands around the floor in search of the fuse. The lantern light was not that bright.

  “You must be here,” she whispered. Her fingers turned raw, scraping against the stone.

  There it was. Tucked into the crevasse between the floor and false wall.

  Then she smelled it. The scent of the Hollinger cigar.

  Thunk.

  A fist came down at the back of her neck, and she fell forward. Her instinct fired up. Her hands shot out to protect her head, which still hit the wall. Sparks of light blasted in her vision from the blow.

  Conscious but stunned, she was yanked up by her jacket to a sitting position against the wall of explosives. In the light of her lantern stood Duke Philip Chaucer holding a gun in his right hand. An Enfield service revolver, official sidearm of the British Army. Eighteen-rounds-per-minute rate of fire. He pointed the barrel at her head. On his finger was a large ring with golden chimera. The supposed symbol of Arthur.

  She attempted to get up.

  “Please stay where you are,” he ordered. He was dressed as a humble worker.

  “Your disguise is a smart choice. As you were constructing your wall of destruction, you probably didn’t stand out among the other workers around the castle as they prepared for the visit of the royal family.” With her sleeve, she wiped at the blood trickling down from where her head had hit the wall.

  At his side, Chaucer wore a sheathed sword with a chimera handle. The same one she had seen as his home.

  “That sword doesn’t go with your disguise, however,” Felicity said. She rubbed her head, which ached from the bash.

  “I apologize. I did find it difficult striking a woman.”

  She touched the back of her neck, which also pulsated with pain. “You didn’t seem to mind suffocating Elaine Charles.”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “She was pathetically boring and so frail. I did her a service really. With that heart of hers, she probably wouldn’t have lasted more than a few years anyway. But she did serve a purpose.”

  “To distract Scotland Yard away from your real objective. Oh yes, you did covet her painting. And incriminating Joe Crumb in Lord Wessex’s murder. That was clever, planting the stolen goods on him as he slept. I suspect you also alerted the constables about a drunk in the park.”

  “The ploy did work on the police, but unfortunately not on you.”

  “And the others you killed. William.” Felicity started to rise in anger. He wiggled the barrel of the gun at her. “In his own blood, he called you traitor. Medraut. Like Mordred who betrayed his king.”

  “William always had a dramatic flair.”

  “It was all you, Philip. Out of a twisted sense of honor, you couldn’t let any commoner dispatch other royals. No, the deed had to be done by your hand and not the henchman you sent to kill me. Besides, the murder scenes were as perfect as they were brutal. I even suspect you took pleasure in the killings.”

  His head slanted to one side as if assessing Felicity’s situation. “I don’t take you as a screamer, so I won’t gag you. But if you yell, I will hit you again.”

  “Such a gentleman,” she said.

  He bowed.

  “And you should have been an actor. Your performance at the Café Royal was seamless. But you made a mistake when you looked up at the roof across the street. You expected the attack. On the roof I found a high-priced cigar. The same brand I found at the park where Thomas Wessex was slain. The same cigar you offered to your guests during the ball.”

  “Ah, the Hollinger. I am allowed some vices.”

  She sat up, albeit with effort. “That bolt was meant for me in front of the Café Royal. If your compatriot had killed me, I couldn’t ask any more questions, and you’d never be a suspect. But I lived and you sent him to my home for another try. Well, he got the worst of it. Your only loyal subject is in jail.”

  “So I heard. But my man will never talk. I trust him completely.” He said this very slowly, as if she didn’t comprehend her predicament.

  “What did you do? Promise to make him an earl if you succeeded?”

  “I must have struck you too hard.”

  “You’re going to have to kill me if you want me to stop.”

  He grinned with admiration, crouched down, and placed his hand on her cheek. The other held the gun. “You are quite the survivor, Felicity Carrol. Rising out of the water like the Lady of the Lake. I did regret sending him after you, and when you turned up at the ball, I was delighted. Of course, our relationship would have been short-lived because you knew too much. If you only had been accepting of my calling, what a queen you might have made.”

  “Not the best circumstances in which to romance a girl.”

  “See, no understanding.” He stood up.

  “Well, I’m not your Nimue, Guinevere, or even Alice in Wonderland.” She pointed to the sword at his side. “And that is not Excalibur, because there was no Arthur. Because of what you’ve done, you’re not even fit to wear the crown.”

  “You are a stupid girl.” He slapped his chest. “You carry nothing but blood in your veins. I have the blood of Arthur in mine, of every king who has ruled England. It is my destiny, and no one will get in my way.”

  She was more furious than frightened. Enraged at the carnage this man had left in his wake. “All those people you killed because of this insane plan to steal the throne of England. Did you tire of getting rid of them one by one?”

  “It was tiresome but necessary. And yes, I did want the antiquities they owned. This scheduled photograph was a godsend. Otherwise my ascension would take forever. I would have been an old man. Now there is only this last task.”

  “They’re your family. Are you going to kill women and children? The Queen? Please, Philip, I beg you not to do this. For the sake of your soul.”

  “A king is anointed by God, and so am I.” He quickly looked at his watch. “Soon, my relatives will start to gather behind this very wall. And it will become their crypt.”

  “I am going to scream.” She hated women who yelled like the damsels of old, but she hoped someone might hear and stop this madman.

  “The wall is too thick, and the workers don’t arrive until six in the morning.”

  “You’re right. Yelling is a waste of time.” She guessed the hour to be near one in the morning.

  “No one will even hear the bullet go through your head. Someday your body might be found amid the rubble. Someday.” In the lantern light, his handsome face distorted into malignancy. “I did enjoy knowing you.”

  She had to move or she would never move again. She didn’t fear death as much as failing to stop this man. Grabbing her leather bag, Felicity kicked at the lantern, sending it crashing against the wall. The room sank into blackness.

  “No!” he shouted, and her skin shrank with the venom in his voice.

  She heard a bullet whiz by her head. She jumped up, aimed her body at where Chaucer last stood, and crashed into his legs. There was an umph from where he landed on the rocky floor. Then a clank when the handgun hit the ground. Scrambling to her feet, she ran through the unlit corridor and headed to the great hall. She expected a bullet to slam into her back at any moment, that is, if he had found the gun in the blackness. As she ran, all she could hear was the sound of her footsteps and breathing.

  When she reached the great hall, she swiveled around. Chaucer was not behind her. But he would be coming. She had no weapon, while he had that damnable sword and perhaps the revolver, if he had located it. She was betting he hadn’t taken ti
me to look for the gun. A risky bet, but she believed his fury would drive him on. Her lock-opening tools were in the leather bag, but she had no time to work on the locked door leading out to the courtyard and possibly escape. He was coming.

  Reason it out, she urged herself.

  The room was empty except for the chairs and photography equipment. She needed a weapon. She could break one of the golden chairs and use a leg as a stout sword.

  No, there was a better option of escape, and she grinned as much as she could manage. Dashing to the stack of photographic equipment, she picked up three of the flat magnesium ribbons that would be used to illuminate the flash lamp. She also patted her pockets to make sure the matches were there.

  Recalling the setup of the castle, she headed straight to a set of stairs leading up to the battlements on top of the walls. From there she would yell and try to summon help from the groundskeeper. Small windows in the high walls allowed in moonlight to show her the way.

  Taking the stairs, she headed to the battlement. Once there, she yelled for help. Stillness answered her. The stone parapets were waist high. She dared to look down at the long way to the courtyard below.

  Footsteps behind her declared Chaucer’s approach.

  “Help!” she called again. She spun around. Philip Chaucer ran up the stairs to the battlement. She moved the magnesium ribbons behind her back.

  Chaucer had no revolver but carried the sword in front of him. The blade flashed in the moonlight and the point was aimed at her heart.

  “You have caused me enough trouble.” He breathed as though his chest might burst with spite. “Every king has to fight for what is his.”

  “How dare you even contemplate that you might be the new King Arthur. Real or not, he stood for good and truth. You have none of those qualities.”

  “How dare you speak to your king in such a manner!”

  She stepped back to keep her distance from him and give her time to use her own impromptu defense. “A sword doesn’t make a king, Philip. A mighty heart makes a sovereign.”

  Despite his rage, his eyes teared like a boy lost forever.

  “For years, your mother poisoned your mind with this terrible ambition as her mind had been poisoned. She hated the Queen and passed on that hate to you over the years.”

  Behind her back, Felicity pulled a match from her pocket.

  “Do not speak of my mother. She gave me purpose.” His breathing increased as he spoke. “Every dynasty requires a sacrifice.” He charged her.

  Felicity scraped the match against the stone. It flared up. She lit the end of one of the magnesium ribbons, threw it at Chaucer’s face, and hid her eyes with her hands.

  The flash strobed the night sky. Chaucer screamed and backed against the parapet. Eyes red from the flash, he gritted his teeth with hate and again raised the sword to strike. Felicity lit the other ribbon and threw it at his head, and then another.

  Dropping the sword to shield his eyes, he took more steps back, hit the parapet ledge, and toppled back and downward over the wall. His yells faded into the night and ended with an awful thud below.

  Felicity ran back down to the great hall and opened the locked door leading out into the courtyard. She stood over the shattered body of Philip Chaucer on the stones. She was as shattered. She threw her arms around herself to steady her shivering. If she hadn’t fought him, her body would be lying on the parapet above or slashed with the sword he thought was Excalibur. But his death was no victory.

  Holding a lantern, an old man in a white nightshirt ran up to her. “What in heaven’s name is going on here?” He panted with age and fright when he saw the body. “What are you doing here?”

  “Foiling a plan to kill the Queen of England and her family,” she said flatly.

  He had no answer to that.

  “Is there a constabulary?” Her voice was peaceful as the night.

  The old man nodded his head in affirmation.

  “You must send for them.”

  The groundskeeper placed his lantern close to the body. “So this man was going to harm the Queen?”

  “And her family.”

  “Maybe it’s good he’s dead.” The old man glanced up from the body to Felicity. “And who are you?”

  “No one really. A loyal subject.”

  He ran off, his nightshirt flapping like a bird’s wings. Felicity gazed down at the remains of the man who had wanted to be king and sat down beside the body. His corrupt dream, like his body, crushed on the stones. Another quote by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, pierced her mind.

  “ ‘Better not be at all than not be noble,’ ” she recited, and began to cry.

  CHAPTER 32

  Inspector Jackson Davies rushed to her. “My God, are you all right, Felicity?”

  “Only a few bumps.” She didn’t want to sound flippant. A man was dead.

  In the middle of the courtyard at Glastonbury, Davies engulfed her in his arms. She was taken aback at his action, as if he were a gallant knight ready to save the damsel, albeit one who had saved herself from the dragon. She didn’t move away, however. She liked the feel of his embrace and allowed herself to remain there for a while.

  “I’m happy you’re here, Jackson. I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

  “I will always be there. Maybe late, but I will come.”

  “I believe you will.”

  “So why are you dressed up like a boy?”

  “It’s a rather long story.” At that point, Felicity had already lost track of the number of times she had recounted the events of the previous evening. Really, she was too tired to count.

  Upon their arrival to Glastonbury Castle, two local constables had first listened to her account. One of them had rushed back to the constabulary in Glastonbury to wire for directions from the Queen’s Guard and Scotland Yard on how to proceed. That’s what another constable had told Felicity while they waited in the great hall.

  As the morning came, so did Jackson Davies. With him was the Queen’s Guard commander to prepare for the visit of Her Majesty and the royal family later that morning and to investigate the happenings of the previous night. Felicity showed everyone the sample of the explosives Duke Philip Chaucer had placed in the wall of the castle keep.

  “Lord in heaven,” pronounced one of the constables. “It would have brought down perdition on them all.”

  The Queen’s Guard commander reached down to touch the faux stone containing the blasting gelatin, but he stopped.

  “It’s quite safe, sir,” Felicity said, and picked it up. “The gelatin has to be detonated.” She proceeded to show them the fuse.

  The men removed eighty bricks containing explosive material.

  Near the stone wall was the gun Chaucer had dropped when she rammed her body into his. Up on the parapet, she showed them the sword with which he had tried to kill her, as well as the burned magnesium ribbons that had saved her life.

  The mouths of the men stayed open while she explained what had happened and how she had escaped from the murderous duke. Chaucer’s fist had created quite an egg of a bump on the back of her neck, and she had a cut on the front of her head from where he had knocked her into the wall. She held out her hands which had been burned from igniting the flash ribbons. The gatekeeper, who had since put on his pants, cleaned her wounds.

  Everyone stood in the great hall of Glastonbury Castle, which had been lit with candles and lanterns. There Felicity outlined to the Queen’s Guard commander and the constables how she had unearthed Duke Philip Chaucer’s plot to murder his way to the crown. She left out the fact that she had broken into the duke’s room at his house. She didn’t want to go to jail. Later in the day, she repeated the case specifics for a finely dressed representative of the prime minister.

  “Gentleman, I am sure if you search Chaucer Hall, you will find traces of the explosives he made and intended to use here today.” She had talked so much her throat had begun to burn, and she asked for water. “I am also convinced you will di
scover the Le Morte d’Arthur manuscript belonging to the late William Kent as well as the tapestry owned by late Viscount Banbury and Elaine Charles’s Guinevere painting.”

  “Why didn’t you report all this beforehand to Scotland Yard?” the guard commander asked. His hands were big enough to crush her head if he so desired.

  Felicity did not look at Davies. She didn’t want to get him in trouble. She smiled. “Because no one would have believed me, sir. Who would believe an amateur sleuth with a story about a duke killing his way to the throne of England?”

  The commander grinned through a thicket of a mustache. “You’re probably right, Miss. To tell you the truth, I didn’t believe you either until we found the explosives.”

  Davies cleared his throat. “Miss Carrol did mention her suspicions to me, but I did not believe her, either. To my shame.” He kept his head down. “I apologize for my doubts.”

  She bowed her head at him, though he still didn’t look at her.

  The questioning continued for another two hours.

  “May I go home? I am quite exhausted,” she said.

  “I can understand why,” the prime minister’s representative said with courtesy in his otherwise bureaucratic voice.

  She rubbed her aching neck. “I would not be lying if I called this the most extraordinary day of my life.”

  “Extraordinary for any day, Miss Carrol,” the representative said.

  “I am going home to Carrol Manor in Surrey. I don’t intend to leave the country or go anywhere except to bed. I believe Inspector Davies will vouch for me,” Felicity said.

  The guard commander looked at the prime minister’s representative, who looked at the constables, and they all turned to Davies. They dipped their heads one by one.

  “We’ll check out your suspicions, Miss Carrol,” Davies said.

  “I am sure you will, Inspector.”

  Before Felicity left Glastonbury Castle, the royal family began filing in for the photograph. She asked Davies if she could stay and watch for a moment.