In the early-morning hours of March 29, 1889, Mr. Joe Maxwell was heading home from his long day at the Big Strike Mine when he literally stumbled across a grisly scene. The body of Lily “Big Lil” Rawlins lay in an alley off Melton Street, which is located in the center of the town’s notorious red-light district, home to its many brothels.
Rawlins had been a prostitute and was the victim of a fiendish and revolting murder. Two wounds from ear to ear sliced her throat deep enough that her head was nearly severed from her body. Her torso also suffered foul and horrendous mutilations.
The town law ruled out robbery as the motive, as twenty dollars remained in the victim’s nearby purse.
Thirty-three years of age, Lily Rawlins had been a frequent imbiber of liquor. The poor victim had earned her name “Big Lil” because she weighed two hundred and eighty pounds. The murder took place within four blocks of her residence on Viceroy Street. She left behind no family that authorities could locate.
Town sheriff Thomas Pike reported that no one had been arrested in the atrocious murder.
The crime echoes the horrifying slaughter of five prostitutes between August and November 1888 in the Whitechapel district of the East End of London. The suspect in those murders has never been apprehended despite a massive hunt by Scotland Yard.
In those terrifying cases, the killer slashed the throat of each victim and viciously mutilated their bodies.
“Where’d you get this article? It didn’t come from the Times or any London paper, or I would have recalled the information,” Felicity said.
“The story was published in the New York Times. A colleague at Scotland Yard gave it to me. He has a relative in the States who sent it to him because of our work on the Whitechapel murders.”
“I understand why you relapsed. You believe the killer has relocated to America.”
“He’s gone to continue his repulsive work, and unless we hurry, there will be more victims. I’ve got to go there. To Montana.” His voice sounded rough, as if he had eaten gravel.
Felicity gave him a sip of water from a glass on a table near his bed. His chest rose and fell with effort.
“You aren’t going anywhere, Inspector Jackson Davies. If you do, then this killer will have claimed one more victim, and that I can’t allow.” She looked down at the newspaper in her hand. “I’m going.”
“What?” He attempted to sit up, but she held him down.
“There’s nothing wrong with your ears.”
“This man is more dangerous than any you’ve encountered. Even I’m afraid of him.”
“That reinforces the point that he must be stopped. I shall simply go there and see what I can learn about the murder. If your hunch is accurate and it is the Whitechapel killer, then when you have recovered, you can join me. You can arrest him and make sure he faces the law, and the hangman.”
“I know you, Felicity Margaret Carrol. You don’t do anything simply.”
“Hush, now.” Felicity rose and called for Joanna Davies to join them. Felicity took the woman’s hand. “Joanna, I’m going on a journey on Jackson’s behalf. Before I leave, I’m going to hire the best physician available to care for him, along with a nurse to help you. You shall have anything you need to see he gets well.”
The look on Joanna’s face was all the thanks Felicity needed. She turned to Jackson, who closed his eyes.
“If anything should happen to you …” he said.
“Nothing will happen. We both want to find this killer and make sure he gets what he deserves. Justice is my goal in life also, Jackson.”
“I’m your friend. I can’t let you go.”
Felicity took his hand in both of hers. “Because I’m your friend, I must go.”
She would track down Jack the Ripper.
CHAPTER 4
Felicity sat in the library at Carrol Manor and read more of the files Jackson Davies had given her. She attempted to assimilate the information with the detached eye of a scientist or detective. But her toes chilled as if she were wriggling them in dirt over a fresh grave.
Five prostitutes killed in or near Whitechapel over the course of four months. All mutilated in a nightmarish manner. The more she read, the more she comprehended why the Scotland Yard inspector and her friend had become fixated on arresting this murderer.
Helen Wilkins rapped on the open library door, and she was startled.
“Anything wrong, Hellie?” Felicity bade her enter the room.
“No, Miss Felicity. I’m thinking you might want a chaperone for your trip to Montana. And since you didn’t mention you had one, I’d like to offer my services.”
Earlier in the day, Felicity had announced to the servants her pending trip to the United States. She hadn’t even thought about a companion.
“Montana is a long way, Hellie.”
“I raised you, and I mean to protect you.” Helen stood up like a soldier ready for combat.
“We’re going to what could be an uncivilized place, perhaps even a hazardous one.”
“I grew up in the streets of Spitalfields. After that, any place is a ride in the country.”
Helen often mentioned her roots in the tough part of London and how that upbringing had made her tough as well. Yes, she was, but Helen was also loving and capable of great gentleness.
“You sure, Hellie?”
“Even Indians won’t scare me.” She paused. “Will we run into Indians?”
“I don’t believe so where we’re going.”
“Then why are you going, Miss Felicity?”
Helen was one of the few people who knew about Felicity’s work solving murders and other crimes. “To track down a killer. And one of the most enigmatic ones we may ever confront.”
“Well, every young woman should have a hobby.” Helen winked.
Felicity warmed with gratitude. “Then we’re off to Montana, my girl.”
* * *
Her hands on her hips, Felicity talked more to herself than to the two maids in her bedroom. “What shall I do about the chemicals? I’ll just have to take the essentials and hope American apothecaries have the ones I may require.”
She pointed to one of the four open steamer trunks in the room. “Gertie, please pack the books I’ve set in the corner.”
Felicity could have used one more trunk but was making do because her personal items had not yet been packed. She had kept the clothing selections simple because she doubted she’d be attending any balls or teas where they were heading. She hoped so, anyway.
A young housemaid stood in the doorway. “Your solicitor is here, Miss.”
“Please show him to the small sitting room downstairs and send on the tea. Thank you, Maggie.”
After her father’s death, Felicity had given much thought to terminating the employ of this particular solicitor. Martin Jameson had been her father’s friend, and the solicitor’s arrogance more than equaled her father’s. He wore superiority over others like a pearl stickpin. And not unlike her own parent, the solicitor didn’t hide his disapproval of her. Both men had condemned her pursuit of education and freedom instead of matrimony and becoming an acceptable young woman of English society. When she inherited the estate and holdings, she had asked Jameson for all the financial reports of her family’s assets, investments, and companies. With such a request, she had hoped he might not want to be employed by a woman, but Jameson had told her he had promised her father to look after her and sent on the reports.
The solicitor had been with their family for years and she couldn’t dismiss him so easily, although she scolded herself for sentimentality. She also had to admit to herself that she kept him on partly out of the guilt she still felt about her father’s death.
The rotund Jameson stood and bowed slightly as she entered the sitting room. She asked him to take a seat and the servants to leave. “Thank you for coming on the shortest of notices, Mr. Jameson.”
“I am always at your service, Miss Carrol, as I promised your late father.”<
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Whenever she spoke with him, he always reminded her of that. She cleared her throat. “In the next few days, I will travel to America for what may be an extended period of time. I’m going to a place called Placer, Montana.”
“Montana?”
One side of her mouth bowed up in a smile. “Sounds barbaric, doesn’t it?”
“I am sure the place will live up to the name.” His nostrils were alert, as if smelling mess. He was a man of expensive tastes and grim manner, leaving Felicity to wonder if he had ever laughed out loud in his life.
The servant entered with the tea.
“Maggie, I’ll pour for Mr. Jameson and myself.” The servant curtsied and left. Felicity turned her attention back to the solicitor. “I require your services for additional items related to my trip.”
Jameson sniffed. “Proceed.”
“I need a good-sized house in Placer, Montana. Certainly nowhere as large as Carrol Manor. Three or four bedrooms will suffice. In addition, I’d like someone to run errands for me, someone very familiar with the town. This person must also be discreet and trustworthy. Lastly, I require a line of credit to pay for my expenses. Even an American town like Placer must have a bank.” She handed him a list. “My necessities for this journey.”
He sniffed again.
Felicity handed him another document. “If anything should happen to me while I’m away, here’s my last will and testament. I mean for the servants to be taken care of, especially those who have served my family for years and raised me.”
“Miss Carrol, what could possibly happen to you?”
“Please, let me continue. Since I’m unmarried, it’s my intention that Carrol Manor be turned into a school for girls. This school will be open to any who want to attend, regardless of their station, rich or poor. The assets from the family’s mill and shipping revenue will fund this endeavor. The instructions are included in the papers.” She’d had the firm of Morton & Morton draw up her will.
“A school?” Jameson’s cheeks flamed with indignation. “This house has been in your family for three generations.”
“And I can think of no better future for the manor than helping young girls obtain an education. Please take the document, Mr. Jameson.”
He touched the will as if it were soiled and exhaled more disapproval. “But how can you, a young woman, travel alone halfway around the world? This isn’t prudent, wise, or decent. People will be shocked.”
“Miss Helen Wilkins will accompany me. She’s an impeccable chaperone. And I believe Placer, Montana, is less than one-quarter of the way around the world.” She couldn’t resist a poke at Jameson’s crusty exterior.
“Miss Carrol, may I ask the reason for your expedition to America?”
Felicity had prepared for this inquiry. She had created a good diversion story to avoid any more questions—or at least she hoped she had. She had also rehearsed the fabrication like an actress learning a role.
She stood up to aid in the performance. “I intend to become a writer of crime and mystery stories. They’re frightfully entertaining and quite popular.” She made the announcement with deliberation and pride. Then she waited, expecting a sneer, argument, and lecture in propriety from Martin Jameson. In their place, disquiet passed over his face as if all he had ever known had been called into question.
“Whatever in God’s name inspired you to take up such an enterprise?”
“Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Poe?”
“‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ ‘The Pit and the Pendulum,’ and all his other tales of horror and crime.” She put a measure of admiration in her voice, which was not feigned. She did love his writing. “Mr. Poe is my ideal. He was American, you know. So what better way to start this new authorial undertaking than in the United States?”
“Crime writing?”
“Jane Austen and the Brontës penned stories of romance, but this genre is much more exciting.”
Mention of the famous English writers softened his condemning expression—only faintly. Remarkable, Felicity thought. So a woman writer was more acceptable than a female investigating murder. She couldn’t understand why. But if nothing else, Jameson already thought her eccentric, so he might accept this writer invention. Even if he didn’t, she was going forward with her plans.
“Why this Montana place, Miss Carrol?”
“A very interesting crime has been committed there, one that has inspired my first book. Of course, London is no stranger to murder.” Felicity hadn’t intended to bring up the topic, but it provided a reference the solicitor might understand.
“Whitechapel,” Jameson whispered, as if the word was an obscenity.
Any Londoner who read the Times knew about the Whitechapel killer, but she hadn’t thought this highly proper solicitor would mention a clearly scandalous case. This surprised her.
“Precisely, Mr. Jameson. I’ve studied the murders and read all the newspaper articles.” That was true.
The teacup clattered in his hand until he set it on the table.
“I know I should take up painting or the piano, but crime writing intrigues me so. On the positive side, I won’t torch the house with pen and ink as I did with my science experiments.” She knew her late father had told Jameson about that particular incident. “And who knows? I might become as famous as Mr. Poe, under a pseudonym, naturally.” She extended her hand. “In any event, thank you for helping me in these preparations and for all you’ve done for my family, Mr. Jameson.”
Sniffing again, he stood to leave but remained stationary and didn’t shake her hand. His full eyebrows jerked together.
“Do we have more business to discuss, sir?”
“Miss Carrol, as your solicitor and as a friend to your late father, I recommend you seriously consider the possible consequences of digging into what should be left buried.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“The past should remain untouched. Dredging it up will only bring pain and destruction. I can say no more at the moment.”
“You haven’t said much.”
“Good day.” Nodding his balding head, the solicitor departed.
Felicity scratched her chin over the solicitor’s comment, which sounded more like a polite threat than legal counsel. But she couldn’t waste any energy on his secrets.
Returning to her bedroom to finish packing, Felicity threw one of her petticoats to the floor. With Martin Jameson, she had surrendered to what society expected of her. Taking a chaperone, indeed. She wanted to go alone. But if she did disregard that convention, she would probably offend the men who managed the family businesses. And she needed them to keep the hundreds of people employed at her companies, as well as to generate the revenue to fund her investigations into crimes. She detested the rules of English social order as much as she hated ignorance, but she knew enough to choose which battles to undertake. Traveling with a chaperone was one she wouldn’t fight. She also had to admit she was looking forward to Helen’s company on this trip.
Now with the journey two days away, Felicity picked up her petticoat from the floor and placed it over one of the trunks. On her dressing table, she unfolded the newspaper article Jackson Davies had given her. Felicity placed the clipping on top of a thick packet of papers, secured it with string, and packed it. She had one more stop to make.
CHAPTER 5
The London cabby’s eyes and cheeks were degrees of red. Felicity surmised that whiskey was the source, based on the smell of his clothing. Still, he had a trustworthy face—the look of a hardworking man with a back bowed from hauling around people all day in the black hansom cab. His brown horse was a sturdy strutter, brushed and spritely, which told Felicity the driver cared for the animal that helped him make a living.
Felicity hired him outside the Regency Hotel on Kensington High Street, where she and Helen had rooms. In the morning, their boat was scheduled to cross the great pond for America. While Helen rested at the hotel, Felicity took a carriage to th
e East End of London.
“You really want to go there?” the driver asked Felicity when she told him her destination.
“I do.”
He brushed a gloved hand under his nose. “You must be very brave, Miss.”
“I can only hope so.”
He helped her into his cab, which mercifully did not smell of whiskey.
“Come now, Daisy,” the cabby called from his tall seat in back of the carriage. With a click or two of his tongue, he drove Felicity to the East End. Once there, they crossed an invisible border from affluence to misery. The world of invention and progress had halted at the border of the East End, one of the most poverty-stricken sections of the city.
Little had changed since the last time Felicity had visited this part of London. The cab passed the King Cock public house, which looked even worse in the day. There she had met a thief of antiquities during her very first murder investigation—the one that had directed her path to catching criminals. That case had ended well.
With hands closed tightly on her lap, Felicity hoped for a similar outcome in her next undertaking. Success was imperative to save her friend Jackson Davies. He needed her. And in all her years, she had never been needed before by another human being. The sensation was humbling, wonderful, and petrifying.
Because of the poverty of the area, the sky seemed murkier in the East End than anyplace else in London, although the hour had just struck noon and the sky was clear enough. Putting her hand to her mouth, Felicity choked on the smell of rot and stale beer. While horse manure from constant carriage traffic stank up many of London’s streets, the stench was worse in this section of London because the roadways were not cleaned as often. She did not fault the people who resided there. With low-paying jobs, they could afford only crowded housing with inadequate sanitation. From these conditions grew slums and crime and more squalor. The attitude of English society—the people who had way more money, that is—was that the poor were poor because they were sinners. She thought those who spouted such ignorance should keep their mouths shut and learn what it was like to live with little money, prospects, or education.
Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace Page 4