Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace

by Patricia Marcantonio

  “Most of the stink comes from the big smelters, Miss.” The driver’s yellow bush of hair matched his yellow teeth. He pointed a craggy finger toward huge dark structures on the western edge of town. “But here we’re heaven on earth compared to Butte. In that town, I seen people’s noses bleed from the smoke.”

  “Miss Carrol, Miss Carrol.” Helen tapped Felicity’s shoulder. “Indians!”

  Three men with black braids and decorated blankets over their shoulders led two packhorses down the street. Although the men held fierce long-barreled rifles, their faces were solemn and conquered. A woman wearing a shoddy dress and the same expression as the men dragged her feet as she carried a baby on her back. These Indians were quite different from how the dime store novels depicted them—bedecked with feathers, arrows, and menace. Still, the men appeared more than capable of declaring war on the government of the United States.

  “Just wait till I tell the people back home.” Helen bounced in her seat like a child. “They’ll never believe I saw real Indians.”

  “A new world.” Felicity said, not referring to just the Indians. In England, she perceived history in the cobblestones and castles. Ever since she had disembarked in America, she had been struck by an untamed rawness of this new land. In the West, there were no historical buildings anywhere because history was being made. How exhilarating.

  The buckboard reached the north section of Placer. Large, well-built houses of stone and wood ruled the streets. An abundance of flowers, shrubs, and trees surrounded them.

  “Greenery. For a moment, I thought this Montana town was devoid of any,” Felicity said.

  “This must be where the ladies and gents live,” Helen said.

  They stopped at a white two-story house built on a low hill. A granite block fence with a black iron gate encompassed a yard bursting with flowers. Granite steps led to a veranda wrapping around the front and sides of the house. The exterior boasted fairy-tale ornamentation of gables, stained glass, and carved wood over the windows. Two sturdy marble columns in front of the main door provided an aura of strength.

  “Quite lovely,” Felicity remarked to Helen.

  “Not Carrol Manor, but it’ll do.”

  An older man rushed out of the house to help Felicity and Helen. Short and muscular, the man had a thick white handlebar mustache that contrasted with his thinning white hair. “Miss Felicity?”

  She straightened her hat, which had slipped to the side from the bumpy ride. “I am.”

  “The name is Robert Lowery.” His hand jutted out to take hers.

  Felicity liked this American custom. People gripping the hands of those they had barely met. England was a country of distant nods, curtsies, and bows. Handshakes in her homeland were weak gestures, a mere brushing of the fingers. Embracing this cultural difference wholeheartedly, she grabbed Lowery’s hand. “Delighted to meet you.” She shook so hard, the old man’s head bounced. “May I present Miss Helen Wilkins.”

  “I’m very lucky to be in the company of two such lovely ladies.”

  Helen blushed. “You’re a smooth-talking man, Mr. Lowery.”

  His expansive smile revealed a missing front tooth.

  Upon entering the house, Felicity reminded herself to write a generous thank-you note to Martin Jameson. “Perfect.”

  “The house used to belong to Judge Mitchell Sauter.” Lowery spoke in fatherly tones. “He got struck down by a runaway ore wagon and died. Didn’t have no living relatives, so your people got a good deal on the place, furniture and all.”

  “I’m sorry to have benefited from another’s misfortune, but this is very satisfactory.” Felicity took off her hat.

  A bedroom, good-sized front parlor, dining room, library, and kitchen lay on the ground floor. Two more bedrooms were upstairs. Felicity beamed when she opened the double doors to the library. Shelves of books lined three of the four walls. A well-used reading chair sat in the corner by a window. Most important, the former owner had installed electric lights. “The judge must have been a truly enlightened fellow,” she said to Lowery.

  “He did like to keep up with the times.”

  The judge had also liked his comforts. Carved marble fireplaces with intricate tile work seemed to be as much for decoration as heat. Intricate crystal chandeliers hung over the dining-room table. Thick Oriental rugs covered parquet floors. Paintings of landscapes and still-lifes dotted walls about the house.

  Glancing in each room, Felicity was happy with her decision not to take up residence in one of the deluxe hotels on Main Avenue. She wanted to get the feel of the town, to be one of its residents and live among them. Besides, she didn’t want to burn down a hotel and its guests if one of her experiments went wrong as it had at Carrol Manor. She had confidence in her chemistry skills but didn’t want to take a chance.

  “I live in a small room at the back of the kitchen, but I can move out to the carriage house if you’d like,” Lowery said.

  “Nonsense. This is your home also.”

  Another gap-toothed smile appeared.

  Felicity directed Helen to the bedroom near the staircase. “Will you be comfortable here? I’d like to sleep in the room next to my laboratory upstairs.”

  Helen peeked in. “A fine chamber. And my lumbago won’t put up an argument. Now excuse me. I want to see what an American kitchen looks like.” She rubbed her hands together in anticipation.

  Felicity instructed the drivers on where to place the trunks. She addressed the older man. “Mr. Lowery, is my laboratory all prepared?”

  “Yes, Miss Felicity. We got a telegraph from your people and did what you asked. I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”

  “I’m sure it will be admirable.”

  He nodded at the compliment. “Those packages were sent to you all the way from Denver, Colorado, and Boston, Massachusetts.”

  Several parcels and boxes sat on the dining table, as well as a good-sized crate on the floor. The packages contained a microscope, vials of chemicals, and laboratory equipment. Another package held a new typewriter.

  Lowery’s mouth slackened as Felicity inspected the contents. “Excuse me, Miss, you a doctor?”

  “Merely an interested bystander.”

  His bushy eyebrows knotted at her answer.

  The crate held a new English Compact Reversible camera shipped from the Blair Company in Boston. Also packed were boxes of dry plates, sensitized photographic paper, print frames, and processing chemicals. Although the Eastman Company had revolutionized photography with its new roll film, Felicity had chosen the large dry plates because of the superior quality they produced in the prints. The Metropolitan Police had started taking photographs with the Whitechapel murders, and she had seen the effectiveness of preserving the scenes where the killings had taken place. The photographs suspended time for a closer search for clues.

  She asked the wagon driver and Lowery to place the crate and parcels in her laboratory.

  As soon as they left, Felicity inspected a metal and wooden crossbow and a dozen bolts in a flat wooden box. The bolts were metal, thin, and sharp. She disliked the thought of weapons, but this murderer was dangerous, and she wanted protection for Helen and herself. She replaced the weapon in the box, which went under her bed.

  When the older man finished his tasks, Felicity asked him into the library and shut the doors. “I have another subject to discuss with you, Mr. Lowery, one I hope shall remain between the two of us.”

  He winked. “I can keep my mouth shut, Miss.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on. I understand you’re a man who knows almost everything that happens in this town, particularly events of a criminal nature.”

  “Before I worked for the judge, I used to be a jailer under ol’ Sheriff Pike. I still got lots of friends in the sheriff’s office and around town.”

  “Excellent. Then please inform me immediately of any major crime in town about which you may hear. Be it any time, night or day, I want to know. You’ll be handsome
ly compensated for such information, over and above your salary as a retainer.”

  “I’m at your service, Miss.”

  “I knew I could count on you and your discretion. Incidentally, old Sheriff Pike must be related to the young Sheriff Pike.”

  “That’s his boy, and a good man he is.”

  Back in the dining room, Helen wiped her hands on the apron she had donned. Her traveling hat was still on her head. “A finely equipped kitchen, Miss Felicity. Maybe this Montana isn’t such a barbarous place.”

  “Excellent. Now, as they say in the vernacular of the West, can you please rustle us up some tea and sandwiches?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Because of her unfamiliarity with the town and to save time, Felicity asked Robert Lowery to drive her to the Placer Gazette office later in the afternoon. She wanted to begin her inquiries as soon as possible. For the visit, she had changed into a sober black serge dress with a small white lace collar. A perfect costume for the part of a writer. She had also purchased a notebook, not unlike the one her friend Jackson Davies carried. Of course, she didn’t need it, because she could recall details with her remarkable memory. Still, the notebook gave the costume a bit more credence.

  While the horses clopped along, Felicity marveled at the distance she had traveled. Across the ocean and much of the United States, yes, but also an existence and a half away from her life in England. With such a new start, she could begin the chase in earnest. No constrictive rules of Victorian society here.

  Just a killer.

  The bell over the door tinkled as Felicity entered the newspaper office on Broadway Street, a road off of Main. The office was one long room with a counter at the front, a few desks behind, and a printing press in the back. Felicity could see through to the back door from where she stood near the front. The building was permeated by the smell of ink and coffee, both equally strong and black. As if she were an inspecting general, the men cracked to attention. They adjusted jackets. Squared shoulders. Sucked in bellies. A tall boy carrying an armful of papers stopped, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a gulp. The exception was an older man scribbling away at one of the desks. He gave her little notice and went back to his writing.

  A man in his twenties raced to the counter. “May I help you, Miss?”

  “I suspect you don’t get many female visitors.”

  “No, Miss. I mean, yes, Miss.”

  Felicity wanted to make him feel at ease, but did not. She had to be taken seriously. “I want to read all the stories you have published about the murder of Lily Rawlins. I will pay one dollar for each newspaper, if that is sufficient.”

  The older man at the desk put up his ink pen. His face drew into a powerful scowl. Men in the back of the long room halted their typesetting. The boy leaned on his broom.

  “Big Lil?” the young man said.

  “Correct.”

  He consulted with the older man in a whisper. As the young man bent to hear instructions, the older man lifted unkempt eyebrows and gave a strident nod, as if he had never agreed to anything in his life. In a while, the young man returned with three newspapers.

  One item had been printed on the front page of the March 29 afternoon edition under the headline PROSTITUTE’S MUTILATED BODY FOUND IN RED DISTRICT. Much of the article about the murder of Lily Rawlins contained the same information Felicity had read in the New York Times story Davies had given her, thankfully with a few more facts.

  Hands at its side, the body lay on its back with a horrendous slice to the throat and abdomen. The front of the woman’s garments was drawn up to her chin and soaked in blood.

  “I won’t be able to have a good night’s sleep ever again after witnessing such a sight,” said Mr. Joe Maxwell, who had stumbled upon the corpse in the alley.

  Big Lil, as the pitiful victim was called, lived in and worked out of one of the so-called “cribs” on Viceroy Street, where many of the town’s soiled doves reside and take in clients.

  Sheriff Tom Pike reported to the Gazette that he had not found a knife in the alley or close about. The sheriff also estimated that the murder must have taken place between eleven thirty at night and two in the morning. He surmised the time because the deceased had last been spotted at the Lost Horse Bar about fifteen after eleven. Barman Barrett Young said Lily Rawlins had drunk at least six beers, all bought for her by men in the establishment. After joking that she was “closed for business,” Rawlins had made her way home.

  The dead woman’s purse lay near the body and contained twenty dollars.

  Sheriff Pike has made no arrest in the shocking killing.

  As a side note, Mrs. Josephine Miller, a waitress at the Red Hawk Café, fainted after she accidentally glimpsed the carnage on her way to work.

  Another article printed two days later reported that the killer had still not been arrested. The story ended with:

  The Rev. T. Phoenix from the Church of the Morning on Walton Avenue is taking up a collection to bury murder victim Lily Rawlins. Rev. Phoenix ministers to many ladies of the evening.

  The next day’s newspaper reported that Lily Rawlins was scheduled to be buried at Pauper Grounds. The murderer had not been caught.

  Felicity asked to talk with the person who had written the stories. The old man who had ignored her took his time getting to the counter. His cuffs were threadbare and dotted with ink. His head seemed perpetually bent forward, probably from squinting too closely at words and distasteful events.

  “I am Clark Andrews.” He did not offer a hand to shake.

  Felicity introduced herself. “I have questions about Lily Rawlins’s murder.”

  “Everything is in the stories I wrote.” He wore gruffness like his worn gray suit. “There isn’t any more, Miss. And just why are you interested, anyway?”

  “I’m a writer of crime novels in England.” She attempted to sound artsy.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t the English commit any crimes?”

  “Very clever, Mr. Andrews. I can see why you are a writer. Please, can you help me?” She pulled out the notebook and a fountain pen from her purse. The paper was stained with ink, as were the fingers of her white gloves. “My fountain pen leaked,” she said, embarrassed by the spill and feeling a touch foolish.

  A rough laugh broke from the newspaperman. “I’m busy. Lots of news happens in Placer. Besides, how you can write a book when you can’t even manage a pen?”

  “But Mr. Andrews.”

  “But nothing, young lady. Females should stay close to hearth and stove. They should be tending the children and not unearthing wicked crimes no decent woman should even think about.”

  Felicity had heard those words all her life and had grown an armor to them, although the backward thinking still irritated her now and again. Using her handkerchief to clean the ink as best she could, Felicity wondered how she could obtain anything from this man. She had discounted much of what her father had told her over the years but did remember his familiar adage: money will lead you through any door.

  “How thoughtless of me, Mr. Andrews. I realize you’re busy. Allow me to pay you for your time. I hope twenty dollars will do.” From her purse, she drew out an ink-stained twenty-dollar gold piece and placed it on the counter. She did not wipe off the ink.

  Andrews gazed at the money, at Felicity, and back to the money. His hand slid out over the twenty dollars. “Well then, ask your questions.”

  “Besides the gruesome mutilations to Lily Rawlins, were there any other unusual details you didn’t include in your articles?’

  He hocked up a cough and the information. “Not all the coins were in her purse.”

  She inclined forward so close to him she smelled the whiskey he must have had for lunch. “No?”

  “Five one-dollar pieces were laid on the ground at her feet.”

  “Can you draw a diagram of where the coins were located?”

  On her notebook, he sketched a stick figure and five coins in a semicircle under the feet.

>   “What a fascinating piece of information.” Not only telling but familiar, or so she had read in the files given to her by Jackson Davies. “Were there any suspicious footprints in the alley?”

  The reporter smirked. “It had rained that morning, so the alley was muddy as a drained riverbed by the time the body was discovered. When I arrived, you couldn’t pick out the killer’s footprints from anyone else’s, including mine.”

  “One of your articles stated that Lily Rawlins was buried in Pauper Grounds. What is that, precisely?”

  “Twenty dollars is too little compensation for all these questions.” His severity resurfaced.

  Twenty dollars was a good sum. But Felicity understood she was also paying to graze over this man’s obviously cantankerous nature. “Then we shall make it another twenty.” She brought out another gold piece.

  He took the money. “Pauper Grounds is where all the destitutes, criminals, and harridans are buried. You’ll find it near the Placer Cemetery about five miles northwest of town.”

  “Has a murder similar to this one ever occurred before in Placer? I mean, one of this, ah, viciousness.”

  The man’s smirk waned, and he breathed out more liquor-imbued breath. “I’ve reported on many a murder and other acts of violence for the Gazette, and I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “One more query, Mr. Andrews.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “What were your impressions of the crime?”

  “Don’t get your meaning, young lady.”

  “What thoughts entered your mind when you saw the body?”

  The newspaperman sucked air between crooked teeth. “I thought a monster had come to town.”

  She thanked the reporter, and he grumbled a reply.

  Outside the newspaper office, Felicity’s legs turned as heavy as the gigantic gates outside Carrol Manor. Her mind slowed. She wanted to do more, but the journey to Placer and unpacking had left her exhausted.

  Robert Lowery dozed in the wagon. She called to him softly, not wanting to startle the older man. His eyes fluttered awake.