Placing a white piece of paper beneath the body’s hands, Felicity took scrapings from under the fingernails.
“Why you doing that?” Quigley picked his teeth with his own nail.
Felicity remained concentrated on her work. She blew back a piece of her hair that had fallen over her eyes. “The woman might have scratched her assailant. If so, he’ll have scratch marks on his face or body. Such evidence will help convict him in a court of law when he is apprehended.”
“I get it,” Quigley said, then gave a big yawn.
Felicity calmed her breathing and inspected the wounds. They were alike in placement to those found on Lily Rawlins’s body, according to the postmortem report she had obtained from Sheriff Pike. The cut to Mattie Morgan’s abdomen was exact and straight. No surgeon could have been more detailed.
With a gulp and grit, she inspected inside the body cavity. The heart and liver had been removed and placed in the wrong location.
“Where’d you learn to look at a body that way?” the undertaker asked.
“At medical school.” She had forgotten he was even there.
“You a doctor?”
“I could be but have other interests. Excuse me, I must focus, Mr. Quigley.”
“Sure, sure.”
Using tongs and her magnifying glass, she saw the detached organs had clean cuts. No tearing of the flesh or unnecessary nicks. They had been separated by an expert hand, signifying a disciplined side of the murderer. The discipline, however, disappeared when it came to the female parts of the victim. There were several knife wounds of different depths. The randomness of them suggested rage.
After sketching the body in a notebook, Felicity noted the placement of the wounds. On each injury, Felicity pushed the skin together, and the wound tapered at both ends. Such a shape indicated a double-edged knife, according to her study of forensic medicine. Many of the wounds measured one inch wide. Felicity slid a thin ruler into the wound, which stopped at six and a half inches. She gained a clear picture of the knife.
Thin, long, double-edged.
Sodden with blood, the woman’s dingy drawers showed no traces of seminal fluid, which signified the victim had not been sexually violated. Felicity imagined young women back home swooning at the idea she had even made such an examination. But she had studied bodily fluids, including blood, during her medical studies. This was part of a crime and had to be studied as such. With logic and objectivity.
As she examined the body, her mind whizzed over case files from the London Metropolitan Police for comparisons to what she was seeing. She didn’t want to miss any vital clues in her sleuthing.
“Poor soul. Tore to bits.” Undertaker Quigley got up from his stool in the corner. “The same as old Big Lil. Somebody sure don’t like girls of the line.” The undertaker smoothed the victim’s hair. “A pretty girl. Too bad.”
Felicity fully regarded the young woman’s face, which she had neglected to do at the blacksmith shop. She had been paying too much attention to the physical evidence. Even with a chin and cheeks spotted with blood, Mattie Morgan appeared peaceful, a fair sleeping beauty with no hope of ever awaking. “Yes, very pretty.”
But there was no time to digress. The killer didn’t dally, and neither could she. Using ink and a brush, Felicity painted the thumb and forefinger of the body’s right hand. She pressed the fingers on a piece of paper for a clear impression.
“What you doing now, ma’am?”
“Gathering fingerprints.”
“Why?”
“So I can identify the victim.”
“We know she’s Mattie Morgan.”
Felicity sighed with patience. “We must distinguish her fingerprints from those of her killer.” She cleaned the ink off the body’s fingers with alcohol. She didn’t want Pike and the doctor to know about her visit.
“That sounds confusing,” said the undertaker. “Give me a body and I’ll do the rest. By the way, ma’am, you got ink on your nose.”
CHAPTER 10
Even with ample light from the early-afternoon sun and the electric bulb overhead, Felicity rubbed her eyes and moved the kerosene lamp closer to the microscope. For the last three hours, she had analyzed the evidence collected from the body of Mattie Morgan. Thanks to the carpentry skills of Robert Lowery, the large upstairs bedroom had been transformed into a laboratory based on her own design to aid in her investigation.
A wooden counter running the length of one wall held the microscope and a typewriter, where she wrote up the notes on what she had discovered. At the back were beakers, tongs, tubes, and medicine droppers, as well as Erlenmeyer flasks for any chemistry experiments she might have to conduct. A shelf to hold bottles of chemicals had been built above the counter. Set against another wall was a shelf with science and medical books, many from her studies at the university, along with pamphlets about investigation procedures used by the Metropolitan Police Service. Although she had memorized the information, having the books there gave her comfort. She liked the feeling of being surrounded by knowledge.
Working at the counter, Felicity viewed the hairs plucked from Mattie Morgan’s dress and those found near the neck wound. Under the microscope, they were wavy and a somber red. The hair might very well have come from one of the men who had visited the victim professionally. They might also belong to the murderer. She placed the strands in an envelope after carefully marking its contents and placing it in a wooden box she had assigned to collect evidence in this case.
The ring Felicity had picked up at the slain prostitute’s feet was plain silver, probably a wedding ring judging by the placement on her left hand. Usually prostitutes weren’t married, so Mattie Morgan must have been widowed. Holding the ring with tweezers, Felicity applied finely ground charcoal to both sides and brushed away the excess. Back home, she had spent many hours teaching herself how to collect fingerprints from a variety of materials and record them. Although not recognized by courts as evidence, fingerprints were helpful tools in her investigations.
Under the magnifying glass appeared ridges of a thumbprint on the outside of the ring and part of the index finger on the inside. She compared the prints to the ones she had obtained from Mattie Mason. They matched.
The killer had left no prints. He had probably worn gloves, and that revealed something about the man. He was careful.
Through the microscope lens, she studied the scrapings from under the victim’s fingernails. Nothing but dirt. Still, they might be important later, so she placed them in another envelope.
Upon completion of her work, she set the magnifying glass and microscope at the back of the counter. In a voice like a metronome, her science tutor Terrance Smyth had repeated, Keep your station organized. Place your equipment away in an orderly fashion so you can easily find an item when needed the next time. She could almost hear Master Smyth say, “Well done, and bravo” about her tidiness and technique, although she doubted his approval of what she was analyzing these days.
Felicity straightened. From stooping over the counter, her lower back had tightened. She checked her watch. “They’re ready.”
Hours before, she had placed a wooden rack on the grass in the back of the house. The rack held five small wooden frames with negative plates over a piece of photographic paper. The sun had provided the light to expose the images onto the paper. Now she removed the frames from the rack and headed to the cellar, where she had set up a photographic laboratory, again thanks to Robert Lowery’s expert carpentry talents.
The cellar was accessible from an outside door at the back of the house near the kitchen. A packed dirt floor gave off the pleasant odor of a newly watered field. Shelves with boxes of potatoes, carrots, and apples as well as canned goods lined one wall. Against the other wall of the cellar, Lowery had built a short counter, upon which Felicity had placed porcelain basins for the photograph-processing chemicals.
Although the former owner of the house had installed electric lights upstairs, he had neglected the
cellar. Felicity had remedied that. She had hired a man from Montana Electric, the company bringing the service to Placer, to run a wire to the cellar and install two lights. One lightbulb hung over the photography darkroom. Another bulb lit the shelves of food as a convenience to Helen for whenever she needed to fetch supplies.
Felicity lit a candle in a lantern of yellow glass to give her enough light to see, but not enough to expose the photographic paper. Heavy black curtains had been hung on three sides of the counter to block any daylight. Felicity drew the curtains and pushed up the sleeves of her blouse. Removing the photographic paper and plate negative from the wooden frames, she slipped the paper into the developer bath. An image began to appear in the faint light—a close-up of Mattie Morgan’s pretty face. With tongs, Felicity placed the print into another basin filled with a soda compound to halt the developing. Last, the print went into a basin of water to rinse off the chemicals. With a clothespin, she hung the photograph on a piece of line she had strung up and then repeated the process with the other prints.
While they dried, Felicity went upstairs to eat. The kitchen door was ajar, but she didn’t enter. Inside, Helen and Robert Lowery drank coffee at the table and chatted in soothing, intimate tones, as if they had known each other more than one week. Their perceptible warmth for one another created a cozy haze about them like a cocoon of friendship. Helen appeared to be a woman ten years younger.
Felicity grinned at her own dullness. What a grand mistress of observation you are, she told herself. How could she have missed such obvious clues? Hadn’t she noticed how Lowery rushed to help Helen with the smallest chore? How Helen had begun baking apple pies after Lowery claimed they were his favorites? How they eagerly headed to the market together and took longer and longer to return? Attention to the gruesome murders had blinded her to everything else. To the good things, the surprising things least expected, particularly for Helen.
“Good for you, Hellie,” Felicity whispered.
So as not to disturb them, Felicity skipped lunch, going around the front of the house and into the library to read until the prints were dry.
Felicity returned to her laboratory upstairs for closer inspection of the photographs she had taken of Mattie Morgan’s body and the scene of the crime. Using the magnifying glass, she searched for anything she might have overlooked while at the blacksmith shop.
In the black-and-white photographs, the blood appeared the color of oil on the dirt and walls of the building and the body looked smaller and lonely. Other than what Felicity had witnessed there, no details emerged.
Pictured in the wide-angle photograph, Pike and one of his deputies stood near the body, their heads bowed in conversation. A blur in a black coat, Dr. Lennox was departing the site. But another figure stood out among the commotion of the day, and Felicity hadn’t noticed her when she took the photograph. A woman stood to the right of the blacksmith building. Felicity aimed the magnifying glass over the image. The attractive woman wore a stylish dress and a large hat with feathery plumes. Part of her face was revealed.
The woman was smiling, albeit sedately.
“She’s probably the type who also attends executions,” Felicity said out loud.
With a knock, Helen entered, carrying a tray. “Excuse the intrusion, Miss, but I brought you tea and a bit of roast beef. You picked at your breakfast like a bird this morning and had no lunch.”
“Thank you, Hellie. I’ll eat in the dining room.”
“Good. I don’t how anybody could have an appetite in this room.”
Helen referred to the wall across from the counter, which was covered with photographs of the murdered victims.
More to make Helen happy than to satisfy hunger, Felicity ate. “Sit and talk with me, please.”
“It ain’t proper, Miss.”
“Hellie, it’s not proper to reject my invitation.” Felicity fetched another cup from the cabinet and poured tea for Helen. “Besides, your brother, Mr. Horace Wilkins, is nowhere around to remind us what is correct.”
“Thank goodness.”
Like Helen, Horace Wilkins had worked for the Carrol family for many years. While he had treated her late father with the highest respect and admiration, he hadn’t shown Felicity the same. Though Wilkins didn’t say it outright, he also blamed her for her father’s death. His accusations came in the form of even frostier indifference. Happily for Felicity and Helen, Wilkins had gone to work for Martin Jameson after her father died. Theirs was a match made in hellish propriety.
Helen didn’t sip her tea, and her brow was weighed down with worry.
“What’s wrong?” Felicity said.
“I hope I’m not being impertinent, Miss. Even though this is America, I worry about what people will say about you going around town without an escort, or me, your chaperone.”
Felicity had told Helen about their reason for coming to Placer and trusted Helen not to say anything. However, the truth about their mission or any of the other criminal investigations Felicity undertook didn’t stop Helen from trying to protect her.
“This is a new country, Hellie. I’m enjoying independence here and must say I find it invigorating. America also means a new freedom for you, too.”
“Me?”
“Without a doubt. We’re no longer Miss Felicity Carrol and her servant Helen. We’re just Felicity and Helen, friends and companions.”
“You still pay me, and rather well.”
“A mere detail. You give more than you’ll ever receive in pounds and shillings.”
Helen puffed out her chest and grinned. “Blimey. My prune of a brother would bust his collar button if he heard such a sentiment.”
“I suspect you’re right. So what do you think about Placer? Still worried about an Indian attack?” Felicity cut a piece of roast beef.
“I’m beginning to change my mind about this town.”
“Wonderful. And I’m extremely pleased with our Mr. Lowery. A hard worker, kind, and generous. I’ve also noticed he’s shaved every day this week. He wants to impress you.” Felicity used her best innocent voice.
Helen choked on her tea. Felicity patted her back. “Oh Hellie, forgive me.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss,” she answered with embellished indignation, but she couldn’t hold on to the stern face. They both began to laugh. Helen stood. “Time I got back to my work.”
“Me as well.” Felicity stood and brushed crumbs off her skirt.
“Where you off to, then?”
“To see a doctor.”
“Feeling all right, Miss?”
Felicity smiled. “That depends on what I find out.”
* * *
Felicity knocked one more time at the office on Front Street and waited. As she raised her fist for another try, Dr. William Lennox opened the door to a slit.
“What do you want, then?”
“I saw you with Sheriff Tom Pike at the scene of Mattie Morgan’s death.”
“Is the sheriff here?” The doctor’s eyes darted about the porch and then fixed on Felicity as if she peddled bottled plague.
“Afraid not. He’s quite busy today. I don’t want to bother him.”
The physician opened the door wider. Impatience, suspicion, and perhaps a touch of nervousness advanced over his face. “You’re the writer. Sheriff Pike mentioned you might be calling. He’s an honorable man.” The doctor had a Scottish accent thick as haggis.
“Oh, yes. A man who can be trusted.”
Money had helped her obtain information from newspaperman Clark Andrews. She hoped Tom Pike’s name might act as currency for the physician, as if the very mention was an entry into a gentlemen’s club. The sheriff had advised her that the doctor kept to himself outside his medical practice, didn’t like women, and was friendly as a case of scurvy.
He snuffled and waved her inside.
Antiseptic.
The word best describing the doctor’s large sitting room. White walls. Expensive but scarce pi
eces of furniture. The essentials and no more. No vases, crystal, knickknacks, lace-covered tables, or Tiffany lamps that decorated other fashionable homes. No portraits of loved ones. The rooms were a space the doctor merely occupied. An artist’s easel stood in a corner.
Behind open double doors lay his surgery, with an examination table, cupboards, and a wooden-and-glass case stocked with medical tools and supplies.
A young man wearing a white jacket brought in the tea service.
“Where are your gloves?” the doctor asked the servant as he placed the tray on the table.
“In my pocket, Doctor.”
“You know I dislike dirty hands, and your fingernails are filthy.”
Lennox’s rudeness infuriated Felicity, who believed no one had the right to speak to their employees in such a manner. She gave an encouraging nod to the young man.
“Sorry, Doctor. Won’t happen no more.” The servant put on the white gloves.
“Anymore.”
“What?”
“It won’t happen anymore,” Lennox corrected him.
“Well, it won’t.”
“You may leave.” Lennox shooed him away.
After the servant left, Felicity and Lennox sat without talking. He didn’t move, but his eyes went to the tea service. She relented and poured for them both.
“At last, a decent cup in America.” She sipped and then rubbed her hands together in delight. He didn’t acknowledge the praise. The doctor appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. His clothing was flawless and precise as his office. The hands on his lap were large but well tended as a woman’s, with long, tapering, pristine fingernails. His dense red hair was parted to one side.
Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace Page 9