The Last Pleasure Garden Read online

  At first, she lingers by the gate, watching as young men in evening dress and young women in gaily-coloured costumes walk along the gas-lit gravel path, down the central tree-lined avenue that runs almost the length of the grounds. For the men, she notices, the fashion is light lavender gloves and patent leather boots. For the women it is an excess of Brussels lace around the neck. In both cases, she decides the gas imparts a glow of enchantment to their faces. And if a few of them stumble, hinting at intoxication, and a few more shout and call damnation upon this or that, it still seems to Rose Perfitt that it is a strangely magical scene.

  Summoning her courage, Rose walks briskly down the avenue herself, taking care not to come too close to the more raucous pleasure-seekers. It is almost midnight, but she still passes several sandwich-board men, sullenly trudging along the path, who silently proclaim the merits of Senor Rosci’s Astounding Dogs and Educated Monkeys, whilst another employee of the Gardens, dressed in a startling suit of red, white and blue, politely interrupts passers-by with vociferous directions to the American Bowling Saloon, and the mysterious promise of a gratuitous mint julep. Rose’s poor dress, however, is ample protection against such importuning. In consequence, she proceeds quite unmolested to a certain quiet glade, where a glass fountain sparkles in the nocturnal lights, water cascading from the jug of a bronze cherubic youth perched upon its summit.

  Rose pulls back the shawl from her face. There are two couples seated upon the benches that face the fountain, engrossed in their own company. Upon the other side of the clearing, a steady progression of men and women walk past, hastening in the direction of the Crystal Platform, intent on enjoying the last dance of the night. As Rose looks round, a pair of young men pause en route, and glance in her direction; a few words pass between them.

  Rose turns away, but, as she does so, bumps into someone directly behind her. Before she can turn round, a man’s hand suddenly comes up and covers her eyes; she gasps in surprise.

  ‘Guess who it is, my little Rose.’

  Rose Perfitt pulls away from the man’s arm, spinning around. But there is no fear in her face as she confronts him, even though her eyes are suddenly moist with tears.

  ‘George!’ she exclaims. ‘It is you!’

  George Nelson smiles, reaching out to dab her cheek.

  ‘You remember me then, Rose?’

  ‘Oh! Don’t say that!’ she replies, looking him in the eyes, taking his hand and clasping it between her own. ‘I knew you’d come back one day.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I just knew,’ she says fervently.

  ‘Still, I don’t expect they told you where I was, eh? Or what happened?’

  ‘Jane just told me Papa had sent you away. She wouldn’t say any more.’

  Nelson allows himself a hollow laugh. ‘Aye, he did that. But that’s all done with now. I’m here now, working at the Gardens again; and I won’t be going anywhere, not if I can help it. And I wanted to see you, Rose.’

  Rose smiles a radiant smile. Before she can reply, however, there is a shout of ‘Nelson!’ from beyond the trees.

  ‘Blast it!’ exclaims Nelson. ‘That’s my lord and master; I’m not done for the night. Here, come on.’

  Rose does not demur. Thus, she is pulled into the trees that surround the fountain glade, until the two of them are almost entirely concealed from passers-by. In Rose Perfitt’s mind, the Gardens, the bushes and trees seem to disappear, so that the two of them are quite alone.

  ‘Do you still love me, then?’ says Nelson, reaching up and stroking her hair. ‘That’s what you told me, when I last saw you.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Rose, blushing as he touches her.

  ‘Would you do anything for me, Rosie?’

  ‘I might,’ says Rose, adopting a mock conspiratorial tone. ‘What should I do then?’

  I’ll show you,’ says Nelson.

  And then they kiss.

  Rose Perfitt leaves Cremorne Gardens at half-past midnight. She walks hurriedly through the gates, her shawl once more artfully wrapped about her to conceal her face. She keeps her head down, avoiding the salutations of the gate-keeper, and the prying eyes of the departing votaries of the pleasure gardens. Consequently, she does not notice, at first, the presence of a certain clergyman and his wife, who mix with the crowd, accosting them with printed handbills.

  But as Mrs. Bertha Featherstone thrusts a sheet of paper towards her, she cannot help but exchange a brief glance with the woman who virtually blocks her way.

  Not a word is spoken. If she is recognised, then there is no denunciation, no cry of shame. Mrs. Featherstone, in turn, is distracted by another abandoned soul, in need of guidance, walking between them.

  Rose Perfitt’s heart races as she hurries home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Sir?’

  Decimus Webb looks up from his desk, as Sergeant Bartleby appears at the door.

  ‘There’s a fellow from the Illustrated Metropolitan News outside in the yard,’ continues Bartleby. ‘He says he’s been waiting since half eight.’

  ‘Well, I told him I did not wish to comment at half-past eight, Sergeant. I do not know why he waits. What time is it now?’

  ‘Gone eleven, sir.’

  ‘Then go back and tell him he has wasted his morning.’

  ‘He asked if you’d read the paper he gave you, sir.’

  Webb scowls. ‘Yes, Sergeant. I have. Here, see for yourself.’

  Bartleby takes the copy of the Illustrated Metropolitan News that lies open on Webb’s desk.

  THE CUTTER

  Many representations have hitherto been made to the Metropolitan Police as to assaults upon unprotected females in the vicinity of Chelsea by the miscreant known as ‘The Cutter’, whose outrages have been of an increasingly gross and violent nature. His ability to escape the notice of the constabulary has earned him, in some quarters, the reputation of a suburban ghost, a fiend able to strike at will and with complete impunity. We regret to inform our readers that we now possess further authentic particulars concerning this unmanly brute, following a new outrage committed in Brompton.

  We understand that Miss Emma Wilmington, a young lady of 18 years of age, the daughter of a gentleman of considerable property, living at Woodbind Cottage, Brompton, stated to police that at about nine o’clock on the preceding night she saw a man loitering by her gate, in front of the house. On going to the door with a light, she inquired what was the matter, and why did he stand there. The person instantly replied that he was sick and ‘For God’s sake, do bring me a glass of water’. She returned indoors and brought him a glass. He wore a large blue cloak, such that she at first had mistook him for a policeman. The instant she gave the man the glass, he dashed it to the ground and threw off his outer garment. His visage presented a most hideous and frightful appearance. Without uttering a word, he flung himself upon the unfortunate Miss Wilmington, grabbing hold of her dress, and commenced tearing at her gown with his claws, which were of some metallic substance. She screamed out as loud as she could and it was only through considerable exertion that she escaped from him and ran towards the house. Her assailant, though he followed at first, was disturbed by the sound of an approaching policeman’s whistle and fled. No trace of the villain was discovered.

  Miss Wilmington further stated, we understand, that she had suffered an awful shock and was in much pain, from many wounds and scratches that had been inflicted upon her person.

  We wonder that such a vile and cowardly assault can occur in our great metropolis, and only hope no pains will be spared to bring the miscreant perpetrator to justice.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like our man, sir,’ says Bartleby. ‘More like some penny dreadful.’

  ‘Quite,’ replies Webb. ‘I checked with every division. There were no such reports last night, or the night before. But the gentlemen of the press have a story now, do they not? At least when the fellow confined himself to Cremorne, there was only a certain class of females in
danger. Now, with the business at the Prince’s Ground, it means every respectable maiden in London believes herself at risk.’

  ‘And the press boys will pander to it.’

  ‘You may count on it. Now tell that rogue downstairs not to trouble me again.’

  ‘I’ll tell him to hook it.’

  ‘And you have no news, I take it? What about Dr. Malcolm’s establishment?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir – sorry. The local inspector says it’s all very respectable, to the best of his knowledge – ladies with nervous complaints, that sort of thing. Mineral waters. Hot baths.’

  ‘I had hoped for something more enlightening.’

  Bartleby shrugs. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Webb looks dejected. He takes the copy of the newspaper back from the sergeant, and tears it in half.

  Caroline Perfitt starts as the door-bell rings in the hall. Although outwardly composed, seated in her drawing-room, she listens carefully for every tell-tale sound below, from her maid opening the door, to the sound of a hat dropped onto the wooden stand, to the distinct beat of a man’s footsteps upon the parquet floor. In truth, she is somewhat nervous.

  ‘Dr. Malcolm, ma’am,’ announces the maid.

  ‘Thank you, Richards, that will be all,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, dismissing her servant. ‘Ah, Dr. Malcolm, how good of you to come at such short notice.’

  ‘It is no trouble, ma’am,’ replies the doctor, with the merest hint of a bow.

  ‘Please, do take a seat. It is Rose, I am afraid.’

  ‘I gathered as much, ma’am,’ replies Malcolm, making himself comfortable in an armchair facing his client, the black bag of his trade placed carefully to one side. ‘I am sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Will you take some tea?’

  ‘No, thank you, ma’am. I am here for Miss Rose and have another call to make in Kensington. Can you describe her symptoms?’

  ‘Of course. It is quite odd – she was so pale when she came down to breakfast this morning. She told me she did not sleep and could not eat her food. That is not like her at all. And her constitution has been so much improved of late. I just cannot account for it.’

  The doctor looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘That is all, ma’am? It is not merely, forgive me, a question of the monthly function?’

  Mrs. Perfitt colours a little. ‘No, I do not believe so.’

  ‘Then, I wonder, has she over-exerted herself in any way?’

  ‘We attended a charity ball the night before last,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt.

  Dr. Malcolm smiles, as if struck by a sudden revelation. ‘Then I am sure it is simple tiredness, ma’am. If one taxes the nervous economy, one must pay a price, especially in young ladies of tender years. I am sure there is nothing more to it.’

  ‘I know you must think me a worrisome fool, Doctor,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt.

  ‘Not at all, ma’am. It is only natural. I would be happy to give her a thorough examination, if it is convenient.’

  ‘Certainly. Both my husband and I would be very grateful.’

  It is half an hour before Dr. Malcolm returns to the drawing-room. Mrs. Perfitt’s face betrays little emotion, but her tense posture suggests a degree of anxiety.

  ‘I am pleased to say, good lady,’ begins Dr. Malcolm, ‘that I can find little wrong with your daughter. A certain degree of nervous debility, perhaps, but only to be expected if you will have her dancing until dawn.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I recommend a day’s bed-rest and lots of water.’

  An unmistakable look of relief passes over Mrs. Perfitt’s countenance. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I am very grateful. We have an important engagement shortly, you see. I should hate for her to be indisposed.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, ma’am. I trust your husband is keeping well?’

  ‘Indeed, thank you.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ replies Malcolm. ‘Although I confess, it is a pleasant coincidence that you called upon me today. I would have come and seen you in any case.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘A gentleman from Scotland Yard came to see me the other day. I gather he has already spoken to you? A man by the name of Webb.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. A detective. He is inquiring into the death of poor Jane Budge,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, though with little sympathy in her voice. ‘Whatever did he want?’

  ‘You may recall, ma’am, I gave evidence at the trial? In any case, I could not assist him to any great degree. But he had a particular interest in your stay at Leamington Spa. Quite insistent upon it. I wondered if you knew.’

  Mrs. Perfitt falls silent for a moment. ‘Good Lord,’ she says at last, her voice a whisper.

  ‘Naturally, I kept my own counsel, ma’am. I would not reveal any confidence placed in me by a patient. I merely thought you should be made aware.’

  ‘Of course,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, recovering her manners. ‘Thank you.’

  Dr. Malcolm bows once more, opening the drawing-room door.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Rose Perfitt stays in her room for the day whilst her mother and maid attempt to cater for her every need. Both the Ladies’ Domestic Journal and the Leisure Hour are found for her amusement; meanwhile, a bottle of Pitkeathly Table Water is placed at her side, a tonic ‘guaranteed to work as remedial agent upon plethoric states of the system, and all chronic affections of the organs of circulation’. Beef broth is considered appropriate nourishment, and supplied in abundance; windows are thrown open for ventilation and there is even talk of finding a man to clean the chimney, lest its blockage be a contributory cause of Rose’s distress. In short, no effort is spared by Mrs. Perfitt to hasten her daughter’s recovery; for, if nothing else, she has in mind the fast approaching date of a certain invitation to the Prince’s Ground, by a certain Viscount-in-waiting.

  As for Rose herself, she sleeps in fits and starts and eats small mouthfuls of broth. But, even after she has rested, and can sleep no more, she seems peculiarly nervous. Indeed, when her mother is absent she walks fretfully about her room, occasionally sitting down at her writing desk, or at the window, only to get up again almost immediately. It is only by the late afternoon that she finally summons enough vitality to dress and go downstairs. She finds her mother alone in the drawing-room, looking through her correspondence.

  ‘I am glad to see you up and about, my dear,’ says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘The colour has returned to your cheeks, I think.’

  ‘I hope so, Mama. I am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, my dear. Whatever for?’

  Mrs. Perfitt and her daughter remain alone together in the drawing-room for a good hour. Mrs. Perfitt abandons her letters and allows her daughter the opportunity of playing the pianoforte. As she sits back and listens, Mrs. Perfitt cannot but think that Rose plays rather unevenly, without her usual deftness of touch. Her thoughts, however, are interrupted by the sound of the door-bell.

  ‘Now who might that be?’ asks Mrs. Perfitt, as Rose comes to a stop.

  The appearance of Richards with the visiting-card of Mrs. Bertha Featherstone quickly resolves the question.

  ‘Mrs. Featherstone?’ says Caroline Perfitt, with something of a sigh. ‘Really. I sometimes think we may as well rent that woman a room and be done with it.’

  ‘Tell her we aren’t at home, Mama,’ says Rose, rather emphatically.

  ‘Rose! For one thing, she will have heard you playing. For another, I told her at the ball that she would be welcome today, if she cared to call. Richards – if you please.’

  Rose waits until Richards departs, before turning to her mother. ‘Mama, I do not feel quite so well again.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear. You are much improved.’

  Rose does not dare contradict her mother and waits patiently, until Mrs. Featherstone walks into the room. And yet, as the clergyman’s wife greets her hostess and daughter, it seems that Rose cannot quite bring herself to meet her gaze.

 
; ‘Miss Perfitt,’ asks Mrs. Featherstone, ‘are you well? Again, I feel you look a little pale.’

  ‘My daughter has been a little tired today,’ interjects Caroline Perfitt.

  ‘Ma’am, you do not surprise me. I expect it is the ball. The Reverend and I never saw a young lady dance with such vigour.’

  ‘Our physician said much the same, ma’am,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt.

  ‘The Reverend does not object to dancing, I trust,’ says Rose, finally raising her eyes to meet those of Mrs. Featherstone.

  ‘Rose!’ exclaims Mrs. Perfitt, rather shocked by her daughter’s almost bellicose tone. Mrs. Featherstone, however, chooses not to take offence.

  ‘Not when it is done in an organised and respectable fashion, Miss Perfitt,’ continues the clergyman’s wife. ‘But there are certain places of evil resort – I need not name them – where dancing is of a most wanton kind, and best avoided. And one often finds that decent persons who visit such places – who should know better – do not know the difference and may need to be reminded, lest they lose their virtue and their good name.’

  ‘Quite,’ remarks Mrs. Perfitt, although she appears a little perplexed by the homily, and altogether rather desirous of changing the subject. ‘And how is the Reverend?’

  Mrs. Featherstone, her gaze decidedly fixed upon Rose, turns to face her hostess.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, he is very well. He is publishing a collected edition of his most recent pamphlets. I wonder – might you care to have a copy, when it is ready?’

  Mrs. Perfitt smiles through gritted teeth.

  ‘I am sure we will take two copies.’

  ‘Your generosity, ma’am . . .’

  ‘Please, I should be delighted,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt.

  ‘Well, I see Miss Perfitt is still feeling tired. I won’t trouble you any further.’

  ‘I am a little,’ replies Rose, rather sullenly.

  ‘You must forgive my daughter, ma’am,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, darting a glance at Rose. ‘Are you sure you will not have some tea?’