The Last Pleasure Garden Read online

‘My pleasure,’ replies Webb, whose attention seems momentarily distracted by the spectacle of Mr. Stanton lapping a rival. ‘Remarkable machine, the bicycle. Used to have an old boneshaker myself, when I was a younger man. Doubt that I could master one of these modern articles, mind you. I’d never get on the saddle.’

  ‘Indeed?’ replies Mrs. Perfitt with an air of perfect condescension.

  ‘Are you here for the race, Inspector?’ inquires Mr. Sedgecombe, a little puzzled by the peculiar interruption.

  ‘No, sir, I am afraid not. In fact, I fear I must deprive you of your company,’ replies Webb. ‘I have to speak in private with Mrs. Perfitt and her daughter.’

  ‘Inspector,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, ‘I am sure there can be nothing so urgent that it cannot wait until a more convenient moment?’

  ‘I had hoped to be a little more discreet, ma’am, but since you ask, yes, when it is a matter of murder, ma’am, it cannot wait.’

  ‘I am sorry, Inspector, but much as I have great sympathy for that poor girl, there is no excuse for—’

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ interrupts Webb, ‘but it is not Jane Budge. I understand you saw Mrs. Bertha Featherstone yesterday evening – am I correct?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘She regularly calls upon us.’

  ‘Mrs. Featherstone was murdered last night, ma’am,’ says Webb. ‘And, short of her husband, my inquiries suggest that you and your daughter may well be the last persons to have talked to her when she was alive.’

  Mrs. Perfitt blanches. But, before she can reply, there is a soft moan from the lips of her daughter, as Rose Perfitt slips into unconsciousness and tumbles to the ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘Fainted!’

  ‘Please, Charles, calm yourself. It was the shock, nothing more. She has a delicate system.’

  Seated in their drawing-room in Edith Grove, Caroline Perfitt reaches up and clasps her husband’s hands.

  ‘Please stop pacing about, Charles.’

  Mr. Perfitt reluctantly complies and sits down, facing his wife. Nevertheless, his eyes do not meet hers, but dart about the hearth-rug, unable to rest upon one spot.

  ‘And is she quite all right?’ he says at last.

  ‘Perfectly. I have insisted she rest. There is nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have Malcolm visit again.’

  Mrs. Perfitt shakes her head. ‘There is no need, Charles, none at all. It is that odious little man who is to blame. I swear, he quite terrified her – coming out with such a thing, without any warning. I have half a mind to write to the Commissioner and complain.’

  ‘Webb? I expect the fellow was only doing his job,’ replies Mr. Perfitt.

  ‘His job, Charles? If that is his job, to frighten girls out of their wits, then he had better find another employment. And I cannot imagine for a moment what Mr. Sedgecombe made of the whole business. I doubt we shall ever hear from him again.’

  ‘You think not?’ replies Mr. Perfitt, rather mechanically, as if preoccupied with other thoughts.

  ‘I do not imagine, Charles, that the son of a viscount wishes to find himself in the society of police inspectors or hear talk of murders, not for an instant.’

  ‘No. No, I suppose not.’

  Mrs. Perfitt tuts. ‘Charles, you are not listening to a word I am saying.’

  Mr. Perfitt looks up at his wife. ‘I am sorry, my dear. I was thinking about poor Mrs. Featherstone.’

  Mrs. Perfitt frowns and does not speak for a moment. ‘You would be better off thinking what we can do for your daughter. It will do nothing for our reputation, if we are constantly to be hounded by the police in such a manner.’

  ‘It is hardly that bad, Caroline.’

  ‘It does not have to be,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, with a sigh. ‘There will be talk, mark my words.’

  Silence falls between the pair of them. For a few moments, only the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece can be heard.

  ‘The papers blame “The Cutter”,’ says Mr. Perfitt, at last.

  ‘Well, precisely! I imagine they are right,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt.

  ‘It is just . . . I went to see Nelson, a few days ago. To give him fair warning, to keep away—’

  ‘Charles!’ exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. ‘You did not say anything!’

  ‘I can handle the man, Caroline,’ replies Mr. Perfitt, though perhaps not with complete conviction. ‘In fact, he promised me he would steer clear, in his own brutish way. But I cannot help but wonder, even if the police say they are watching him, if he is not mixed up in this awful business. First Jane Budge, now this. Would it not be better for Rose if we should leave Chelsea? Put the whole dismal episode behind us, once and for all. A fresh start?’

  ‘Charles, I thought we agreed?’ says Mrs. Perfitt.

  Mr. Perfitt looks back at his wife. ‘You want to stay?’

  ‘Charles! For Rose’s sake, not mine. I promise you, I would gladly be rid of George Nelson. Please God we never see that man again.’

  ‘I am not sure what to do for the best.’

  ‘Then go and kiss your daughter good night,’ says Mrs. Perfitt calmly. ‘She will be glad to see you. And then sleep upon it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ replies Mr. Perfitt. ‘As always.’

  ‘Still here, sir?’ asks Sergeant Bartleby, finding Decimus Webb in his office, the gas turned down low.

  ‘So it seems,’ replies Webb.

  ‘Nothing to report, I’m afraid, sir,’ says Bartleby. ‘We’ve had a few words with everyone at the college. No-one saw anything. Got the impression that Mrs. Featherstone was a nuisance to some of the servants; stuck her nose into this and that, rather particular. Bit of a martinet. Could have told you that myself, mind you, having met her.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Pretty much, sir,’ says Bartleby, rather wistfully. ‘I wouldn’t say there’s anything that makes you think one of them would stick a pair of scissors in her neck.’

  Webb puts his fingers to his temple. ‘What would do it, then, Sergeant? Why should anyone kill Jane Budge and Bertha Featherstone?’

  ‘Well, assuming it’s not a lunatic, sir . . .’

  ‘You may say “The Cutter” if you like.’

  ‘Assuming it’s not The Cutter, then . . .’ says Bartleby, coming to a halt. ‘Lord, I’ve no idea, sir.’

  ‘There is no connection between them, after all, save that of employer and servant; and there is nothing in Mrs. Featherstone’s past to connect them – I assume you have found nothing?’

  Bartleby nods. ‘Not yet, sir. The Reverend had a parish in Bromley, that’s all I know at present.’

  ‘Then what might it be, eh?’ says Webb. ‘Something they knew? Some secret of which we have no inkling whatsoever?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, sir. Honest to God.’

  A pause.

  ‘Neither could I, Sergeant,’ says Webb, getting up from his chair, and reaching for his hat from the nearby stand. ‘But there will be someone who knows the truth of the matter.’

  ‘Simple matter of finding them,’ says Bartleby.

  ‘Yes,’ says Webb, ruefully. ‘Quite straightforward.’

  Margaret Budge walks along Sheepgut Lane in the black of night. It is a difficult journey, since the lane is built upon rather marshy ground, moist and water-logged earth that swiftly turns to mud, churned up by passing waggons and carriages. Thus, she is obliged to walk slowly and cautiously, trudging along, her boots sinking into the mire, patiently measuring her steps. Past the lane, she carries on into the brick fields, along a half-built road, where the only landmarks are the squat, ill-proportioned brick-kilns to either side, a testimony to the grand ambitions of local landowners. Terraces will follow; Mrs. Budge is certain of that, until there is nothing in Battersea but bricks and mortar. She shakes her head and holds a little tighter the small bundle of linen that she carries in her arms.

  Finally, she comes to the gas-lit B
attersea Road. It seems to her particularly rowdy; that there are too many men with money to spend on liquor. It is not yet ten o’clock and all along the pavement that leads up to Battersea Bridge, even ignoring her fellow pedestrians, the noise of the various public houses spills out into the road: a piano in the Red Cow, playing ‘Come Home, Father’ accompanied by a raucous chorus of drunks; the sound of a glass shattering upon the floor in the Marquis of Granby; the chatter of a gaggle of women in the Mason’s Arms. Mrs. Budge walks hurriedly past them all.

  She does not, however, proceed to the bridge. Rather, she turns down the dingy, unlit side road that leads to the nearby timber yards by the water’s edge on the eastern side. There, a hundred yards on, she seeks out a particular spot, where an old causeway, long since abandoned, projects arthritically into the stream of the Thames. She walks a few feet along, kneels down upon the mouldering wood and, hesitating for a moment, peels back a fold of the linen bundle. The child’s face hidden within – for it is an infant of no more than four or five months – is as pale as bone china, quite drained of all life.

  She sighs, and throws the bundle into the silt brown waters. She stays for a moment or two, watching it sink into the darkness, then hurries back to the road, as fast as she is able. She starts a little, however, when she sees a man standing there, watching her.

  ‘Little Moses,’ says Mr. Budge, in the ruminative, inebriate manner that is his wont.

  ‘Hush, you old sot,’ replies his wife, sighing with relief. ‘What are you doing here? Someone will see us.’

  ‘I saw you. Saw you on the road. Old Bill chucked us out, see? Said I owes him money.’

  ‘Then I expect you do,’ replies Mrs. Budge, taking her husband’s arm like that of a wayward child, and swiftly leading him up towards the bridge.

  ‘Another of ’em gone, then?’ says Mr. Budge, looking back at the river.

  ‘No fault of mine,’ replies Mrs. Budge, defensively. ‘Gathered up to his Maker; poor little thing.’

  Mr. Budge takes off his cap in tribute, almost dropping it in the process.

  ‘Can you spare us something, Maggie?’ he says, at last. ‘A couple of bob would do us. Just to square Bill.’

  ‘Lord, I ain’t got nothing for you, Alfred Budge. I’m still saving up for Janey. You remember her, do you? Your own daughter? Dead and gone and lying cold in a box in your back parlour.’

  Mr. Budge looks painfully forlorn; he avows that he does remember his daughter; that he would like to see her buried proper; that there is nothing else upon his mind. Until a thought strikes him. ‘You can get another little ’un, now, though, eh?’

  ‘Shame on you!’ exclaims his wife, swatting him about the shoulders with her free hand. ‘Shame! As if a body ain’t got feelings. As if I can have another little angel without a thought. With Janey not even cold in the ground.’

  Mr. Budge slurs something quite inaudible in drunken apology.

  ‘Besides,’ continues Mrs. Budge, ‘I know a lady who has an account to settle. Who’ll give us twelve sovereigns straight off, if I press her. Reckon I’ve left that long enough.’

  Mr. Budge keeps silent; he cannot quite muster the strength to speak and walk the length of Battersea Road. Nonetheless, the expression upon his face suggests he finds the prospect of his wife renewing an acquaintance with such a liberal person to be a very promising development.

  ‘Silk hats and crape. Best black feathers,’ says Mrs. Budge. ‘Twelve sovereigns and she’ll have a good send-off. It’s only right, after what she suffered.’

  Mr. Budge nods. ‘And there’ll be some to spare, Maggie? Some to spare?’

  Mrs. Budge lets go of her husband’s arm and slaps him about the head.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Decimus Webb quits Scotland Yard at half-past ten, bidding goodbye to Bartleby and walking out through the old cobbled courtyard of the police station, down to the Embankment. He does not turn his steps homewards, but follows the grand gas-lit avenue westwards, walking by the stone abutments that conceal the river shore. Upon occasion, he casts his eye over the pavement’s iron benches, set upon raised flag-stones at regular intervals between the plane trees, where solitary vagrants sleep in uneasy anticipation of the steps of a police constable. But, for the most part, Webb pays no particular attention to his surroundings, his thoughts intent upon other matters. Thus, he skirts the Houses of Parliament without an upwards glance to the clock tower; ignores the Gothic pretensions of Lambeth Palace upon the far shore; barely notices the grim brick walls around the turrets of Millbank Prison, the gaol’s diseased yellow stones illuminated by the gas-light from the riverside lamps. He goes past bridges and boat-yards, past the black shadows of coal-barges, moored along the shore in solemn rows. Indeed, he simply follows the lazy serpentine twists of the Thames – a far longer route to Chelsea than cutting through the back streets of Pimlico – until he comes to Battersea Bridge, and then down a little further, to the water-gate side of Cremorne Gardens.

  It is almost eleven but there are still small parties arriving by boat, queuing for tickets. Webb, however, does not need to pay for entry – a young constable from T Division, stationed at the entrance, recognises the Scotland Yard detective – and it is not long before he finds himself within Cremorne’s sylvan groves.

  It is hard to say whether he has a particular purpose in mind; he certainly seems quite content to stroll along the principal path, in the glow of the lanterns, each a different colour, which are suspended cleverly between the trees. In the end, in solitary contemplation, he turns his steps towards the famous Crystal Platform, where the sound of the orchestra can be clearly heard.

  ‘On your own, sir?’

  The words are whispered by a woman, thirty-five years old or so, coming in the opposite direction. She wears a walking dress of almond-coloured Mikado silk, an imitation of a better class of material; she smiles as she draws near, touching the fashionable collar of silver medallions that adorns her pale neck with one hand, whilst in the other she swings a folded tussore sun-shade, though there is little call for such an article in Cremorne’s half-light.

  ‘So it seems,’ replies Webb. He casts his eye over her face; she has a brunette complexion, fine hazel eyes, large and bright.

  ‘Would you care for company, sir?’ she says, turning, and keeping pace beside him. ‘A little dance, perhaps? Or we might try the shooting gallery? I can see you have a steady hand.’

  ‘No, I think not,’ says Webb, though he allows the woman to take his arm and walk with him. ‘Tell me, though, you take a chance, to come here alone at night.’

  ‘I do all right, sir,’ she replies, a little puzzled by his response.

  ‘You might fall foul of that man they are talking about, The Cutter.’

  ‘I’m sure you’d protect me,’ she replies, squeezing his arm.

  ‘How do you know I am not the fellow myself?’

  The woman pauses for a moment. ‘No, you’re a straight one, sir. I can see that, clear as anything. I can tell by your hat.’

  Webb self-consciously straightens the brim of his billycock, and coughs. ‘I see.’

  ‘Better than feeling a man’s head for bumps,’ she replies, as they draw nearer to the Crystal Platform, the sight of couples gaily waltzing visible through the trees. ‘You’re a copper, ain’t you?’

  ‘Another deduction based upon my hat?’

  ‘It’s crawling with your lot round here; I should have known better.’

  Webb releases his arm from his companion. ‘Perhaps you should.’

  ‘They say he’s killed some vicar’s wife now?’ says the woman.

  ‘We are not sure of that.’

  The woman looks thoughtfully at Webb. ‘Do you want my opinion, Mr. . . .?’

  ‘Webb. Inspector Webb.’

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Inspector,’ she says sardonically, curtseying for effect. ‘Well, do you?’

  ‘If you like,’ replies Webb.

  ‘I know his sort, s
ir. They like giving a scare to the girls; makes ’em feel they’re manly – if you get my meaning. They want to see the look in your eyes; put the fear of God in you. I’ve known one or two of ’em in my time, pulled a knife on me. It’s like a little game for ’em.’

  ‘I expect you are right.’

  ‘Sir!’ shouts a man’s voice, before Webb can speak any further. It is the police constable, T 49 from the water-gate, running along the path towards them. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he continues, looking at Webb’s companion, ‘I didn’t know you were . . .’

  ‘I was what?’ says Webb impatiently. ‘What is it, man?’

  ‘There’s some trouble, sir. We’re glad you’re here, to tell the truth.’

  ‘Whatever is it?’ asks Webb.

  ‘Fireworks, sir.’

  The woman smiles and saunters off.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Inspector.’

  The Gardens’ Firework Gallery is an outdoor theatre, concealed at one extremity by a faux Moorish façade, that skilfully hides it from the view of those enjoying Cremorne’s terpsichorean delights. Quite worthy of the finest workmanship of Granada, the exterior is adorned by four tall minarets, decorated in arabesque style, that poke above the Gardens’ oaks and elms. The open interior contains space for five or six hundred persons, an orchestra and then a large stage. And last of all, behind the stage, a raised tower, itself some forty feet high, again in the style of the Moors, from which fireworks are launched every other evening, to the accompaniment of a stirring score.

  At first, it seems to Webb that there is nothing much amiss. But then he hears the jeers from odd members of the crowd and notices the sullen silence of the orchestra. The constable points upwards to the tower’s summit, where a man stands, gesturing wildly, an oil-lamp in one hand, a book in the other.

  ‘Who on earth is that?’ asks Webb, peering down the length of the gas-lit ground. ‘I can’t make him out.’

  ‘I’ll tell you who it is,’ says a familiar voice, coming up behind them. Webb instantly recognises it as belonging to John Boon. ‘Your friend Featherstone. Gone quite off his head.’