The Last Pleasure Garden Page 8

  Rose smiles. ‘I do want to go to the ball, Mama, I promise. I shall be better tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, Madame Lannier will bring the dress in the morning. I expect that will raise your spirits?’

  Rose nods.

  ‘Good. Now your dear father is still at his club, so Lord knows what hour he may come home. And I said I would call on Elspeth this evening – she has had one of her turns again.’

  ‘I hope it is nothing serious?’

  ‘You know your aunt, Rose – a slight head and she is convinced she has a brain fever. I expect it is nothing. Still, I shall not be back before ten. Tell your father if he comes home before you retire, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘You will be quite all right on your own?’

  ‘Mama!’

  ‘Very well, dear. Have Richards bring you some supper. You must keep up your strength.’

  Rose casts a chastening look at her mother, who smiles and withdraws from the room. She remains seated until she hears the sound of a cab arriving outside, and the front door of the house opening and close. Getting up, she watches her mother climb into the four-wheeler.

  As the cab departs, Rose turns and looks around for her summer shawl.

  It is approaching nightfall as the Reverend Featherstone’s amateur chorus come to a pause, in order to light the lanterns they have brought with them. John Boon has already disappeared, annoyed and exasperated, back into the gas-lit gardens. Decimus Webb, upon the other hand, remains by the gates. He takes advantage of the pause in the al fresco concert to speak to the clergyman.

  ‘Good evening, Reverend.’

  ‘Ah, it is you, Inspector, I thought it was,’ replies Featherstone. ‘I feared you might arrest us.’

  Webb shakes his head. ‘You aren’t causing that much of an obstruction, sir. Nor a great public nuisance.’

  ‘Mr. Boon might disagree with you.’

  Webb shrugs. ‘There doesn’t seem to be many takers for your pamphlets, sir,’ continues the Inspector, nodding at the handful of bills that one of the Reverend’s juniors holds out to those approaching the gates.

  ‘We only hope for “one sinner that repenteth”, Inspector. Anything more is a great blessing.’

  Webb nods. ‘I trust your good wife has found nothing else upon her doorstep today, at least?’

  ‘Thankfully not, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, that is something. I see you have all your young men assisting you?’

  ‘Everyone at St. Mark’s is of a like mind, Inspector. We must see Cremorne closed. It is the Lord’s will.’

  Webb nods, but does not comment.

  In truth, if the Reverend Featherstone’s protest has any obvious effect, it is principally to empty St. Mark’s College of its staff and pupil-teachers, leaving the college buildings rather devoid of activity. The few persons that remain behind are mostly wives and servants, and several take the opportunity to visit the college chapel, and spend an hour or two in prayerful contemplation, Bertha Featherstone amongst them.

  After the chapel bells are rung for ten o’clock, however, Mrs. Featherstone resolves to return to her rooms. She quits her place at the rear of the chapel’s nave and gently opens the heavy wooden door that leads out into the college grounds. The short walk to her apartments in the main building is a peaceful one, and there is nothing in the warm summer night to disturb her serene progress, save the creaking iron weathercock that roosts atop the chapel’s summit.

  But even Mrs. Featherstone visibly jumps when she hears a strange, muffled scream, as she enters the college quadrangle. Even though the sound is somehow muted, it is unmistakably frantic, a raucous and primitive cry.

  For a moment, she cannot quite believe her ears. Echoing stone walls can play tricks, after all; it is, she reasons, an animal, some wretched cat or fox. But then it comes again. She can do nothing but pursue the sound, completing almost a full lap of the cloisters until she realises the noise comes from the servants’ quarters, not far from her own rooms. In fact, from the servants’ scullery.

  In her heart, she knows something of what awaits her, before her eyes see the evidence. For, mixed with the screams, there are repeated desperate thuds against some hard surface, and a sound like the crackling of autumn leaves upon a bonfire. It takes only the sight of smoke creeping beneath the scullery door to confirm her worst suspicions.

  Instinctively, Mrs. Featherstone rushes forward, heedless of any danger to herself, and, as the smoke rises around her, struggles to free the heavy bolt that holds the scullery door firmly shut. The metal is already warm with the blaze, and it takes all her strength to move it. Moreover, she does not anticipate the sudden rush of acrid air and belching fire as the door flies open, singeing her dress; it compels her to run back along the corridor to safety.

  It is probably for the best that she does not come too close. For it means she does not see the full horror of Jane Budge’s face as she tumbles from the blazing inferno, her body writhing in agony, her hands scratching senselessly at the floor, as the flames dance gaily on her back.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Decimus Webb stands alone in the well-kept grounds of St. Mark’s in the first light of dawn. The towers of the college buildings seem strangely insubstantial, almost one-dimensional, silhouetted in the earlymorning half-light, like shadows from a lantern-show. In the background he can hear the morning chorus of the neighbourhood’s sparrows, underscored by the distant bass rumble of a freight train on the London Western Extension Railway, its line adjacent to the college’s grounds. The policeman’s face looks a little troubled; it may be that he simply regrets there is no breeze to remove the noxious smell of burnt matter that lingers in the air.

  ‘Sir?’

  The figure of Sergeant Bartleby approaches, coming from the college.

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘I wondered where you’d got to, sir.’

  ‘I was just taking a moment to gather my thoughts. What progress?’

  ‘We’ll move the body this morning, sir, to the Chelsea Infirmary. Autopsy this afternoon. Coroner’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, I should be surprised if we are mistaken as to the cause of death,’ replies Webb. ‘Still, it is best to be certain that we have not missed anything. And the rest?’

  ‘I’ve made arrangements to interview everyone on the premises; there’s about sixty resident pupil-teachers, and half a dozen staff and three wives – though most of them seem to have been absent.’

  ‘I can vouch for that. They were outside Cremorne Gardens, at the Reverend Featherstone’s impromptu prayer-meeting.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir, you did say.’

  ‘Did you look at the body, Sergeant?’

  Bartleby visibly winces. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A peculiar murder, all things considered,’ says Webb, disdaining to notice his sergeant’s queasy reaction. ‘I suppose we should be grateful the whole place did not burn down, and not merely the scullery.’

  ‘The brigade came out pretty sharp,’ replies Bartleby.

  ‘I know, Sergeant, I was here myself.’

  ‘You’re sure it was no accident, sir?’

  ‘I should be impressed if Miss Budge managed to set herself alight, and bolt herself inside the room, locking it from the outside.’

  ‘Well then, what next, sir?’

  ‘I think we may now interview Mrs. Featherstone,’ says Webb. ‘She seemed a little too distressed to be questioned last night.’

  ‘Still a bit early in the day, though?’

  ‘Is it? Well, let us find her husband and see what he says about it. I am loath to delay any longer.’

  Bartleby assents and the two policemen walk in silence across the lawn, back towards the college. As they approach the cloisters, Bartleby turns to Webb.

  ‘You weren’t to know this would happen, sir. To tell the truth, I didn’t take that letter too seriously myself.’

  Webb pauses, causing Bartleby to draw to a ha
lt beside him.

  ‘When I require your opinion, Sergeant, I shall ask for it.’

  Mrs. Featherstone sits in her parlour, a strong cup of tea by her side and the two policemen seated opposite, together with her husband. If there is any change to her normal rather implacable appearance, it is only that her dress is a little more creased than might be expected, and her eyes a little tired and bloodshot.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us, ma’am,’ says Webb. ‘Your husband said you might be agreeable to a brief interview.’

  ‘One must do one’s duty in such terrible circumstances, Inspector,’ replies Mrs. Featherstone. ‘In truth, I have not slept since the incident.’

  ‘My wife is a woman of spirit, Inspector,’ adds the Reverend. ‘You may rely on her.’

  ‘Of course,’ agrees Webb. ‘So, tell me, ma’am, if you can, precisely what happened?’

  Mrs. Featherstone takes a deep breath. ‘I came back from the chapel, Inspector, not long after the stroke of ten. I often go there to pray in the evening. I heard a scream. I thought it was some distressed animal. I could not locate it at first.’

  ‘But you realised it came from the scullery?’

  ‘At length, yes. After a minute or two. Then I smelt something burning. Naturally, I went directly to see what was wrong.’

  ‘And it was you who opened the door?’

  ‘With some difficulty. I did not think I would find . . . well, I did not think.’

  ‘There, Bertha, please, do not distress yourself,’ interjects the Reverend, placing a hand on his wife’s arm.

  ‘Do go on,’ says Webb.

  Mrs. Featherstone takes another breath. ‘I shouted for help. Some of the servants came to my aid. Jane . . . I believe they managed to extinguish the flames with a blanket, but she was beyond help. God rest her poor soul.’

  ‘Tell me, ma’am,’ persists Webb, ‘was it usual for Jane Budge to be on the premises at such an hour? She did not lodge here, I understand?’

  ‘No, Inspector, she did not. But she had chores that might take up most of the evening.’

  ‘I see. And what of the scullery itself? Who would normally use it?’

  ‘Jane and the other servants, I suppose. There are five or six girls who work for the college.’

  ‘So Jane Budge was not your own maid?’

  ‘No, she was employed by the college,’ interjects Reverend Featherstone. ‘But principally she was engaged to clean our rooms, and those of the pupil-teachers on the adjoining landings here, for whom I am responsible.’

  ‘Ah. Well, thank you, sir. Now, I do not suppose, to your knowledge, or yours, ma’am, that she had any enemies?’

  ‘Enemies, Inspector?’ asks the clergyman, as if rather perplexed.

  Webb frowns. ‘Forgive my bluntness, sir, but it is undoubtedly a case of murder. It is no accident.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Inspector, I realise that much,’ replies Reverend Featherstone, with impatience. ‘But we know who is responsible, do we not? I admit I did not take him seriously at first, but all the same.’

  ‘Sir?’

  If the Reverend Featherstone is about to elucidate, he is given no opportunity. ‘This man who calls himself “The Cutter”, Inspector!’ exclaims Bertha Featherstone, jumping in. ‘Heavens! Have you not even read the letter we gave your man here?’

  ‘I have, ma’am,’ says Webb cautiously, ‘and I would not race to such conclusions, not yet.’

  Mrs. Featherstone gives Webb a look of utter incredulity. ‘Race? What “conclusions” will you draw, Inspector, when this lunatic murders us in our beds? What then?’

  ‘Bertha, please,’ says the Reverend, attempting to placate her. ‘You are over-tired. I am sure the inspector meant no harm.’

  ‘We are obliged to keep an open mind at this stage, ma’am,’ says Webb. ‘And whether we attribute this to our friend “The Cutter” or not, I fear it does not help us identify the person or persons responsible.’

  Mrs. Featherstone says nothing, though the stern fixity of her gaze is eloquent in itself.

  ‘I think, Inspector,’ suggests the Reverend Featherstone, ‘that might do for now?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ replies Webb. ‘I shan’t be a moment; one last point. If I may, Mrs. Featherstone, what was your opinion of Jane Budge?’

  Mrs. Featherstone relaxes her stern expression of contempt only to the degree that it allows her to speak.

  ‘As a servant, Inspector, I would say she was not of the best class. Her work often left something to be desired.’

  ‘And what of her character, ma’am?’

  ‘I know of nothing against her, Inspector. Why?’

  ‘It is only that we are having a little difficulty establishing where she lived. The address she gave, upon starting work here, turns out to be a common lodging-house in Battersea. We sent a man down there to make inquiries last night. They claim not to have seen her for more than two years, and that she never lived there for any length of time.’

  ‘Indeed? Well, that is curious. Still, I believe her last position was with a very respectable family, with whom I have the honour of being acquainted.’

  ‘I see. Who might that be, ma’am?’

  ‘The Perfitts, Inspector. They reside quite near here – in Edith Grove.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The town houses of Edith Grove are typical examples of a certain breed of London terrace. For, with a nod to the civilisation of Ancient Greece, they are of the classical style, much favoured in the western portion of the great metropolis, that places an Ionic portico above every doorstep, and a stucco pediment above every window. In size, they are a little smaller and more stunted than the fashionable homes of Belgravia or even Mayfair; but they are respectable houses, nonetheless, whose polished front steps are regularly washed down and whose black iron railings, tipped with gold points, are regularly repainted.

  ‘You’re sure someone was trying to do away with Jane Budge, sir?’ asks Sergeant Bartleby, as the two men walk along the road. ‘I mean to say, not just our man trying to burn the place down, and the girl got in the way?’

  ‘Anything is possible, Sergeant, but ask yourself this about your scissor-man. First, why does a man with some morbid urge to remove the hair of young women suddenly decide to murder a respectable clergyman? Second, why do so by fire? Is the man suddenly a pyromaniac too? It is hardly the most efficient or likely way to effect his object, is it? Third, it is a peculiar time and place – why not in the Featherstones’ apartments whilst they slept? Why the scullery?’

  ‘But the letter, sir? It said he’d “roast” him. That can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘Why start a fire when Featherstone was out?’ Bartleby shakes his head.

  ‘If we are searching for a genuine lunatic, Sergeant, who acts utterly at whim,’ continues Webb, ‘then I confess that any further cogitation upon the subject is wasted. But we are required to investigate this matter and, therefore, we may as well assume some logic exists, some cause and effect?’

  Bartleby nods. He knows Webb well enough to recognise a purely hypothetical appeal to his own judgment.

  ‘Now,’ continues Webb, ‘here we are at last. Ring the bell, will you?’

  Bartleby rings the bell. It is swiftly answered by a young maid-servant. Webb, in turn, inquires if either the master or the mistress of the house is at home. After a brief period of consultation, during which, doubtless, the inspector’s calling card causes a degree of consternation, the two policeman are relieved of their hats and shown up to the Perfitts’ first-floor drawing-room. They find Mrs. Caroline Perfitt ready to welcome them.

  ‘Inspector Webb?’ she asks, in the polite but slightly haughty tone that is her custom.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Bartleby coughs.

  ‘And this is Sergeant Bartleby, ma’am. You must forgive our intrusion at such an early hour.’

  ‘Of course. But did you wish to see my husband, Inspector? He has already left to catch his train. I tr
ust there is nothing wrong?’

  ‘I hope not, ma’am,’ says Webb, as affably as he is able. ‘Merely you might be able to help us with some information. Either your good self or your husband might suffice; but we can call another time, if it is more convenient.’

  ‘No, please, if I can be of any assistance, of course, ’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Please – Inspector, Sergeant – do take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ replies Webb, as Mrs. Perfitt herself sits down. ‘It relates to a former servant of yours, so we understand – one Jane Budge.’

  ‘Jane? Poor creature. I trust she is not in any trouble?’

  ‘“Poor creature”, ma’am?’ asks Bartleby.

  ‘Forgive me, Sergeant. An awkward turn of phrase. Inspector, what is it?’

  ‘May I be blunt, Mrs. Perfitt?’ asks Webb. ‘I do not wish to shock you.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector,’ she replies, with considerable calm. ‘Really, you must tell me. I am quite in suspense.’

  ‘She is dead, ma’am.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Murdered, I am afraid. She died last night. We are trying to learn something of her history.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Last night? Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘We do not know yet, ma’am. Forgive me, I must persist. You were once her employer?’

  Mrs. Perfitt nods. ‘For two years or so. She left us . . . well, it would be almost five years ago.’

  ‘Any particular reason for her departure, ma’am?’

  ‘The family quit London for a few months’ holiday, Inspector. She did not wish to travel with us to the country.’

  ‘I see. Can you tell me anything about Miss Budge? Did you provide her with a good character? I assume so, as she found a place quite readily at St. Mark’s?’

  ‘I did, Inspector. She was an excellent maid-of-all-work. But,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, pausing, as if vacillating whether to speak any further, ‘well, I suppose it must out. You will soon hear about it, I am sure.’