The Last Pleasure Garden (11 page)

‘I am sorry. I did not introduce myself when we met – my name is Bartleby, Sergeant Bartleby.'

‘Sergeant? And I thought you was a chief inspector,' replies Jane Budge sarcastically. She looks at the newspaper in the sergeant's hand, her nose curling up. ‘Lor, if that's your fish supper, I'd take it back.'

‘It's a dead bird. It was left here last night, outside Reverend Featherstone's rooms.'

‘Was it?'

‘Did you see anyone prowling here last night?'

‘I'd have smelt 'em first if I did.'

‘No-one?'

Jane Budge shakes her head. ‘Won't you take no for an answer?'

‘Sergeant!' shouts Webb.

‘Well, if you see anything out of the ordinary, Miss, you let me know. At Scotland Yard.'

Jane Budge shrugs. ‘If you like. Your old man's calling, you know.'

‘I know,' replies the sergeant with a grin. As he turns away, however, he notices Jane Budge's hands – the skin around both her wrists mottled with bruises.

‘How did you get those?' he asks.

Jane Budge pulls her sleeves further down her arm.

‘Well?'

‘Mind your own business, Sergeant, eh?'

The sound of Decimus Webb's voice interrupts him again, and Sergeant Bartleby reluctantly returns to the inspector, leaving Jane Budge to her own devices.

‘I warn you, Sergeant,' says Webb. ‘You are not brightening my mood with your disappearing tricks.'

‘She's one of the servants, sir. Does for the Featherstones. I thought she might have seen something.'

‘I don't care if you were asking her to a matinée at the Alhambra,' says Webb as they reach the southern gates of the college, which lead out to the King's Road. ‘Come and let's find another cab. Good God! And throw that wretched thing away, won't you?'

‘But I thought you said it was evidence?'

‘Evidence of a juvenile prank is all it is, Sergeant. Do you know what I saw scratched on one of those forms in the schoolroom?'

‘Sir?'

‘A small representation of a bird, with a cap and gown. Quite artistic for a youngster. And the word “Feathers”. It is Featherstone's nickname amongst his pupils, though he appears not to know it. These notes are the productions of some wretched schoolboy with an over-active imaginative faculty.'

‘Are you sure, sir?'

‘Not only am I sure, Sergeant, I suspect we can look forward to more of the same from all quarters. Look over there.'

Webb points to the wall of Veitch's Nursery, upon the opposite side of the King's Road. A row of colourful red and green posters, each identical to the other, have been papered over the bricks.

REWARD of £50
For Information which leads to the
CAPTURE of the
Dreadful Fiend known as ‘THE CUTTER'
APPLY Mr. J. Boon, Cremorne Gardens

‘You know, Sergeant,' says Webb, ‘I do not think this could get any worse.'

Bartleby does not disagree, tossing the rolled-up newspaper into the gutter and wiping his hands on his trousers.

‘M
ama, I said I might see Beatrice at Barassa's at half-past three.'

‘Oh really, Rose, must you? The cab is an awful expense. When did you make this arrangement?'

‘Bea wrote to me this morning.'

‘Beatrice Watson should know better. What would your father say if he thought you were running off to some dingy confectioner's every other day?'

‘Mama!' protests Rose Perfitt. ‘It is not dingy. You know it isn't. Nor every other day.'

‘And the cab, Rose?' replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Your Papa is not made of money.'

‘Then I shall walk.'

‘You shall do no such thing!' exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Very well, I suppose you cannot disappoint Beatrice. Have Richards find a cab. And be back by five – or your father will have something to say about it, I am sure.'

‘Thank you, Mama!' exclaims Rose, running up to kiss her mother. Mrs. Perfitt smiles, but does not let her daughter leave the room without offering some further advice.

‘Remember, Rose, we expect certain standards of behaviour now you are a grown woman. If we are to be introduced at the Prince's on Saturday no-one will
care to hear about the ices at Barassa's. You must put aside these girlish things, dear.'

‘Yes, Mama,' replies Rose Perfitt dutifully.

‘And do take your sun-shade.'

In a matter of minutes Rose Perfitt is seated in a four-wheeled cab, wearing her best linen day-dress, a maroon check, and carrying her favourite Japanese parasol. With her fare paid in advance, the cab ought to speedily progress eastwards towards Barassa's Fancy Confectioner's, a popular resort for young ladies taking tea in the purlieus of Chelsea and Brompton. Instead, contrary to Miss Perfitt's supposed itinerary, it stops just round the corner from Edith Grove, on the King's Road.

It is Rose Perfitt herself who pulls the check-string that calls the driver to a halt. Moreover, she opens the door of the cab, stepping onto the pavement before he can even inquire what is the matter.

‘You may go,' she says. ‘I shall walk from here. It is such a beautiful day, after all. Please, keep the fare.'

‘Walk, Miss?' says the cab-man, utterly perplexed, not having travelled more than four hundred yards.

‘Yes, thank you,' replies Rose with a distinct nod, as if to signal a polite end to the conversation.

The cab-man raises his eyebrows – in a manner calculated to suggest he possesses certain doubts as to the mental faculties of his passenger. However, with a fare already in his pocket, he resolves to let the matter rest, and so instructs his horses to ‘walk on', albeit allowing himself a brief glance over his shoulder. Rose, for her part, waits until the cab is in the far distance, then turns round, walking hastily across to the opposite side of the King's Road – to the very entrance of Cremorne Gardens.

‘On your own, Miss?' asks the clerk on the gate. ‘One shilling.'

The clerk's initial question is not a pointed one. For the daytime reputation of the Gardens is not so bad as the night. Indeed, it is not unknown for nursemaids and governesses, from more liberal households, to bring their infant charges, as a special treat, to listen to the concerts of Cremorne's own brass band, or to the see the matinée performances of Senor Rosci's Astounding Dogs and Educated Monkeys in the Theatre Royal. If a certain proportion of Chelsea's inhabitants consider even these innocuous daytime amusements to be tainted, it is only a small proportion. It is certainly not a consideration in the mind of Rose Perfitt – she eagerly buys her ticket and makes her way through the gates.

Once inside, Rose walks with confident steps along the Gardens' central tree-lined avenue. As she walks, however, she constantly scrutinises the horizon for something or someone – although, by her expression, she does not seem to find it. Nonetheless, she carries on: past the American Bowling Saloon and the Hermit's Cave, until she comes to the Gardens' famed glass fountain. It displays a kneeling Grecian nymph, upon a crystal dias supported by a trio of long-necked storks, perpetually pouring out an endless stream of water from a bounteous jug. The fountain is in a secluded spot – nestling in a rose garden, beneath the shadow of the twin Moorish towers of the Fireworks Platform. Rose finds herself quite alone.

Rather than sit down upon one of the nearby benches, she begins to pace around the fountain's round basin.

Rose Perfitt re-emerges onto the King's Road as the church bells of the parish ring five o'clock. Her face is rather gloomy, a hint of tears upon her cheeks, and an air of solemn disappointment about her. She hardly pays attention as she crosses the road, and she is surprised to hear her name called out as she turns onto Edith Grove. She looks round to see the Reverend Augustus Featherstone approaching.

‘Miss Perfitt?'

Rose blushes. ‘Yes, sir?'

‘Are you quite all right, Miss Perfitt? Forgive me, you look a little distressed.'

‘No,' protests Rose, forcing a smile, ‘I am fine, I assure you.'

‘Are you alone?'

‘Yes, sir. I mean, I have just come back from tea with a friend. I asked the cab to drop me just along the way, so I might take some exercise.'

‘Is that wise, Miss Perfitt?'

‘Whatever do you mean, sir?'

‘Well, the Gardens. You know the sort they attract, my dear girl. I would not wish to hear of a young lady such as yourself subjected to the insults of the idlers who frequent that place.'

‘I am sure I have not seen any idlers, sir,' replies Rose. ‘And if there were, I am sure I should be quite safe in broad daylight.'

The Reverend shakes his head, as if to admonish Rose for her naivety. ‘Sad to say, Miss Perfitt, there is a class of ill-conditioned blackguards who do not hesitate to presume upon the good nature of innocent creatures such as yourself. Now, shall I accompany you home?'

‘There is no need, sir. It is not far now.'

‘No? As you wish, my dear,' says the Reverend
Featherstone, his thin aquiline features wrinkled in an expression of deep concern. He reaches out and clasps Rose's hand in a rather bony grip. ‘Good day, then. But do take care, I beg you.'

Rose bids him goodbye, and hurries down Edith Grove. The clergyman lingers upon the corner, watching her disappear up the steps to her home.

He turns his gaze from the Perfitts' residence to the gates of Cremorne Gardens, and then once more back to Edith Grove, a look of consternation upon his face.

T
here is a light summer drizzle falling on the muddy ground of Sheepgut Lane, as one Alfred Budge departs for work. He is a short man of fifty years or so, stocky in build, with craggy features and a slouching cloth cap that barely conceals a thick mop of rather dirty-looking brown hair. With his rugged face and fustian coat, he very much resembles the archetype of a London ‘rough', only differing from that happy ideal in his gait. It is a lame, lop-sided progress, caused by a crushed foot, trapped beneath a beer barrel some years ago, which remains stubbornly twisted at an odd angle to his body.