The Last Pleasure Garden (14 page)

‘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.'

T
he 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 trust 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.'

‘What, ma'am?'

‘You ask about her character, Inspector. There was one particular circumstance, though I would not wish it to reflect badly upon her. It is rather delicate.'

‘Speak plainly, ma'am, I beg you.'

‘Very well,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, although she seems a little affronted by the policeman's lack of politesse. ‘My husband, at one point, did suspect her of improper conduct.'

‘Theft?' suggests Bartleby.

Mrs. Perfitt shakes her head. ‘No, Sergeant, nothing of that sort. It was, rather, he thought that she was engaging in relations of a questionable character with a particular young man.'

‘Ah,' says Webb. ‘I see. But your husband was proved wrong?'

‘I almost wish he was right, Inspector. You see, he discovered the man in question . . . his name was Nelson, I recall . . .' says Mrs. Perfitt, faltering, her cheeks colouring a little. ‘You must forgive me . . . he discovered him forcing himself upon her.'

Webb frowns. ‘I am sorry you are obliged to recall such matters, ma'am.'

‘Quite. Charles – that is my husband – insisted the fellow was brought to trial. And, I am glad to say, he was convicted and sent to gaol. We did not feel it would be right to make any reference to it in Jane's character, but the whole business was rather awkward.'

‘And how long was this before she left your employment, ma'am?' asks Webb.

‘Perhaps a month or so,' says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Poor girl.'

‘And is there anything else about her that you recall? Did she have any family? How did she come to you?'

‘I believe it was through one of the local agencies, Inspector. My husband may have the correspondence. As for her family, I am not so intimate with the personal affairs of my maids.'

‘Of course, ma'am,' replies Webb. ‘Well, in that case, I think it might be best if I returned for a quick word with your husband, perhaps this evening?'

‘I can provide you with the address of his firm, Inspector,' suggests Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Barker and Co., in the City.'

Webb smiles politely. ‘Thank you, but tonight would be more convenient, ma'am, if you don't mind. What time shall we say?'

‘You might come at seven o'clock,' suggests Mrs. Perfitt, ‘before dinner.'

‘Excellent,' says Webb, moving to stand up. ‘Then that is all, I think. Again, I am sorry for intruding, ma'am.'

‘Not at all,' replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Inspector, you did not say how poor Jane died?'

‘I hoped to spare you the details, ma'am. They are rather unpleasant.'

‘I am sure I will hear them at some point, Inspector.'

‘Very well. She was caught in a fire, ma'am.'

‘A fire? Really? It was not an accident then? You are certain?'

‘No, ma'am,' says Webb. ‘Quite deliberate.'