The Last Pleasure Garden (15 page)

‘Why did you want to leave seeing his nibs until tonight?' asks Bartleby, as the two men walk back down Edith Grove.

‘It is merely because I think we would do better to spend a little time over this “awkward” business of Miss Budge and – Mr. Nelson, was it not? – before we talk to Mr. Perfitt. It may provide us with a few more questions about the girl, even if it does not provide any answers. You can talk to the local division about it, for a start. Find out where Nelson's serving his time. We might even pay him a visit.'

Bartleby nods, notebook already in hand. ‘And what about Mrs. Perfitt, sir?'

‘What about her, Sergeant?'

Bartleby pauses for thought. ‘She said she wasn't intimate with her maids, but her husband seems to have kept a close eye on Jane Budge – close enough for him to discover this fellow having his way with her.'

‘And then they got rid of her; because no-one cares for soiled goods, do they, Sergeant? A good character supplied to compensate, naturally.'

‘You don't think it was Jane Budge's aversion to country air, then?'

Webb allows himself a derisive snort. ‘I should think not.'

There is another pause before Webb turns to the sergeant. ‘Did she strike you as an “excellent” sort of servant, Sergeant?'

‘Hard to tell, sir. More the skivvying sort, rather than your lady's maid, I'd say.'

‘But Mrs. Perfitt described her as “excellent”. That was not Mrs. Featherstone's opinion, by any means. Curious, eh?'

‘Perhaps Mrs. Featherstone has different standards, sir.'

‘I doubt they are higher than those of Mrs. Perfitt,' replies Webb. ‘I'd say she has fairly high standards herself.'

‘It could be that she didn't want to speak ill of the dead,' remarks Bartleby.

‘I suppose that must be it.'

‘Who was that, Mama?' asks Rose Perfitt, entering the drawing-room. Her mother stands by the window, watching the street.

‘No-one, Rose,' replies her mother. ‘No-one at all.'

R
eports of murder are not uncommon in the great metropolis. Some may even be all but overlooked: a brawl in an East End beer-shop may result in a fatal wound, but merits only two lines in the day's
Police News
. The wife-murder; the poisoning; the mutilated corpse – anything with a hint of sensation – is another matter entirely. Rumour of such dreadful events is carried not only by the papers, but by word of mouth, passing from one man or woman to another, travelling at speed like some dreadful contagion. And the murder of Jane Budge is no exception. Whether it is the association with the peculiar reputation of the ‘Cremorne Cutter', or the effect of the words ‘Woman Burnt Alive' rendered in bold type, her demise swiftly becomes the subject of common gossip. Thus, in due course, less than twenty-four hours after Jane Budge has breathed her last, the news reaches one Mrs. Margaret Budge in Battersea.

It arrives in the form of a neighbour, a woman hesitantly bearing a copy of the
Battersea Evening Record
who finds Mrs. Budge at home, alone but for an infant in her arms. The woman is, in truth, no great friend of the Budge family and merely stops long enough to offer some words of comfort – and, perhaps,
to observe the effect of her evil tidings. But if the woman expects tears, she is disappointed. Mrs. Budge appears perversely calm; and so the woman excuses herself and leaves, audibly muttering the word ‘unnatural'.

Mrs. Budge watches her visitor depart, then casually places the baby she is holding, a small undernourished creature, to one side. There is almost always one such child in Mrs. Budge's tender care. Indeed the presence of a mewling infant is something Margaret Budge rather takes for granted; an almost comforting constant in her life. On cue, the child cries out a little at being abandoned, immediately missing the warmth of her adoptive mother's bosom.

Mrs. Budge herself puts her hands to her head and lets out a sigh, a low throaty sob. Her round face trembles and tears trickle down her cheeks. The child responds in kind, its cry more insistent and aggravated.

‘Hush now,' says Mrs. Budge, at length.

But the child does not oblige.

‘Hush,' says Mrs. Budge, placing a finger on the child's lips. ‘Hush.'

Still it screams.

Mrs. Budge rises wearily from her chair, to the small cupboard that serves as her medicine cabinet.

‘You need something to calm your spirits, little 'un,' she says out loud, a distracted expression upon her face. ‘A nice dose of quietness, eh? I expect we both do. And what will I tell her father? Not that he'll care, the old sot.'

The child screams all the more. Mrs. Budge sighs a second time, her face still wet with tears, and pours out a spoonful of Godfrey's Cordial, her hand rather unsteady, spilling a good deal upon the floor. She puts
the bottle down, laying the spoon beside it, talking to the infant, her tone shifting to a harsh whisper.

‘I hope that bastard Nelson swings for it.'

The object of Margaret Budge's curses is, in fact, not many miles distant. He sits alone in the tap-room of the World's End tavern, a quiet, smoky resort of Chelsea's labouring classes, concealed from the outside world by frosted glass and separate from the more refined snug by a nicely carved wooden partition. It is suited to men who enjoy a quiet drink at the end of a day's work; its seats are plain and wooden, without padding or ornament; its tables made of cheap varnished deal. A handful of locals sit chatting animatedly near the bar but George Nelson remains on his own, seated at a small table, a pint pot in his hand. He does not look up when two newcomers enter from the King's Road – or, at least, not until they stand directly over him.

‘George Nelson?'

‘Who's asking?'

‘No need to take that tone,' says Decimus Webb.

‘Peelers, ain't you?'

Webb smiles, apparently gratified to be recognised. George Nelson puts down his drink.

‘My name is Inspector Webb. This is my sergeant. May we join you?'

Nelson looks up, as if about to say something rather forcefully against the idea. But he seems to hold himself back. ‘Join me? You buying then?'

Webb shakes his head and sits down beside Nelson.

‘Shame,' says Nelson.

‘I think you know why we're here,' suggests Bartleby.

Nelson shrugs. ‘I ain't done a thing. I've got my
ticket; I already reported to the station. I don't want any trouble.'

Webb raises his eyebrows. ‘I'd have thought a man in your position would steer clear of Chelsea in the first place; make a fresh start.'

‘I've pals here. What do you want with us?'

Webb looks directly into the ticket-of-leave man's eye. ‘I think you know, Mr. Nelson. But I'll happily spell it out for you. A strange coincidence, you see – I've been making inquiries today into the murder of a young woman named Budge; she was killed last night. I find out this morning that five years ago she was assaulted by a certain George Nelson – a nasty piece of work by all accounts. I make further inquiries. It turns out that our Mr. Nelson has just finished his penal servitude; that he's out on leave.'

‘Bad business that fire,' replies Nelson, taking a gulp of his drink. ‘I just read about it, as it happens. In the paper.'

‘Is that so?'

‘What, you don't think I can read?'

‘You don't seem very sorry about it,' says Bartleby.

Nelson looks up at Bartleby. ‘Maybe I ain't.'

‘Where were you last night, Mr. Nelson?'

‘Here.'

‘All night?' asks Webb. ‘Between, say, nine and eleven o'clock?'

‘I was here. Ask the landlord there; he knows me. Ask anyone you fancy.'

Webb looks at Bartleby and nods. The sergeant heads off in the direction of the bar.

‘When did you last see Miss Budge, then?' asks Webb.

Nelson frowns. ‘Five year back, I should say.'

Webb pauses. ‘I don't see many of your pals about,
Mr. Nelson. Why did you really come back, eh? Did you want to punish that wretched girl for what she did to you? For putting you away?'

‘I said already, I was here the whole night,' repeats Nelson, in monotone.

Webb pauses. ‘A costly habit, drink. Have you found employment?'

‘The Gardens.'

‘Cremorne?' asks Webb.

‘I used to work there. They're happy to have me.'

‘What is your position?'

‘General labourer. Scene-shifter.'

‘They must have thought highly of you, to take you back, knowing the sort of man you are. A risk for them. All those young women, actresses, ballet girls . . .'

Nelson places his drink firmly down upon the table, turning to look Webb directly in the eye. ‘Look here, Inspector – I know your game. But I never did nothing to that damn girl.'

Webb does not reply. Nelson takes a deep breath.

‘Ah, here's your poodle now,' says the ticket-of-leave man as Bartleby returns.

‘Well?' says Webb.

‘He was here, sir,' says Bartleby. ‘The landlord and two others will vouch for it.'

Nelson takes another sip of his drink. The hint of a smile curls at the edge of his lip. ‘That's cooked your goose, ain't it, Inspector?'

Webb ignores the remark. If he is about to ask Nelson any further question, he thinks better of it. ‘We may wish to speak to you again, Mr. Nelson. Do not leave your current lodgings without notifying us.'

Nelson nods, an expression of mock gravity upon his face. ‘I know the rules of the ticket, Inspector. I know 'em all right.'

‘I am glad to hear it,' says Webb, getting up from his seat.

‘One thing, Inspector,' says Nelson.

‘What?' says Webb.

‘Who do you think killed her then? They say it's this “Cutter” fellow, don't they?'

Webb wordlessly gets to his feet.

‘Let me know if you catch up with him,' says Nelson, grinning. ‘I'd very much like to stand that gentleman a drink.'