The Last Pleasure Garden (27 page)

The bicycle race begins at three o'clock, on a marked-out track of rough ground, a good distance from the Prince's Club cricket pitch. Mr. Sedgecombe vouchsafes that it is a five-mile handicap between four gentlemen of great renown in the bicycling fraternity. Certainly, thinks Rose Perfitt, they look the part, dressed in the sportsman's uniform of loose-fitting breeches, covered by stockings and stout boots, a rough jersey and a cap of matching cloth. Each, moreover, is surrounded by a cordon of enthusiastic young
gentlemen, who liberally make various oaths and exhortations, whilst slapping their respective contenders upon the back. Naturally, a photograph is taken. Then, at length, the four sportsmen line up beside their vehicles. The crowd watches closely as the competitors ascend the wooden mounting blocks and then swing themselves up above the tall front wheels, at least five feet in height, onto leather saddles. A flag is waved; the crowd cheers; and the race begins.

To the novice, unfamiliar with the sport, it goes gingerly at first, each rider balanced precariously upon his steel-framed steed, seemingly in utter contradiction to the laws of gravity; but then they pick up pace, and wheels, spokes, men all fly past at a remarkable rate. Mr. Sedgecombe's preference for the famous Stanton does not prove misguided. Three miles into the distance, the latter is sufficiently ahead to make the occasional nod to the crowd and, better still, remove one hand from the handlebars and tip his cap. Indeed, each completed circuit is greeted with applause and hurrahs from many of the Prince's Club members, who, Mr. Sedgecombe quietly confides in Mrs. Perfitt's ear, have ‘invested a pound or two' upon his success.

None of the spectators, however, intent upon the matter in hand, notices the approach of a certain gentleman in a tweed suit, who walks slowly across the Prince's Club lawn, until he stands near Mrs. Perfitt.

‘Good afternoon, ma'am,' says Decimus Webb.

Mrs. Perfitt looks rather surprised as she turns to notice Decimus Webb. But she regains her composure quickly enough. ‘Why, it is Inspector Webb, is it not?'

Webb assents. ‘Enjoying the race, ma'am?'

‘Yes, of course,' replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Inspector – this is my daughter, Rose. And this is Mr. Richard Sedgecombe.'

‘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.

‘F
ainted!'

‘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 Battersea 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.