The Last Pleasure Garden (28 page)

She sighs, and throws the bundle into the silt brown waters. She stays for a moment or two, watching it sink into the darkness, then hurries back to the road, as fast as she is able. She starts a little, however, when she sees a man standing there, watching her.

‘Little Moses,' says Mr. Budge, in the ruminative, inebriate manner that is his wont.

‘Hush, you old sot,' replies his wife, sighing with relief. ‘What are you doing here? Someone will see us.'

‘I saw you. Saw you on the road. Old Bill chucked us out, see? Said I owes him money.'

‘Then I expect you do,' replies Mrs. Budge, taking her husband's arm like that of a wayward child, and swiftly leading him up towards the bridge.

‘Another of 'em gone, then?' says Mr. Budge, looking back at the river.

‘No fault of mine,' replies Mrs. Budge, defensively. ‘Gathered up to his Maker; poor little thing.'

Mr. Budge takes off his cap in tribute, almost dropping it in the process.

‘Can you spare us something, Maggie?' he says, at last. ‘A couple of bob would do us. Just to square Bill.'

‘Lord, I ain't got nothing for you, Alfred Budge. I'm still saving up for Janey. You remember her, do you? Your own daughter? Dead and gone and lying cold in a box in your back parlour.'

Mr. Budge looks painfully forlorn; he avows that he does remember his daughter; that he would like to see her buried proper; that there is nothing else upon his mind. Until a thought strikes him. ‘You can get another little 'un, now, though, eh?'

‘Shame on you!' exclaims his wife, swatting him about the shoulders with her free hand. ‘Shame! As if a body ain't got feelings. As if I can have another little angel without a thought. With Janey not even cold in the ground.'

Mr. Budge slurs something quite inaudible in drunken apology.

‘Besides,' continues Mrs. Budge, ‘I know a lady who has an account to settle. Who'll give us twelve sovereigns straight off, if I press her. Reckon I've left that long enough.'

Mr. Budge keeps silent; he cannot quite muster the strength to speak and walk the length of Battersea Road. Nonetheless, the expression upon his face suggests he finds the prospect of his wife renewing an acquaintance with such a liberal person to be a very promising development.

‘Silk hats and crape. Best black feathers,' says Mrs. Budge. ‘Twelve sovereigns and she'll have a good send-off. It's only right, after what she suffered.'

Mr. Budge nods. ‘And there'll be some to spare, Maggie? Some to spare?'

Mrs. Budge lets go of her husband's arm and slaps him about the head.

D
ecimus Webb quits Scotland Yard at half-past ten, bidding goodbye to Bartleby and walking out through the old cobbled courtyard of the police station, down to the Embankment. He does not turn his steps homewards, but follows the grand gas-lit avenue westwards, walking by the stone abutments that conceal the river shore. Upon occasion, he casts his eye over the pavement's iron benches, set upon raised flag-stones at regular intervals between the plane trees, where solitary vagrants sleep in uneasy anticipation of the steps of a police constable. But, for the most part, Webb pays no particular attention to his surroundings, his thoughts intent upon other matters. Thus, he skirts the Houses of Parliament without an upwards glance to the clock tower; ignores the Gothic pretensions of Lambeth Palace upon the far shore; barely notices the grim brick walls around the turrets of Millbank Prison, the gaol's diseased yellow stones illuminated by the gas-light from the riverside lamps. He goes past bridges and boat-yards, past the black shadows of coal-barges, moored along the shore in solemn rows. Indeed, he simply follows the lazy serpentine twists of the Thames – a far longer route to Chelsea than cutting through the back streets of Pimlico –
until he comes to Battersea Bridge, and then down a little further, to the water-gate side of Cremorne Gardens.

It is almost eleven but there are still small parties arriving by boat, queuing for tickets. Webb, however, does not need to pay for entry – a young constable from T Division, stationed at the entrance, recognises the Scotland Yard detective – and it is not long before he finds himself within Cremorne's sylvan groves.

It is hard to say whether he has a particular purpose in mind; he certainly seems quite content to stroll along the principal path, in the glow of the lanterns, each a different colour, which are suspended cleverly between the trees. In the end, in solitary contemplation, he turns his steps towards the famous Crystal Platform, where the sound of the orchestra can be clearly heard.

‘On your own, sir?'

The words are whispered by a woman, thirty-five years old or so, coming in the opposite direction. She wears a walking dress of almond-coloured Mikado silk, an imitation of a better class of material; she smiles as she draws near, touching the fashionable collar of silver medallions that adorns her pale neck with one hand, whilst in the other she swings a folded tussore sun-shade, though there is little call for such an article in Cremorne's half-light.

‘So it seems,' replies Webb. He casts his eye over her face; she has a brunette complexion, fine hazel eyes, large and bright.

‘Would you care for company, sir?' she says, turning, and keeping pace beside him. ‘A little dance, perhaps? Or we might try the shooting gallery? I can see you have a steady hand.'

‘No, I think not,' says Webb, though he allows the
woman to take his arm and walk with him. ‘Tell me, though, you take a chance, to come here alone at night.'

‘I do all right, sir,' she replies, a little puzzled by his response.

‘You might fall foul of that man they are talking about, The Cutter.'

‘I'm sure you'd protect me,' she replies, squeezing his arm.

‘How do you know I am not the fellow myself?'

The woman pauses for a moment. ‘No, you're a straight one, sir. I can see that, clear as anything. I can tell by your hat.'

Webb self-consciously straightens the brim of his billycock, and coughs. ‘I see.'

‘Better than feeling a man's head for bumps,' she replies, as they draw nearer to the Crystal Platform, the sight of couples gaily waltzing visible through the trees. ‘You're a copper, ain't you?'

‘Another deduction based upon my hat?'

‘It's crawling with your lot round here; I should have known better.'

Webb releases his arm from his companion. ‘Perhaps you should.'

‘They say he's killed some vicar's wife now?' says the woman.

‘We are not sure of that.'

The woman looks thoughtfully at Webb. ‘Do you want my opinion, Mr. . . .?'

‘Webb. Inspector Webb.'

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Inspector,' she says sardonically, curtseying for effect. ‘Well, do you?'

‘If you like,' replies Webb.

‘I know his sort, sir. They like giving a scare to the girls; makes 'em feel they're manly – if you get my
meaning. They want to see the look in your eyes; put the fear of God in you. I've known one or two of 'em in my time, pulled a knife on me. It's like a little game for 'em.'

‘I expect you are right.'

‘Sir!' shouts a man's voice, before Webb can speak any further. It is the police constable, T 49 from the water-gate, running along the path towards them. ‘Sorry, sir,' he continues, looking at Webb's companion, ‘I didn't know you were . . .'

‘I was what?' says Webb impatiently. ‘What is it, man?'

‘There's some trouble, sir. We're glad you're here, to tell the truth.'

‘Whatever is it?' asks Webb.

‘Fireworks, sir.'

The woman smiles and saunters off.

‘Nice to meet you, Inspector.'

The Gardens' Firework Gallery is an outdoor theatre, concealed at one extremity by a faux Moorish façade, that skilfully hides it from the view of those enjoying Cremorne's terpsichorean delights. Quite worthy of the finest workmanship of Granada, the exterior is adorned by four tall minarets, decorated in arabesque style, that poke above the Gardens' oaks and elms. The open interior contains space for five or six hundred persons, an orchestra and then a large stage. And last of all, behind the stage, a raised tower, itself some forty feet high, again in the style of the Moors, from which fireworks are launched every other evening, to the accompaniment of a stirring score.

At first, it seems to Webb that there is nothing much amiss. But then he hears the jeers from odd members
of the crowd and notices the sullen silence of the orchestra. The constable points upwards to the tower's summit, where a man stands, gesturing wildly, an oil-lamp in one hand, a book in the other.

‘Who on earth is that?' asks Webb, peering down the length of the gas-lit ground. ‘I can't make him out.'

‘I'll tell you who it is,' says a familiar voice, coming up behind them. Webb instantly recognises it as belonging to John Boon. ‘Your friend Featherstone. Gone quite off his head.'

Decimus Webb looks coolly at Cremorne's proprietor. ‘I will judge that for myself, sir.'

‘Judge all you like, Inspector,' says Boon, hands firmly in his waistcoat pockets. ‘The man's positively deranged. I've always said so.'

Webb walks briskly down the length of the Gallery, through the crowd, most of whom seem rather mystified by the spectacle of the black-robed clergyman. As he draws closer to the firework tower, Webb can make out that the book in the Reverend Featherstone's hands is a Bible; and his words something of a sermon.

‘“Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven! And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground,”' intones the clergyman.

‘Sling yer hook!' shouts a baser member of the audience. ‘Here, maestro – start up the band, why don't yer? I didn't pay two bob for this.'

Boon, meanwhile, catches up with Webb. ‘You must do something, Inspector.'

[‘And is this not truly the New Sodom?' proclaims Reverend Featherstone.]

‘You did not invite him to preach, I take it?' says Webb.

‘The man is a lunatic,' replies Boon. ‘Quite mad.'

Webb sighs. ‘He has just lost his wife, sir. One must make allowances; I expect it has shattered his nerves.'

[‘And are we not wretched sinners?']

Boon shakes his head. ‘You do not understand, Webb. Apart from this embarrassing interruption to my business, he is waving that lamp directly above the blessed fireworks. If he should set light to them all together, he will have his fire and brimstone, all right – in this life, not the next.'

‘Will he not come down? He has made his point.'

Boon pushes his hands deeper into his waistcoat pockets. ‘If you care to go up there, you can ask him.'

Webb hesitates for a moment. ‘How did he get up there in the first place?'

‘There is a ladder at the back,' replies Boon.

Webb looks up at the clergyman and reluctantly finds a path through the orchestra, most of whom are already on their feet, alternately indignant or amused by the unexpected prayer-meeting, oblivious to any danger. He finds that the rear of the tower belies the Moorish façade, a plain iron scaffold with a series of steep ladders ascending to a wooden terrace behind the crenellated summit. Two stagehands stand at the base, looking upwards.

‘Can we not go up and get him?' asks Webb.

One stagehand looks at his companion and laughs derisively. ‘We? If that lamp spills you'll be blown sky high, guv'nor. I'd like to hold on to my 'stremities, if you don't mind.'

If Webb is inclined to remonstrate with the two men, he glances upwards and changes his mind. Instead, he tentatively sets foot on the first ladder, and begins to climb the scaffold.

‘Reverend? Can you hear me?' shouts Webb. No
reply, however, is forthcoming, except the sound of the clergyman's voice, declaiming against the debaucheries of mankind.