The Last Pleasure Garden (3 page)

I
n Edith Grove, Brompton, the sound of a Haydn sonata fills the upstairs drawing-room. It is played rather competently by a pretty young woman of eighteen years of age. She sits alone, practising at the pianoforte, with her back to the door. She possesses an abundance of curled auburn hair, which trails down her neck in loose ringlets, and there is a certain grace and self-possession in her posture, not least in the delicate movement of her hands upon the keyboard.

The voice of her mother interrupts her.

‘Rose!'

Rose Perfitt stumbles over her notes, stops, and turns her head. Her mother stands at the door.

‘Rose, it is past two o'clock, please.'

‘I am sorry, Mama,' she replies. ‘I just wanted to finish . . .'

Mrs. Perfitt shakes her head. ‘My dear, please, a little peace and quiet. You may play later.'

Rose obeys, removing the music and closing the piano lid. Her mother is a handsome woman, her face scarcely hinting at her forty years. It is not too fanciful to see in Mrs. Perfitt's well-bred features the source of her daughter's youthful beauty.

‘Are you expecting anyone, Mama?'

‘No, but Alice Watson may just call. I would simply like a little time to compose myself, if I may.'

Mrs. Perfitt smiles a tight-lipped smile, as if to express a sense of relief at the restoration of peace and quiet in the drawing-room. She settles herself on the ebonised chair that sits by the hearth.

‘You might read, my dear,' she suggests to her daughter, who wanders idly to the window, peering through the lace curtains, down onto the street below.

‘I think there's someone coming,' says Rose, teasing back the lace.

‘Rose, the window! Don't be so vulgar!' exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. Her daughter instantly releases the fabric.

‘It's Mrs. Featherstone.'

‘Oh, heavens!' exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. ‘That woman!'

Mrs. Perfitt pauses for thought, looking at her daughter. ‘Rose, go and brush your hair.'

The social niceties of the ‘morning-call', the illogically-named custom of paying afternoon visits to one's friends and neighbours, have never held much fascination for Rose Perfitt. The endless exchange of visiting cards, the polite refusals of cups of tea, the awkward discussions of the weather, have always seemed a terrible bore to her youthful mind. The only consolation she can take from Mrs. Bertha Featherstone's presence in the drawing-room, when she returns from arranging her coiffure, is that the latter carries her bonnet in her hand, and has her woollen shawl – a rather unnecessary article for the time of year – still wrapped about her shoulders. It is, thinks Rose to herself, intended to be a brief visit.

‘Ah,' exclaims Mrs. Featherstone, a rather robust-looking broad-built woman, turning to face Rose
Perfitt, once she has settled in a chair, ‘here she is, your youngest. I trust you are well, Miss Perfitt?'

‘Yes, ma'am. Very well.'

‘But you look a little pale, Miss Perfitt? Are you sure you are not ill? I generally notice such things. The Reverend says I am most sensitive to human frailty.'

‘I don't believe so, ma'am,' replies Rose, politely. ‘I am quite well.'

‘Hmm. Perhaps,' says Mrs. Featherstone, seeming a little aggrieved by this contradiction of her infallibility. ‘Still, never mind that. Mrs. Perfitt, now, how long has it been?'

‘Oh, I could not say.'

‘Well ma'am, forgive me for not calling sooner.'

‘There is nothing to forgive,' says Mrs. Perfitt, with the utmost sincerity.

‘Thank you, ma'am. Well, I have come today because, if I may be blunt – and knowing your charitable instincts, ma'am – I wondered if I might presume on your support for a worthy cause.'

Mrs. Perfitt waves her hand majestically in regal permission, though a rather glacial smile remains fixed upon her face.

‘The Reverend—'

‘And how is your dear husband?' interrupts Mrs. Perfitt.

‘In good health, ma'am, thank you,' replies Mrs. Featherstone, not deflected from her purpose. ‘And he is planning a charity bazaar at the College, in aid of the Society for the Suppression of Vice. That is what I came to tell you. Such a good cause! Lady Astbury has promised to do the penny ices, quite a coup, you know.'

‘Has she really? Well, then, you must let us know
the date. We shall be sure to attend, won't we, Rose?'

‘Oh!' replies Mrs. Featherstone, joyfully, before Rose can even answer. ‘You are a rock, ma'am.'

Mrs. Perfitt nods. ‘And I am sure Mr. Perfitt will be willing to contribute a little something.'

‘Ma'am!' exclaims the clergyman's wife, her naturally stony expression melting into a warm smile. ‘I confess, I knew we might rely on your goodwill. I said as much to the Reverend.'

Mrs. Perfitt merely gestures once more, this time a dismissive shake of her hand, indicative of her own unworthiness.

‘No, no, you are too modest,' continues Mrs. Featherstone, reaching inside her handbag. ‘Now, what was the other matter? Ah yes! I have the Reverend's latest pamphlet in here somewhere. Now, where is it? May I give you a copy?'

‘I am sure we have it, thank you,' says Mrs. Perfitt, perhaps a little too hastily.

‘Oh, that cannot be. It has only just arrived from the printer's.'

‘Really?' says Mrs. Perfitt, her perfect smile creasing a little. ‘The Reverend is so prolific.'

‘With cause, ma'am, with good cause,' says Mrs. Featherstone, producing a folded pamphlet, which she hands to her hostess. ‘There!'

Rose Perfitt, seated beside her mother, leans over to read the title:

‘You have heard what went on there last night?' asks Mrs. Featherstone.

‘No, I do not believe so.'

‘A servant-girl was stabbed in the Gardens. The act of some frenzied madman; and I understand it is not the first such incident. One wonders whatever the girl's mistress could have been thinking, giving her liberty to show herself in such a place? And yet, still, I'll warrant they will renew the licence, come November. The Reverend is quite at his wit's end, ma'am.'

‘I am sorry to hear that.'

There is the sound of the door-bell ringing downstairs, but
politesse
demands that no-one should remark upon it.

‘We must see the place closed for good,' continues Mrs. Featherstone. ‘It is our duty.'

‘It would improve the area, I am sure,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, with polite indifference in her voice. There is a hint of a yawn, stifled in her throat. ‘It has rather gone downhill.'

The conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘What is it, Richards?' asks Mrs. Perfitt of the young maid-servant, who stands timidly, half in the room, half upon the landing.

‘Begging pardon, ma'am, Mrs. Watson presents her card.'

A fleeting look of relief passes over Mrs. Perfitt's face.

‘Do have her come up.'

Rose Perfitt quits the drawing-room after the departure of Mrs. Bertha Featherstone and the arrival of her mother's more intimate friend, Mrs. Watson, complaining of a ‘head'. Behind her, as she closes the door, the conversation is rather more animated.

‘Alice, I swear, that woman is enough to make one turn Mahometan!'

‘Caroline, really! Behave yourself!'

Rose ascends to her bedroom upon the second floor and closes the panelled door behind her. She walks over to her writing desk by the window, and sits down, feeling for one of its concealed compartments, the artifice of some long-forgotten master of the carpenter's art. Sliding the drawer open, she pulls out a careworn white envelope and unfolds the letter inside. The paper gives the impression of having been read and read again, even though it is written in her own hand.

My Dear Beloved,

All this day I have wished for one moment to kiss you, to have you in my embrace. Come tonight, sweetheart, and we shall be happy . . .

Rose stops reading, and looks to the window. It is a warm day, even for the time of year. She lifts up the sash, leans out and smells the afternoon air. In the distance, past the end of Edith Grove, across the King's Road, she can just make out the distant walls of Cremorne Gardens, plastered with the multicoloured fly-posters that promise untold delights within.

O
UTRAGE AT CREMORNE. A young woman is now lying at the Chelsea Union Infirmary having suffered a brutal assault at the hands of an unknown assailant. Sarah Hookey, a servant who resides at 23, Worthing Terrace, Pimlico, was in the Gardens on Saturday evening last when her person was attacked with a sharp instrument, which cut her dress, and penetrated her side. A number of men, attracted by her cries, hastened to the scene. The woman lapsed into an unconscious state and was carried by Constable 104 T to the King's-road, where she was conveyed in a cab to the infirmary. There is every hope of a recovery, but the perpetrator of this peculiar sanguinary outrage remains at large.

Decimus Webb puts down his copy of
The Times
and looks rather despondently out of the window of the cab, at the shops and houses of the King's Road. Bartleby, seated beside him, picks up the paper, and reads the brief article.

‘They've got the name wrong,' says the sergeant.

‘That is the least of our worries, Sergeant,' replies Webb, as the cab begins to slow. ‘Just wait until the
gutter rags put two and two together. I've already had a personal note from the Assistant Commissioner.'

The cab judders to a halt. As the two policeman alight, Bartleby spies a piece of paper trodden into the dirt by the side of the road. He picks it up.

‘I think you're too late, sir. Look here – “Ballad of the Cremorne Cutter”. Look's like a new one. Now, let's see—'

‘Spare me the doggerel, Sergeant, I can quite imagine,' replies Webb.

The cab-man, overhearing the conversation, looks down from his perch atop the hansom. ‘Saw a little 'un selling those yesterday. Selling like hot-cakes they were.'

‘Yes, thank you,' says Webb, passing the man his fare. ‘That will be all.'

‘I'll wait if yer like.'

‘I am sure there's no need,' replies Webb, rather sourly. The cab-driver shrugs, tugs on the reins, and swings the vehicle around, whilst the two policemen approach the pay-box that guards the iron gates to the pleasure ground. The clerk inside deliberately busies himself with other matters.

‘Will you let us through?' asks Webb.

‘We ain't open until three,' replies the clerk brusquely.

‘My name is Webb. Mr. Boon is expecting us, I believe.'

‘Ah,' says the clerk, eyeing the policemen up and down, then tapping his nose in the approved ‘knowing' fashion, ‘is he now? Well, why didn't you say so?'

The clerk takes up a set of keys, and steps out to the iron gates. ‘Here, come through. You'll find him at the Circus, I reckon. Through the Fernery – you can't miss it.'