The Last Pleasure Garden (34 page)

Rose Perfitt immediately rises from her seat, a look of surprise on her face.

‘Inspector! Whatever are you doing? I told you – he . . . that man . . . he is quite innocent.'

‘Just routine, Miss. Nothing to worry about,' replies Webb. ‘We'll soon have you home.'

Rose, speechless, sits down. But not before a glance passes between her and George Nelson, who slightly shakes his head in disapproval, as if to say ‘no, don't say a word'.

It is just a glance; it lasts the briefest of moments. Still, it does not escape Decimus Webb's notice and, when they have left the room, he allows himself a brief smile before he calls over Bartleby.

‘Take him to the station house, Sergeant. Release him in an hour or two.'

‘Sir?'

‘I have seen all I need to see.'

I
t is two o'clock in the morning by the time Decimus Webb returns Rose Perfitt to Edith Grove. With unusual tact, mindful of prying neighbours, he descends to the area and rings the tradesman's bell outside the kitchen door, keeping Rose by his side. Unsurprisingly, given the hour, it takes repeated efforts to rouse the Perfitts' maid-servant from her sleep. Nonetheless, Webb perseveres and, after a minute or two, when Richards appears, he has the consolation of knowing the whole household must also have been awakened. The theory is swiftly proven by the appearance of Mr. Perfitt, in his dressing-gown, a protective poker in hand, treading carefully down the kitchen steps, a few seconds after his maid-servant.

‘What the devil is this?' he exclaims, as the maid lets them in. ‘Good Lord, Rose!'

‘The good news, sir,' says Webb, shepherding Rose Perfitt into the kitchen, ‘is that your daughter is virtually unharmed, despite appearances.'

‘But what in heaven's name does this mean?' asks Mr. Perfitt.

‘Well, we found your daughter in Cremorne Gardens, sir. Apparently she was in the process of running away from home. As for the condition of her
clothes and hair, as I say, I believe she is unharmed. It is something of a long story.'

Mr. Perfitt nods, although his expression is one more of disbelief than anything else. ‘Rose, are you quite all right?'

‘Yes, Papa,' replies Rose, quietly.

‘Then I think you had best go to your room, while I talk to Inspector Webb. Richards – you had best help her.'

Rose readily assents and quits the room with the maid, leaving the two men alone.

‘I think we should talk, sir,' says Webb, ‘but, in this instance, I would rather your wife were present.'

‘I fear we have been foolish, Inspector,' says Charles Perfitt, having heard an abbreviated explanation of the night's events.

Webb raises his eyebrows, turning his gaze from the drawing-room mantelpiece to his reluctant host and hostess.

‘How so, sir?'

‘Rose has always had an unfortunate interest in the goings on at the Gardens,' interjects Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Such places, to a fanciful young girl, may possess an unfortunate fascination.'

‘We should have removed her from their influence long ago,' continues Mr. Perfitt. ‘But we thought she was quite cured of it.'

‘You make it sound like she has some disease, sir,' says Webb. ‘Cremorne Fever, perhaps.'

‘You may find this amusing, Inspector,' replies Mr. Perfitt. ‘I assuredly do not.'

‘No,' says Webb. ‘Quite. However, you might consider it was not so much the Gardens as Reverend
Featherstone who is to blame for your daughter's condition – at least, as far as this evening goes.'

‘And you are convinced Reverend Featherstone was The Cutter?' asks Mrs. Perfitt.

‘It seems rather likely. We have some additional evidence – it will all come out at the inquest.'

‘Inquest?'

‘Why, there must be a Coroner's inquest, ma'am, suicide or not. Your daughter will be the principal witness. I should have thought that would be obvious.'

Mrs. Perfitt looks aghast. ‘Must this all come out? Think of the scandal, Inspector!'

‘It can and it must, ma'am,' replies Webb emphatically. ‘And, as for the scandal, I fear your daughter has only herself to blame.'

‘But Inspector!' protests Mrs. Perfitt. ‘She is not well. You saw how fragile she is when you came to the Prince's Ground. If our good name is to be dragged through the papers – frankly, I am not sure she can bear it!'

Mr. Perfitt, however, touches his wife lightly on the arm. ‘Enough, Caroline. Please.'

‘I am only thinking of Rose, Charles,' says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘You might do the same.'

‘I think, my dear, we must be grateful she is still with us at all. Our position in society is not everything. We must live with what Rose has done. Besides, it is clearly not the inspector's fault.'

Mrs. Perfitt bows to her husband's will, albeit reluctantly, and falls silent.

‘Is there anything else, Inspector?' asks Mr. Perfitt.

‘Ah, yes,' replies Webb. ‘I neglected to mention the man who found her. Saved her life, most likely.'

‘Who?' asks Mr. Perfitt. ‘I should be happy to thank him for it.'

‘George Nelson,' says Webb, observing the Perfitts' faces closely. Both seem suitably shocked and a silence descends upon the room.

‘Nelson? An odd coincidence,' says Mr. Perfitt at last.

‘Is it, sir? I do not suppose that your daughter has ever been acquainted with Mr. Nelson?'

Mr. Perfitt reddens a little. ‘Are you insinuating something, Inspector? If so, I'd rather you came out with it.'

‘No, sir. It's just I rather formed an impression that they knew each other.'

‘Did Rose tell you this?' asks Mrs. Perfitt.

‘No, ma'am. Quite the opposite.'

‘Well then,' replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘There is your answer.'

Webb shrugs. ‘I have been wrong before, ma'am. Well, I had best leave you be. We will notify you about the inquest directly – but it will be tomorrow or the day after.'

‘So you believe he killed poor Jane Budge, and his own wife?' says Mrs. Perfitt, as Webb gets up to leave.

‘Who, ma'am?'

‘Reverend Featherstone, Inspector! Who else?'

‘You would think so, ma'am,' replies Webb, as if still musing over the question in his own mind, ‘wouldn't you?'

Mrs. Perfitt walks into her daughter's room without knocking, her head held high. She finds Rose seated on her bed, dressed in her nightgown once more, staring into the corner of the room. An oil-lamp burns on the nearby dresser, and the glow of the flame seems to emphasise her puffy, swollen eyes and red cheeks. Rose gets up as her mother enters.

‘Mama, I'm sorry, truly I am.'

‘It's him, isn't it?' says Mrs. Perfitt, her voice a flat, controlled monotone. ‘Nelson?'

Rose nods her head.

‘I should have seen the signs. What a fool I was.'

‘I'm sorry, Mama, I love him; I always have done. I can't help it. You see, he wants to marry me.'

‘Marry?' says Mrs. Perfitt, incredulous.

‘I know Papa won't agree, not yet. But if you were to talk to him . . .'

The stiff resolve in Mrs. Perfitt's stance seems to suddenly ebb away. She takes a step backwards, leaning against the door, taking a deep breath. For a second, she closes her eyes, as if to rally her strength. When she opens them again, the look she gives her daughter is somewhere between pity and contempt.

‘You stupid, stupid, little girl,' she says, spitting out the words. ‘After all we have done for you. How could you!'

‘Mama!' protests Rose, her tears welling up once more.

But Mrs. Perfitt does not answer. She merely turns on her heel, quits the room and slams the door behind her.

And then there is the sound of a key being turned in the lock.

T
he Coroner's inquest upon the death of Augustus J. Featherstone is convened in the Cremorne Hotel, being the nearest public building to the place of his demise. The venue is the hotel's modest ball-room. Decimus Webb, amongst the first to arrive, looks over the efforts of John Boon's staff in creating the temporary court. A substantial desk has, it appears, been moved from one of the private rooms, to accommodate the literary requirements of the Coroner; a trestle-table, likewise, has been laid on for the benefit of his officers. As for the jury and general public, chairs from the saloon and lesser bars, requisitioned for the purposes of justice, lie arranged in neat rows, in a good approximation to the plan of the Old Bailey. Decimus Webb sits down next to Bartleby, in the seats reserved for witnesses, and wonders to himself where a distinct smell of liquor is coming from. Then he realises – the chairs still carry with them the spirituous, tobacco-heavy scent of the saloon.

The room soon fills up. Such is the interest in the deceased clergyman that all the seats are quickly taken and, after a short interval, the walls are all but obscured by curious members of the public. Some are the usual habitués of such public spectacles; others
Webb recognises as members of St. Mark's College. Many of those seated are respectable female residents of Edith Grove and its environs. Almost without exception, they turn their gaze to Rose Perfitt and her parents as the three of them enter the room from a side door, and take their place amongst the witnesses. Webb himself watches Rose closely, not least to see whether she turns her head towards George Nelson, seated a few feet away. But she keeps her gaze directly ahead, rather unnaturally rigid in her posture.

‘Nerves, do you think?' says Bartleby, observing his interest.

‘I should imagine,' replies Webb. ‘She is about to confess before all her friends and neighbours that she was caught wandering about the Gardens, unaccompanied, at midnight. I am sure some will consider that a greater scandal than anything Featherstone might have done. He was,' continues Webb in a sardonic tone, ‘a man of the cloth, after all.'

‘Why do you think he did it?' whispers Bartleby.