The Last Pleasure Garden (39 page)

‘Rat poison. We always keep some about the house. You need not mourn for her, Inspector, I promise you. She was a wretched creature.'

George Nelson looks in astonishment at the drink before him.

‘Nelson, get out,' says Webb. ‘Wait downstairs with the constable.'

Nelson begins to argue but Webb's expression convinces him it might be wiser to obey; reluctantly, looking back at Mrs. Perfitt, he quits the room.

‘Why, ma'am?' asks Webb. ‘All this just to hide some sordid affair?'

‘It was not even that, Inspector. It was one moment of weakness, that is all.'

‘With George Nelson?'

‘I met him at Cremorne, through Jane Budge; and one day, to my shame, I let him seduce me. It was only meant to be the once; that is what I told myself. A moment of madness. But Charles caught us. I was an utter fool. Thankfully, my husband forgave me; I love him for that.'

‘So why all this?'

‘I did it for my daughter, Inspector! So that she would have a decent start in life and not pay the penalty for my crime. The child, you see, made it so much worse. There was proof. Letters I had written. If Budge had spoken out, it would have been the end for Rose.'

Webb sighs. ‘Your daughter seems to have other ideas, in any case, ma'am. I am sorry to say she appears genuinely besotted with Mr. Nelson. And now she must lose her mother, too.'

Mrs. Perfitt pauses, and takes a deep breath.

‘Yes, I know,' she says at last. ‘I realise that, Inspector. I should, at least, very much like to spare her the trial.'

She glances down at the table. Webb's eyes seem to follow hers, though he remains standing by the door.

‘Thank you, Inspector,' she says, snatching up the glass before her and downing the brandy in one long gulp. Webb merely bows his head.

‘You didn't stop me?' she says, looking at him.

‘No, ma'am, I didn't.'

George Nelson looks on in disbelief as Decimus Webb descends the stairs into the public house entirely on his own.

‘Don't tell me you ain't putting her away,' exclaims Nelson.

‘Be quiet,' says Webb, turning to address the constable who stands by Nelson's side. ‘I am afraid Mrs. Perfitt is dead. Leave the room alone; no-one goes in until I come back. Understood?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And if you are incompetent enough to let anyone go in, on no account let them touch the brandy.'

‘Sir.'

‘As for you, Mr. Nelson, I suggest you come with me.'

George Nelson shrugs, but accompanies the policeman out into the street.

‘She's dead?' he says, a little perplexed.

‘In a few minutes, I expect she will be. I stayed with her as long as I could stomach it.'

‘She drank the brandy?'

‘Yes, Mr. Nelson, she drank the brandy that she had intended for you. Though why I saved your worthless neck remains a mystery to me. Now perhaps you will explain to me the one thing I do not understand in this almighty mess.'

‘What?'

‘Why you have gone to such lengths to humiliate the Perfitts. You do not love the girl, surely?'

‘She ain't bad.'

‘No, you have done it to punish them; that much
is clear. Is it merely because Perfitt gave evidence against you?'

‘You're not much of a detective, are you, Webb, eh?' says Nelson.

‘Then enlighten me,' says Webb.

‘I never laid a finger on Jane Budge,' says Nelson. ‘Leastways, not unless she wanted it. The whole thing was to put me away, pay me back for doing his wife. Perfitt arranged it all.'

‘You are certain? You did not touch her? I read a report of the trial – she was not unharmed.'

‘I touched her all right. She started to kick and scream like a banshee; I had to do something. I thought she was having a fit. Then Perfitt comes down the stairs, flattens me with a poker. Next thing I knew, I was in Pentonville.'

‘You said nothing of this in court,' says Webb.

‘And who would have believed me, eh? His word against mine. No, I knew I was beat. I bided my time.'

‘I see. And so you planned it out; you stole their daughter?'

‘She always had a soft spot for me. Used to come and play in the Gardens. That's how I met them. Besides, it ain't “stealing”. I know my ticket. I don't want to go back to gaol.'

‘What about Rose? Does she know all this? That you and her mother . . . and Jane Budge . . .'

‘I ain't told her. Believe it or not, I don't reckon they did either.'

Webb stops in his tracks. ‘It has all been for revenge, then?'

‘All legal and above board.'

Webb shakes his head. ‘Legal, perhaps. Tell me, Mr. Nelson, have you had your fill now?'

‘How do you mean?' asks Nelson.

‘What will become of Rose Perfitt? Her mother is dead; a murderess. In a few days she will be quite infamous for her crimes. Mr. Perfitt has lost his daughter, his wife . . .'

‘I don't give a damn about him. He deserves everything he gets.'

‘Very well. What about his daughter?'

‘She'll stick with me, I reckon.'

‘But she does not belong with you; you must know that. Do you have any love for her at all?'

Nelson says nothing.

‘Well, do you?' asks Webb.

C
harles Perfitt sits in his drawing-room, dressed in mourning. Decimus Webb sits opposite, observing Mr. Perfitt's expressionless face.

‘The inquest is done with, at least,' says Perfitt. ‘I am glad it is over.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I have found a plot for her. For Caroline.'

‘I am glad to hear it,' says Webb.

‘Unconsecrated ground, of course. They tell me it must only be the name on the headstone, nothing more.'

Webb says nothing.

‘I swear, I did not know about the child – that she thought it was still alive. They all told me it had died, you understand? I think that was the thing, that is what played upon her nerves.'

‘I expect so, sir.'

‘I forgave her, Inspector, I promise you. The night I found her with that man. It pained me to do it, but I forgave her.'

‘She told me as much, sir. She was grateful for that.'

‘Tell me, Webb, I never asked – did she suffer much, at the end?'

Webb shifts uncomfortably in his chair. ‘No, not much. It was a quick business.'

Neither man speaks for a moment.

‘I still cannot forgive him, mark you,' says Perfitt, reflectively, breaking the silence.

‘Nelson did not deserve five years in gaol,' says Webb, quietly, ‘however much you loved your wife.'

Mr. Perfitt shakes his head. ‘Look what he has done to Rose – degraded her, for sheer spite. You have seen the sort of man he is.'

‘I have,' replies Webb. ‘I hope you are still willing, though, sir? I can see no other way. Besides, the law is the law.'

‘Is that your motto, Webb?'

‘I find it suffices, in most cases.'

‘And our arrangement? Is that simply “the law”? Is that what you told Nelson when you cooked this up between you.'

‘Have a care, sir. I would have taken you in, regardless. This way, at least, Mr. Nelson thinks he is getting a bargain.'

Perfitt shakes his head. ‘It will be much easier for you if I plead guilty.'

‘Easier on Miss Perfitt, too.'

‘It will break her heart to find out what I did, Inspector. Although I am sure it is shattered already.'

‘If you leave her with Mr. Nelson, I'd hazard he'll break her heart again and crush her spirit for good measure.'

Mr. Perfitt falls silent for a moment.

‘Very well, you have me. Take me to the magistrate.'

‘I can't fathom it, sir,' says Bartleby, putting down his copy of
The Times.

‘What, Sergeant?'

‘Perfitt – why he's just come out and confessed to giving false witness at Nelson's trial. His wife had a child by some fellow; killed three poor souls to keep it quiet. You'd think he'd want to keep his head down.'

‘Perhaps he felt guilty.'

Bartleby shakes his head. ‘He's managed for five years; what changed his mind? He's looking at two years inside.'

‘Perhaps he felt he had nothing left to lose. Perhaps he wanted to atone for his sins. How on earth should I know?'

‘The daughter, too,' continues Bartleby, puzzled. ‘She goes to all that trouble to elope with George Nelson – finds her father put him away in the first place – then she's off to live with her sister in Edinburgh.'

‘Apparently Mr. Nelson simply grew tired of her.'

‘Did he though? I've been wondering, sir. It's almost like they did some sort of deal. He goes inside; the girl goes free.'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Sergeant. I swear, you are constantly at the mercy of your imagination.'

Bartleby gives up on his train of thought.

‘Are you going to answer that telegram from Mr. Boon, sir?'

‘I suppose we must allow the Gardens to re-open,' says Webb. ‘Tell him the day after tomorrow, depending on our review and the magistrate's decision.'

‘With respect, sir, that's what you said yesterday.'

Webb smiles. ‘Really, is that so? Poor Mr. Boon. My heart goes out to him.'

Sergeant Bartleby puts the telegram to one side.