The Last Pleasure Garden (4 page)

Webb and Bartleby follow the man's directions. The walk through Cremorne in daylight is not an unpleasant one. For, despite its man-made vistas, it possesses a certain rustic charm in the large oaks and elms that dominate the landscaped paths. But there is also something of going behind-the-scenes: the fountains have been turned off; the marble limbs of the Greek gods that adorn the park's arbours seem pale and wan in the daytime; it is, all in all, a little lifeless.

At length, the two policemen reach the Circus, though the area is obscured in part by the primeval foliage of the Fernery. The Circus itself is a large circular amphitheatre of wooden construction, surrounded on all sides by raised benches, gaily decorated with flags and streamers, with a canvas tent for a roof, rising to some forty or fifty feet above the ground. In the dirt-covered ring at its centre a dozen horses prance in circles, forming complex patterns around a moustachioed gentleman in riding costume, who directs them with the occasional flick of a long whip. There is no audience but for a solitary, rather portly middle-aged man in a fashionable silk suit, watching from the side. He gets up when he sees the two policemen.

‘What do you make of that?' says the man, enthusiastically, before either Webb or Bartleby can introduce themselves. ‘Twelve horses. Fine specimens, thoroughbreds, but is it a decent draw? Now, I've told him, put a posture-master on each one, have them juggle, and we're in business, eh? Now, am I right? I believe I am; one must always think of the public, eh? Always!'

‘Yes, I suppose so, sir,' replies Webb.

‘So, enough of that, what do you do, eh?'

‘Mr. Boon?' says Webb.

‘Of course, sir!'

‘My name is Inspector Webb. This is my sergeant, Bartleby.'

‘Ah,' replies Mr. Boon. His enthusiasm instantly ebbs. ‘I see. You must excuse me. We have been holding auditions and . . . well, an honest mistake. Please, take a seat.'

‘Then I can assume you know why we are here?' says Webb.

‘I regret I do. That business last night. First, how is this unfortunate girl?'

‘The surgeon says it was a lucky escape; a flesh wound,' says Bartleby.

‘Well, that is something,' remarks Boon. ‘I suppose it is the same man that attacked her – the same as the others?'

‘More than likely,' replies Webb. ‘But, I would like to be quite clear, he has never stabbed someone before?'

‘I hope the police have all the facts, Inspector. There have been three incidents to my knowledge. In each case he only cut away some of the girl's hair. I must confess, when I first asked for help from Scotland Yard, I did not expect it to come to this. I thought the fellow was merely a nuisance.'

‘I hardly think you can consider us responsible, sir,' says Bartleby.

‘No, I did not mean that. But if the fellow . . . well, what if he does it again? Does this wretch have a thirst for blood?'

‘Please, sir,' says Webb, ‘if you'll forgive me, there is no need to be quite so dramatic. We've drafted in ten more men from Westminster. If he tries it again, we will catch him.'

‘I see. You have no clue as to his identity?'

‘I've spoken to all the women personally, sir,'
interjects Bartleby. ‘Not one recalls anything of value. One thought he was a tall fellow; one thought he was short. I don't believe any of them even saw him, not to speak of. He picks his moment.'

Boon sighs, rather theatrically. ‘You must realise, if this continues, I will be ruined. This could be the final straw for Cremorne.'

‘Sir?' says Webb.

‘You need not be coy, Inspector. You must have read a certain letter that appeared in
The Times
last month?'

Webb nods. ‘I seem to recall something rather uncomplimentary.'

‘Uncomplimentary! To say the least! I have suffered the grossest imputations upon my character that one can imagine – you might think I keep the Gardens open specifically for the ruin of young women. And now this!'

Webb says nothing.

Mr. Boon frowns. ‘We do our utmost to maintain propriety – you may ask anyone.'

‘I am sure we spied a few females of the unfortunate variety on Saturday night, sir,' suggests Bartleby.

‘As with any public place of recreation. What theatre or concert-room would be any different? Come, you know how it is. We do not encourage any species of immorality. Quite the reverse.'

‘That is not the Gardens' reputation, though, is it, sir?' suggests Bartleby.

‘The result, Sergeant,' replies Boon, a note of anger in his voice, ‘of the braying of half a dozen narrow-minded puritans, who have hounded me in the press. I've half a mind to sue, you know.'

‘I am sure,' replies Webb with a rather disinterested tone to his voice. ‘Tell me, are you the owner of the grounds, sir?'

‘The lessee, Inspector. I hardly see what difference that makes.'

‘No, quite. And we can assume you have no idea yourself as to the identity of the attacker?'

Boon shakes his head despairingly. ‘You may as well call him “The Cutter”, Inspector. Everyone else is.'

‘I am not of a melodramatic disposition, Mr. Boon,' replies Webb. ‘And I do not much believe in monsters or phantoms, not of any variety.'

The two policemen return to the King's Road, but the wait for a cab is a considerable one, and Webb begins to regret his decision to dismiss the driver that brought them to Chelsea.

‘What do you make of it, sir?' says the sergeant.

‘There is no connection between the women that this “Cutter” attacks, Sergeant. I am sure of that much – except that they are in the first bloom of youth. He seems quite particular about that. They have all been from completely different corners of the metropolis, for a start. Ah, which reminds me, did you talk to the “hermit”?'

‘Why, do you think he
knows
who it was, sir?' says Bartleby with a grin.

‘Sergeant,' says Webb in gruff admonition.

‘Sorry, sir. I did. No joy there. He's an old fellow, theatrical sort, made a point of telling me how he knew Macready. Was in his “cave” the whole time. The thing is, he wears spectacles when he's not on duty. He might have second sight but I wouldn't say his regular eyes are up to much.'

‘Hmm,' replies Webb.

‘Maybe it wasn't the same man that stabbed Miss Hockley as attacked the others,' continues Bartleby. ‘Maybe it was more personal-like?'

‘Yes, well, you should look into the girl's circumstances,' replies Webb. ‘That would be wise. At least you are thinking it through. But did you see her dress?'

‘Her dress, sir?'

‘I meant to point it out when we saw her at the infirmary. It looked to me like the cut of a pair of scissors – not a puncture or a gash like a knife might make, but a series of three or four sharp lacerations along a line, then the tear. No, I rather feel it is the same man. You know, I am not even sure if he meant to stab her.'

Webb pauses and frowns. ‘Telegraph the mad-houses in London and the counties. A madman seems the most likely explanation. If it is some escaped lunatic, I don't want anything missed.'

‘Yes, sir.'

John Boon opens his afternoon's post. The first item is, however, not at all to his liking: it is a pamphlet of a biblical nature, containing several odious comparisons between the entertainments on offer at Cremorne Gardens, the ‘New Sodom upon the Thames', and the Canaanites' worship of idols.

Boon rips the paper to shreds.

‘R
ose! Must you constantly watch the street? I have told you before.'

‘Sorry, Mama. I was just looking out for Father.'

Mrs. Perfitt looks indulgently at her daughter.

‘Rose, I will speak to him as soon as he comes home. I am sure he will say yes.'

Charles Perfitt is a tall, well-proportioned man, forty-five years of age, with smartly trimmed whiskers of the mutton-chop variety. Like most of the gentlemen arriving at Chelsea Station of an evening, he wears an immaculate business suit and hurries off the train as quickly as possible, walking briskly down the platform to the exit. He makes a point, however, of nodding to the booking-clerk as he passes the ticket office. It is his custom, upon his return from the City, to pay this small homage to the old party in question. For the clerk has taken the receipts of the London Western Extension Railway at Chelsea for as many years as Mr. Perfitt can recall. The old man, of course, nods back. Mr. Perfitt, as satisfied with this transaction as with any of his cleverly calculated dealings with jobbers upon the Stock Exchange, then turns his steps towards the King's Road.

Mr. Perfitt's journey is an agreeable walk by any standard. The route passes the Italianate towers of St. Mark's Training College – which look rather pleasing in the evening light, hinting at some forgotten corner of Tuscany – and, upon the opposing side of the King's Road, lie the famous nurseries of Messrs. Veitch, whose rose gardens and treasured exotic blooms, concealed by a high wall, lend a sweet fragrance to the surrounding suburban streets. But Mr. Perfitt does not linger, even as he passes the gates to Cremorne Gardens. In fact, it is only a matter of five minutes or so before he arrives at his front door. Once inside, he makes his way to the first-floor drawing-room, as is his custom. He finds his wife pacing rather nervously around the hearth-rug.

‘Charles! You are back at last!' she exclaims.

‘I find it's rather expected of me, this time of day, Caroline.'

‘I thought you might have gone to your club.'

Mr. Perfitt sits down in the nearest armchair. ‘Now why should I do that?'

‘Oh, I don't know!' replies Mrs. Perfitt, a little annoyed at his calm response. ‘I have such news – you will never guess!'

‘Tobacco running high? I know already. They say it's the scarcity of western leaf. I should have bought last month. Would have made quite a tidy sum.'

‘Charles, for pity's sake, don't tease. Alice Watson called this afternoon . . .'