The Last Pleasure Garden (23 page)

Webb scowls. ‘Well, I intend to catch him, sir, don't you worry.'

It is gone eight o'clock at night before Webb and Bartleby meet at Scotland Yard. The latter presents several folded sheets of paper, upon which a series of names and addresses is written out, together with a cash sum against each one.

‘The Mendicity people gave me a copy of their subscription list for the ball, sir. Nearest thing we've got, when it comes to knowing who was there. Together with the ones we spoke to on the night, we're well on our way to seeing most of them. I've got three men working on it. Nothing to report as yet.'

Webb nods and scans the list. ‘Quite an occasion. The Perfitts, I see.'

‘Yes, sir. Guests of a Mrs. Watson, apparently. I've spoken to her. Friend of Mrs. Perfitt's.'

‘And Reverend and Mrs. Featherstone. I would not have thought it their idea of an evening's entertainment.'

‘I've not seen them yet, sir. Apparently he's a governor of the Society.'

Webb falls silent for a moment.

‘Any luck with the doctor, sir?' asks Bartleby.

‘No. But he got rather full of himself when I asked
him about Mrs. Perfitt's illness. More so than absolutely necessary, I should say. In fact, I have a task for you.'

‘Sir?'

‘Find out who goes to this spa of Dr. Malcolm's; see if you can get anything from the local constabulary. I should like to know a little more about it.'

‘You think there was something queer going on there, sir?'

‘Never mind what I think, Sergeant. Just send a telegram tonight. And be discreet.'

Bartleby nods. As he quits Webb's office, he stops on the threshold.

‘How did it go with the Assistant Commissioner, sir?'

Webb looks up from his desk. ‘He was quite satisfied, once I explained the principal obstruction to my inquiries.'

‘Sir?'

‘A particular sergeant who insists on asking idiot questions.'

Bartleby smiles rather nervously, not entirely sure whether his superior is joking.

22
^nd
May 1875

My Dearest Laetitia,

Letty! I am so glad to hear there is nothing the matter with you or your darling little ones. Mama and Papa seem in much better spirits, so you most forgive your little sister's foolish imaginings.

What news? Of course, the ball! Letty, dear, I should like to tell you everything but I do not care to boast – suffice to say that I was quite in demand amongst the most handsome young gentlemen and that we danced until the very last. It might have been the perfect evening – but for the actions of some unmanly brute.

Have you heard of this monster, Letty? He is mentioned in today's
Times
– Papa was reading it – they are calling him ‘The Cutter' and he perpetrates horrible attacks on young women, stabbing at their clothes. I cannot imagine what sort of creature he is – but he attacked a girl at the Prince's Ground, just as Papa had gone to find our carriage – Mama and myself were quite defenceless! Bea said she thought it terribly
exciting – she can be a silly goose – but the police did not catch him. It made me think of Spring-Heeled Jack – do you remember how you used to tell me those awful stories? How you used to scare me!

Letty, dear, I am writing such nonsense, as I always do. But I have kept the good news until last – a certain Mr. Sedgecombe left us his card today – he is an acquaintance of Mrs. Watson – we danced a waltz – and he begs us to accompany him to the Prince's next week. There is to be a bicycle race between two members of the club and he requests the pleasure of our company as his guests. Mama is thrilled – he is the son of a Viscount!

Is he handsome, you ask? A little.

But then I do not think a girl should have two loves; you know my heart was stolen long ago. I used to think I was foolish to treasure such a notion; but no more. Now, can you keep that a secret, Letty? I will see
him
tonight.

Do not say a word to Mama and I will tell you everything in good time.

Your loving sister,
Rose

PS Do you recall Budge, who was our maid? Bea tells me she has been killed, poor thing, in a fire! Apparently it is common knowledge and the police suspect a murder! Some are saying it is this ‘Cutter'. And Mama and Papa have not said a word! I wonder if this is what upset them. I wish they would not keep such things from me – I do not care to be wrapped up in clover and cotton wool.

Letty – write soon!

Rose Perfitt finishes writing to her sister at eleven o'clock, her room dimly lit by a single lamp. As she seals the letter in its envelope, she hears a muffled knock at her bedroom door. She walks swiftly over to open it and ushers in the maid, who carries a bundle of clothes under her arm.

‘Is that everything?' asks Rose.

‘Yes, Miss. Are you sure you want these, Miss? I don't want to lose my place.'

‘I will not say a word, I swear. Now,' continues Rose, taking off a small silver ring from her finger, and holding it out, ‘there – just as I promised.'

The girl looks uncertain.

‘Go on,' urges Rose Perfitt. ‘Remember – it will be our secret. Make sure Mama does not see it, mind.'

The maid stands still for a moment, then takes the ring and places the bundle upon the bed.

Rose swiftly ushers her from the room and then, bolting her door, begins to undress.

Rose Perfitt leaves Edith Grove, by means of the kitchen door, at half-past eleven. She has watched the policeman who makes a regular patrol along the street, and knows that she has a good ten minutes before he reappears. Even so, she creeps up the area steps with a cautious, hesitant tread. She wears a rather commonplace dress of brown serge, and a dull red shawl, wrapped about her shoulders and head. Both are borrowed from her maid.

She walks down to the King's Road and crosses it. At the entrance to Cremorne, there is a small queue, illuminated by the great octahedral gas-light that hangs suspended from the gates. Rose patiently waits her turn, trying not to heed the curious glances of several
young gentlemen. She belatedly realises that her plain dress looks out of place, in the hour when pretty
demi-mondaines
in silk and satin take cabs down to Chelsea from the West End. The sight of a modest servant amongst the nocturnal denizens of the Gardens is itself a slight oddity. But it is too late to change and she has no wish to be recognised, so she pays her shilling and walks inside.

At first, she lingers by the gate, watching as young men in evening dress and young women in gaily-coloured costumes walk along the gas-lit gravel path, down the central tree-lined avenue that runs almost the length of the grounds. For the men, she notices, the fashion is light lavender gloves and patent leather boots. For the women it is an excess of Brussels lace around the neck. In both cases, she decides the gas imparts a glow of enchantment to their faces. And if a few of them stumble, hinting at intoxication, and a few more shout and call damnation upon this or that, it still seems to Rose Perfitt that it is a strangely magical scene.

Summoning her courage, Rose walks briskly down the avenue herself, taking care not to come too close to the more raucous pleasure-seekers. It is almost midnight, but she still passes several sandwich-board men, sullenly trudging along the path, who silently proclaim the merits of Senor Rosci's Astounding Dogs and Educated Monkeys, whilst another employee of the Gardens, dressed in a startling suit of red, white and blue, politely interrupts passers-by with vociferous directions to the American Bowling Saloon, and the mysterious promise of a gratuitous mint julep. Rose's poor dress, however, is ample protection against such importuning. In consequence, she proceeds quite unmolested to a certain quiet glade, where a glass fountain sparkles in the nocturnal lights, water
cascading from the jug of a bronze cherubic youth perched upon its summit.

Rose pulls back the shawl from her face. There are two couples seated upon the benches that face the fountain, engrossed in their own company. Upon the other side of the clearing, a steady progression of men and women walk past, hastening in the direction of the Crystal Platform, intent on enjoying the last dance of the night. As Rose looks round, a pair of young men pause en route, and glance in her direction; a few words pass between them.

Rose turns away, but, as she does so, bumps into someone directly behind her. Before she can turn round, a man's hand suddenly comes up and covers her eyes; she gasps in surprise.

‘Guess who it is, my little Rose.'

Rose Perfitt pulls away from the man's arm, spinning around. But there is no fear in her face as she confronts him, even though her eyes are suddenly moist with tears.

‘George!' she exclaims. ‘It is you!'

George Nelson smiles, reaching out to dab her cheek.

‘You remember me then, Rose?'

‘Oh! Don't say that!' she replies, looking him in the eyes, taking his hand and clasping it between her own. ‘I knew you'd come back one day.'

‘Did you?'

‘I just knew,' she says fervently.

‘Still, I don't expect they told you where I was, eh? Or what happened?'

‘Jane just told me Papa had sent you away. She wouldn't say any more.'

Nelson allows himself a hollow laugh. ‘Aye, he did that. But that's all done with now. I'm here now, working at the Gardens again; and I won't be going
anywhere, not if I can help it. And I wanted to see you, Rose.'

Rose smiles a radiant smile. Before she can reply, however, there is a shout of ‘Nelson!' from beyond the trees.

‘Blast it!' exclaims Nelson. ‘That's my lord and master; I'm not done for the night. Here, come on.'

Rose does not demur. Thus, she is pulled into the trees that surround the fountain glade, until the two of them are almost entirely concealed from passers-by. In Rose Perfitt's mind, the Gardens, the bushes and trees seem to disappear, so that the two of them are quite alone.