The Last Pleasure Garden (25 page)

R
ose Perfitt stays in her room for the day whilst her mother and maid attempt to cater for her every need. Both the
Ladies' Domestic Journal
and the
Leisure Hour
are found for her amusement; meanwhile, a bottle of Pitkeathly Table Water is placed at her side, a tonic ‘guaranteed to work as remedial agent upon plethoric states of the system, and all chronic affections of the organs of circulation'. Beef broth is considered appropriate nourishment, and supplied in abundance; windows are thrown open for ventilation and there is even talk of finding a man to clean the chimney, lest its blockage be a contributory cause of Rose's distress. In short, no effort is spared by Mrs. Perfitt to hasten her daughter's recovery; for, if nothing else, she has in mind the fast approaching date of a certain invitation to the Prince's Ground, by a certain Viscount-in-waiting.

As for Rose herself, she sleeps in fits and starts and eats small mouthfuls of broth. But, even after she has rested, and can sleep no more, she seems peculiarly nervous. Indeed, when her mother is absent she walks fretfully about her room, occasionally sitting down at her writing desk, or at the window, only to get up again almost immediately. It is only by the late afternoon
that she finally summons enough vitality to dress and go downstairs. She finds her mother alone in the drawing-room, looking through her correspondence.

‘I am glad to see you up and about, my dear,' says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘The colour has returned to your cheeks, I think.'

‘I hope so, Mama. I am sorry.'

‘Don't be silly, my dear. Whatever for?'

Mrs. Perfitt and her daughter remain alone together in the drawing-room for a good hour. Mrs. Perfitt abandons her letters and allows her daughter the opportunity of playing the pianoforte
.
As she sits back and listens, Mrs. Perfitt cannot but think that Rose plays rather unevenly, without her usual deftness of touch. Her thoughts, however, are interrupted by the sound of the door-bell.

‘Now who might that be?' asks Mrs. Perfitt, as Rose comes to a stop.

The appearance of Richards with the visiting-card of Mrs. Bertha Featherstone quickly resolves the question.

‘Mrs. Featherstone?' says Caroline Perfitt, with something of a sigh. ‘Really. I sometimes think we may as well rent that woman a room and be done with it.'

‘Tell her we aren't at home, Mama,' says Rose, rather emphatically.

‘Rose! For one thing, she will have heard you playing. For another, I told her at the ball that she would be welcome today, if she cared to call. Richards – if you please.'

Rose waits until Richards departs, before turning
to her mother. ‘Mama, I do not feel quite so well again.'

‘Nonsense, my dear. You are much improved.'

Rose does not dare contradict her mother and waits patiently, until Mrs. Featherstone walks into the room. And yet, as the clergyman's wife greets her hostess and daughter, it seems that Rose cannot quite bring herself to meet her gaze.

‘Miss Perfitt,' asks Mrs. Featherstone, ‘are you well? Again, I feel you look a little pale.'

‘My daughter has been a little tired today,' interjects Caroline Perfitt.

‘Ma'am, you do not surprise me. I expect it is the ball. The Reverend and I never saw a young lady dance with such vigour.'

‘Our physician said much the same, ma'am,' replies Mrs. Perfitt.

‘The Reverend does not object to dancing, I trust,' says Rose, finally raising her eyes to meet those of Mrs. Featherstone.

‘Rose!' exclaims Mrs. Perfitt, rather shocked by her daughter's almost bellicose tone. Mrs. Featherstone, however, chooses not to take offence.

‘Not when it is done in an organised and respectable fashion, Miss Perfitt,' continues the clergyman's wife. ‘But there are certain places of evil resort – I need not name them – where dancing is of a most wanton kind, and best avoided. And one often finds that decent persons who visit such places – who should know better – do not know the difference and may need to be reminded, lest they lose their virtue and their good name.'

‘Quite,' remarks Mrs. Perfitt, although she appears a little perplexed by the homily, and altogether rather desirous of changing the subject. ‘And how is the Reverend?'

Mrs. Featherstone, her gaze decidedly fixed upon Rose, turns to face her hostess.

‘Thank you, ma'am, he is very well. He is publishing a collected edition of his most recent pamphlets. I wonder – might you care to have a copy, when it is ready?'

Mrs. Perfitt smiles through gritted teeth.

‘I am sure we will take two copies.'

‘Your generosity, ma'am . . .'

‘Please, I should be delighted,' replies Mrs. Perfitt.

‘Well, I see Miss Perfitt is still feeling tired. I won't trouble you any further.'

‘I am a little,' replies Rose, rather sullenly.

‘You must forgive my daughter, ma'am,' says Mrs. Perfitt, darting a glance at Rose. ‘Are you sure you will not have some tea?'

Mrs. Featherstone shakes her head. ‘No thank you, ma'am. I must be on my way. The Reverend is expecting me.'

It is about five o'clock when Mrs. Bertha Featherstone leaves Edith Grove. She makes her way back to St. Mark's College, where she oversees her husband's dinner. Her rather voluminous proportions fill up the small kitchen allotted to the needs of the teaching staff, and the college's cook is, in truth, a little annoyed at her close superintendence.

At seven, the Reverend Featherstone departs for a parish meeting. He warns his wife that it may run long into the night. She, in turn, tells him that he need not worry, and that she is quite all right upon her own; that the Lord shall keep and preserve her.

At nine, Mrs. Featherstone completes an hour of reading from her Bible, and makes several notes in
her commonplace book, as is her custom. The night is so mild that she almost has a mind to go for a walk in the grounds.

Then there is a knock at the door.

At a quarter past nine, Mrs. Bertha Featherstone lies dead upon the floor, her life blood pooled around her black bombazine gown, a sharp pair of scissors projecting from her neck.

A
single public morgue, with space for no more than a dozen bodies, serves the parish of Chelsea. The building itself is a practical, economical affair, situated in the shadow of the parish's workhouse infirmary, little bigger than a working man's cottage, and not dissimilar in appearance. It lacks, however, the minor comforts and consolations of such a residence. No fire burns at its heart; no rug conceals the paving of the cold stone floor. Its windows are both high and narrow and curtains kept drawn. Indeed, the Chelsea dead-house is kept cold and quiet as any tomb; such is the atmosphere best suited to the wants of its occasional tenants.

Decimus Webb cannot help but shiver in the chill air. If he appears a little awkward as he lifts the white cloth that has been respectfully draped across the corpse of Mrs. Bertha Featherstone, it is not from any morbid sensibility. He has seen a surfeit of such things in his time. Rather, he merely feels somewhat self-conscious, watched by his sergeant who stands near by, as though he is a cheap conjuror pulling back a curtain.

It is not a pleasant sight. Webb peers at the marks of violence upon Mrs. Featherstone's neck. The skin
is utterly white, drained of blood, but the rough wounds are clear enough. He directs his gaze to her face. The eyelids have already been closed by some kindly soul, but the mouth seems fixed open, in a permanent rictus of surprise.

‘Well, Sergeant?' says Webb, beckoning Bartleby to step forward and take a closer look.

‘At least three distinct wounds, sir,' replies the sergeant, obeying, albeit with a grimace. ‘I'd say one severed the jugular, another the throat.'

‘Good,' replies Webb, letting the cloth fall back over the body. ‘I have taught you something of practical value, at least. Where were you this morning, in any case?'

‘Robbery in Peckham, sir. I was on the duty roster. Inspector Pierce was short of men.'

‘Hmm. I am sorry to impinge upon your valuable time.'

‘No trouble, sir,' replies Bartleby, turning away from the corpse and taking a deep breath.

Webb shakes his head. ‘Come now, Sergeant. I thought we had overcome your squeamishness. I brought you here this afternoon for a purpose; I had hoped it might prove instructive. You've seen the body and know the circumstances. What about our murderer now? What does this tell us?'

‘About The Cutter?'

‘No, Sergeant, not about The Cutter,' replies Webb, his impatience audible in every syllable. ‘For pity's sake, man, forget this wretched phantom of yours, whoever he may be.'

‘But the scissors, sir?'

‘Damn the scissors,' says Webb. ‘Look at the women he chooses as victims. Every other female your blessed Cutter has attacked has been a pretty girl in the full
bloom of youth. In every case he has slashed at her hair or clothing. Then consider Jane Budge, burnt to death, and Mrs. Featherstone, with her throat cut. Both killed in the same location; both known to each other. Neither a young maiden, by any means. And you persist with the idea that they are all the work of the same man?'

Bartleby does not reply; he knows better.

‘As for the scissors,' continues Webb, ‘why should this fellow leave them behind? He has never done so before.'

‘Maybe they were lodged in the neck, sir? He's never actually done for one before, not like this.'

‘But that is precisely it, Sergeant – not like this. Besides, I removed the scissors with my own hands and they came out as easily as a knife from butter. If anything, I rather suspect they were placed there after the event, for dramatic effect.'

‘So we'd think it was The Cutter?'

‘Yes. A very deliberate attempt at misdirection. And so we must now simply ask ourselves who might want Jane Budge and her mistress dead. That is the long and short of it.'