The Last Pleasure Garden (6 page)

‘You would not believe what goes on behind those gates, Sergeant,' says the clergyman's wife. ‘And we call ourselves a Christian country.'

‘Yes, well. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you very much. But you think there is nothing in this letter, sir?' says Bartleby, turning back to address the Reverend. ‘You think it is all bluster?'

‘It is the work of some crank. Utter nonsense – the
“United Brotherhood of Chelsea” indeed!' Reverend Featherstone pauses for thought. ‘Unless, of course, he is trying to intimidate me. But I doubt that even he would stoop so low.'

‘Who?' asks Bartleby.

‘Boon, Sergeant! Who else? I have the measure of that man, I can tell you.'

‘Forgive me, if those are your feelings on the matter, why did you ask Scotland Yard to get involved, sir?' asks Bartleby.

‘To be frank, Sergeant, my dear wife—'

‘Augustus!' exclaims Mrs. Featherstone. ‘Really, it quite terrified me.'

Bartleby looks hard at Mrs. Featherstone. There is something about her imposing manner that suggests it would be very difficult indeed to do such a thing; nonetheless, he does not contradict her display of womanly feeling.

‘Well, we shall look into it, ma'am, I promise you.'

‘And what should we do, Sergeant?' asks Mrs. Featherstone.

‘Ah,' replies Bartleby, considering the question. ‘I should lock all your doors of a night, ma'am. Just in case.'

Mrs. Featherstone looks back at the sergeant, not at all satisfied with this response. It is a look that leaves him quite certain she would have definitely preferred an inspector, without any shadow of a doubt.

Sergeant Bartleby quits the Featherstones' room at a little past ten o'clock and retraces his steps through the college's corridors, into the central cloister. He walks briskly, the letter safe in his jacket pocket, his mind turning over how to report the matter to Decimus
Webb. He is sufficiently distracted that, as he turns a corner into the quadrangle, facing the main entrance, his feet slip on the polished stone, just as a maidservant comes walking briskly in the opposite direction. He narrowly avoids falling into her, bracing himself awkwardly against the wall.

‘Beg your pardon,' says Bartleby.

‘No harm done,' replies the young woman, brusquely.

‘No, but all the same,' replies the sergeant.

The maid is a ruddy-faced, muscular-looking woman, clad in a white pinafore, about twenty-five years of age. She stares at Bartleby with a certain degree of disdain, saying nothing. Bartleby is about to walk on, when he stops and turns back.

‘Here, what's your name?'

‘Jane Budge,' she replies, a little wary.

‘Have you worked here a long time?' asks the sergeant.

‘Five year. What's that to you?'

‘Do you know Reverend Featherstone?'

‘Course I do.'

‘And do you know of any party that might bear some grudge against him?'

‘You a peeler or something? I ain't done nothing.'

‘I never said that you had. Do you though – know of anyone?'

‘Shouldn't be surprised if there was. His Missus told us I was going to bleeding burn in hell-fire today, just 'cos I ain't dusted her precious shelves.'

Bartleby cannot help but smile. With a nod and brief thanks, he bids the maid good night.

It is too dark for him to notice the nervous expression that passes over Jane Budge's face as he departs; nor the peculiar haste with which, once he has gone, she walks in the opposite direction.

I
n Edith Grove, Charles Perfitt stands up and lights the fish-tail burners above his drawing-room mantelpiece. The gas splutters to life, as the flames flicker on either side of the tall gilt mirror above the hearth, their light reflected in the glass.

‘Shall I do the lamp?'

Mr. Perfitt nods towards the gasolier that hangs from the ceiling but his wife, seated at the small writing desk against the wall, does not turn her head.

‘Or shall I just throw myself on the fire?'

Mrs. Perfitt looks up. ‘I'm sorry, dear, what did you say?'

‘Shall I light the lamp?'

‘Yes, dear, you may as well.'

Mr. Perfitt strikes a match and turns on the gas-tap.

‘Is your correspondence particularly enthralling?' he asks.

‘Alice has sent a note. Beatrice is to wear that green surah she wore at Easter, so, thankfully, everything is all right.'

‘Is it?' replies her husband.

‘Charles, you don't see at all. It means Rose can
wear the
poult de soie
that Madame Lannier showed me last week; I knew I was wise to have her put it aside. I am so pleased.'

‘Is that so? I swear, I should have never agreed to you attending this wretched ball in the first place. Rose is quite beside herself already. And you are little better.'

‘Charles! It is the perfect occasion. Rose may be introduced to – well, Lord knows who!'

‘That is precisely my concern,' says Mr. Perfitt, his expression suddenly more serious.

Mrs. Perfitt gets up and puts a gentle hand on her husband's arm. ‘You must let her go into society, Charles. She is eighteen. It is expected. She will have no better chance. Besides, what would you do? Lock her in her room until she is an old maid?'

Mr. Perfitt shakes his head. ‘I only want her happiness. It is just that I am not sure she is quite level-headed enough to cope with such excitement. I should not like her to fall in with the wrong sort.'

Mrs. Perfitt removes her hand.

‘How could that happen at the Prince's Ground, of all places? Charles, please. She will never improve if we keep her cooped up like some caged bird.'

Mr. Perfitt smiles faintly. ‘You may be right.'

‘Of course, I am. Now, don't take on so, please. I must write back to Alice.'

Mr. Perfitt nods, and returns to his arm-chair, picking up the newspaper he put down earlier. He reads for a minute or two, then looks up at his wife.

‘Where is Rose?'

‘In her room. I think she was a little tired. We spent such a long time talking about her dress; and she will argue so. I expect she is asleep.'

Mr. Perfitt looks at his wife, already absorbed again in her correspondence, and shakes his head.

Rose Perfitt does not sleep. Rather, though the bedroom curtains are all drawn, she is seated at her desk, with all the accoutrements of letter-writing laid out in front of her, and an old brass Argand lamp to provide illumination. She takes up her pen, dipping the metal nib into the inkwell, and puts it to paper, writing in a neat hand:

My Dear Love,

Another month has gone by and you have not come. I have waited and waited but you never came. Please come, beloved, and clasp me to your heart. I know you will be true. I have not forgotten you, but I know you shall come.

A kiss, fond love, a kiss.
Your own ever dear

R.

Rose looks down at the paper, carefully dabs it with a sheet of blotting paper, then folds it and presses it to her lips. She holds it there for a good while, her eyes closed, as if repeating some silent ritual. Then, at last, she returns it to the desk, and slides it into an envelope. She does not, however, pen any address, but merely closes the flap of the envelope and opens a concealed drawer, adding it to a large bundle already there.

There is a knock at the door. She hastily closes the desk.

‘Come in?'

The Perfitts' maid-servant enters.

‘Would you like any supper, Miss?'

‘No, Richards, thank you,' replies Rose.

‘It's just the Missus said you didn't eat much at dinner, Miss. I thought I'd ask.'

‘Even so.'

‘Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.'

The girl leaves, closing the bedroom door behind her. Rose Perfitt tidies away her stationery, running her hands over the wood of the desk.

On a whim, she leans over the surface, laying her head upon her hands, and closes her eyes.

She is a little girl lost in the maze at Cremorne; the endless green hedges that seem to turn and twist in an infinite puzzle. She is there as it grows dark, the heavens seemingly descending lower and lower, extinguishing the sun.

She grows tired; she sits upon the path until a boy comes along. He teases her; chaffs her about her frock. She does not like him and runs.

There, that is when it happens. It is inevitable. The sound of footfalls on the grass, catching up to her.

That is what makes her heart race.

Then her mother calls out to her.

Rose Perfitt wakes up. The lamp still burns beside her, but not as brightly. Her hair has come loose, and her neck is stiff. For a moment, she recalls her dream.

But only for a moment.