The Last Pleasure Garden (18 page)

20
^th
May 1875

My Dearest Laetitia,

Forgive your foolish little sister – whom you must think an ungrateful, spiteful creature – for not replying sooner. I confess, Letty, the ball is never out of my thoughts – to think that there is only tomorrow! – and I have been awful slow with my letters.

The gown is now finished, you will be glad to hear; I have shown it to Bea and she is quite
green
and says she now think hers is frightful! Mama still frets about it! Papa, meanwhile, says nothing – he considers Mama and myself quite empty-headed.

Now, Letty – I must ask you something – as a dear sister who is in my confidence, as I hope I am in yours. A queer thing happened yesterday. Two strange men visited us twice and Mama positively would not tell me who they were. This morning – at breakfast – Mama and Papa
both
seemed so very quiet and low in spirits, I almost thought they were ill. It is as if they know some awful secret, which they will not tell – please,
Letty, I hope that neither you nor the boys are in a bad way?
Please
, you would not keep such a thing from your own Rose? I am quite grown up enough to know the worst.

Please answer and put my heart at ease.

Your loving sister,
Rose

Charles Perfitt picks his silk hat from its stand, and opens his front door. He looks outside with the wary glance of a seasoned commuter, and finds that the sky has darkened since he enjoyed his breakfast, and that specks of rain have begun to fall. He steps back, therefore, to grab the elegant ivory-handled umbrella that is always left by the door. His wife appears upon the stairs.

‘Charles?' she says, hurrying down to the hall. ‘You did not say you were going?'

‘Did I not, my dear? I am sorry. You know I always leave at this hour.'

‘Mind you do not get soaked through.'

‘No, my dear, that is not my intention,' he replies with a rather forced smile, brandishing the umbrella in his hand.

‘Charles?'

‘Really, Caroline, what is it? I will be late.'

‘Have you thought about what we discussed last night? You were so quiet at breakfast, and I did not want to mention it in Rose's presence.'

Charles Perfitt nods. ‘I have.'

‘Well?'

‘I think you are right. We should stand our ground; a coward would run away, and I am not a coward.'

‘I never said you were, Charles. But you mean it – we may go to the ball? You realise it is tomorrow night?'

‘The ball! As if I could forget,' says Charles Perfitt. ‘Yes, why let that wretched man ruin everything? Now, I shall see you tonight.'

‘Tonight,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, smiling with relief, closing the door as her husband departs.

Mr. Perfitt walks swiftly out onto the road, raising his umbrella. His wife does not observe his progress down Edith Grove, which is perhaps fortunate. For at the Grove's junction with the King's Road, facing Cremorne Gardens, he turns left instead of right, walking away from Chelsea Station, in the direction of the World's End public house.

Mr. Perfitt's journey is a brief one, no more than ten minutes' walk, if that. He finds the World's End itself to be shut at such an early hour, as he expected, and therefore makes several inquiries of passing strangers – inquiries as to the availability of cheap lodgings in the vicinity. Dressed in his fine black City suit, with rain spattering off his umbrella, he elicits more than a few puzzled looks from the maid-servants and delivery boys whom he importunes. Nonetheless, he eventually finds himself in a narrow side street behind the public house called Albion Terrace, where several of its old tenements are let by the room. And, by persevering further, it is not long before he is welcomed into a particular establishment. The landlord of the place is quite happy to present Mr. Perfitt's compliments to one George Nelson and returns to announce that Mr. Perfitt is cordially invited to ‘go up'.

The staircase in question turns out to be a rather
ancient assemblage of bare boards, with its banisters preferring to arrange themselves in twos and threes at odd intervals, suggestive of comrades long since lost – perhaps to the unchecked descent of a heavy piano, or substantial chest of drawers. Nelson's attic room is upon the third floor, the door slightly ajar. With no word from inside, Mr. Perfitt knocks and walks in.

He finds George Nelson standing bare-foot in front of him, tucking his shirt into his trousers.

‘Ah, now then, look who's come to see me,' says Nelson, ‘so early in the morning.'

‘I did not intend to wake you,' says Mr. Perfitt, warily, his voice sounding far from confident.

‘I ain't too particular. It's just a fellow likes his sleep, after he's been in the jug,' says Nelson, picking up a grubby-looking mirror from the nearby dressing table and straightening his hair with his fingers. ‘Even this here object,' continues Nelson, returning the mirror to its place, and nodding at his rather Spartan bed, ‘feels like you're on the softest feathers there ever was.'

‘I expect you would care to know why I have come here,' says Mr. Perfitt in his best business-like fashion.

‘I can guess.'

‘I will be blunt, Mr. Nelson. I will pay you money. Good money. One hundred pounds to leave us alone; to quit Chelsea.'

George Nelson smiles. ‘Mr. Nelson is it? Now why would a fellow do something so contrary to his wants and inclinations?'

‘Two hundred then.'

Nelson positively grins. ‘Is that what I'm worth? I remember it were only fifty last time, weren't it?'

‘Two hundred and fifty. My final offer,' says Mr. Perfitt.

‘Not three?' says Nelson, cheerfully. ‘And here's me reckoning my stock was up.'

‘Three then, damn you, but not a penny more,' exclaims Mr. Perfitt.

George Nelson shakes his head, a mocking smile upon his lips. Then, without any warning, he lunges towards Charles Perfitt, pushing him backwards against the half-open door, so that it slams shut with the full weight of his body falling against it. With one hand, Nelson presses hard against Perfitt's chest; with the other he grabs him violently by the throat, his rough fingers crushing his victim's starched collar. Mr. Perfitt in turn, can do little but struggle in vain, barely able to breathe.

‘Damn me, would you? Damn me? If I'm going to hell, I reckon I'll be seeing you on the way down, eh? I bet you bloody laughed, didn't you – you and that bitch of yours – when they sent me down. I bet you split your bloody sides?'

Mr. Perfitt tries to speak, his words coming out in a whisper. ‘One word from me—'

‘And what? It'll look pretty queer the likes of you sniffing round here, I reckon.'

Mr. Perfitt can barely utter a reply. Looking at Perfitt's flushed features, Nelson leaves the question hanging in the air, stepping back and releasing his grip.

‘No-one will take the word of a convict,' splutters Mr. Perfitt, recovering his equilibrium.

Nelson shakes his head and picks up the razor that lies besides his mirror, moving with slow deliberation. ‘I tell you straight, you bastard, if you try that game again, I can bide my time. And when I come out, I'll do for you, and that wife of yours. And I'll take my bloody time about it.'

‘Then just tell me what you want,' exclaims Mr. Perfitt, frustration in his voice.

‘I don't want nothing,' replies Nelson. ‘Well, excepting the love of a good woman. Now, you know what that's like, don't you?'

‘Listen to me – I swear, if you so much as come near my wife or daughter—'

Nelson laughs in derision. ‘I wouldn't so much as piss on your Missus if she was on fire.'

Mr. Perfitt blanches a little, but ignores the taunt. ‘And Rose – give me your word that will not come near her. Give me your word and I will say nothing of this encounter. We may call our account settled.'

Nelson pauses for a moment, as if in thought. ‘If you like.'

‘I have your word?'

Nelson nods.

‘Very well,' says Mr. Perfitt. ‘That is settled.'

Nelson says nothing. His guest, therefore, opens the door and quits the room, descending the stairs in a hurry. It is only his pride that prevents him from running; and it is only when he is sure that he is out of Nelson's sight that he wipes the sweat from his brow.

George Nelson sits on his bed, a smile of evident satisfaction in his face. He reaches into the pocket of his coat, laid by his side, and pulls out an envelope. Reaching over to his dresser, he roots inside one particular drawer with his hand. At length, he retrieves a handful of dried red petals, which he slides carefully into the open envelope.

‘I don't need to go near her, old man,' he mutters to himself. ‘She'll come to me, will your little Rosie. She always had a fancy for me. And then we'll see who's laughing.'

T
he police station of T Division at Chelsea, which sits upon the King's Road, is located not half a mile east of Cremorne Gardens, a little past the World's End public house. It is not so large or bustling as many of its contemporaries in the great metropolis, a plain brick building, distinguished only by the customary blue lamp above its front door. Indeed, were it not for that distinctive light it might be easy for a stranger to pass it by, quite unaware of its function.

Inside, however, there are clues for the discerning eye: walls are plastered with police notices, half a dozen bearing photographic likenesses of certain ‘wanted' gentlemen; there is a wooden dock, with a regulation height-gauge beside it, to measure the precise dimensions of those brought up on a charge; and in the small offices that lead off the hall, one or two of the desks boast not only pen, paper and ink, but a pair of handcuffs or a wooden truncheon laid carefully to one side.

It is in one such office – an hour or so after the Coroner's jury has returned a verdict of ‘wilful murder' upon Jane Budge – that Decimus Webb sits, his forehead creased in concentration, with a small black notebook in front of him.

‘Any luck, sir?' asks Bartleby, appearing at the door. ‘How are you getting on?'

‘Inspector Cheadle – the fellow in charge here – was at Nelson's trial. He has kindly provided me with his notes – but his handwriting is almost as bad as yours.'

‘I am sure it can't be that bad, sir.'

‘Hmm. It seems Nelson pleaded innocent, said the girl consented.'

‘They always say that, don't they?' replies the sergeant.

‘In this case, however, the testimony of Mr. Perfitt said otherwise. Miss Budge was quite fortunate in that respect, at least.'

‘Sir?'

‘It appears she let Nelson into the Perfitts' kitchen voluntarily; they were also seen keeping company on several occasions. Now, in such circumstances, how would you rate her chances of seeing Mr. Nelson convicted, without a witness?'