The Last Pleasure Garden (24 page)

‘Do you still love me, then?' says Nelson, reaching up and stroking her hair. ‘That's what you told me, when I last saw you.'

‘Of course,' says Rose, blushing as he touches her.

‘Would you do anything for me, Rosie?'

‘I might,' says Rose, adopting a mock conspiratorial tone. ‘What should I do then?'

I'll show you,' says Nelson.

And then they kiss.

Rose Perfitt leaves Cremorne Gardens at half-past midnight. She walks hurriedly through the gates, her shawl once more artfully wrapped about her to conceal her face. She keeps her head down, avoiding the salutations of the gate-keeper, and the prying eyes of the departing votaries of the pleasure gardens. Consequently, she does not notice, at first, the presence of a certain clergyman and his wife, who mix with the crowd, accosting them with printed handbills.

But as Mrs. Bertha Featherstone thrusts a sheet of paper towards her, she cannot help but exchange a
brief glance with the woman who virtually blocks her way.

Not a word is spoken. If she is recognised, then there is no denunciation, no cry of shame. Mrs. Featherstone, in turn, is distracted by another abandoned soul, in need of guidance, walking between them.

Rose Perfitt's heart races as she hurries home.

‘S
ir?'

Decimus Webb looks up from his desk, as Sergeant Bartleby appears at the door.

‘There's a fellow from the
Illustrated Metropolitan News
outside in the yard,' continues Bartleby. ‘He says he's been waiting since half eight.'

‘Well, I told him I did not wish to comment at half-past eight, Sergeant. I do not know why he waits. What time is it now?'

‘Gone eleven, sir.'

‘Then go back and tell him he has wasted his morning.'

‘He asked if you'd read the paper he gave you, sir.'

Webb scowls. ‘Yes, Sergeant. I have. Here, see for yourself.'

Bartleby takes the copy of the
Illustrated Metropolitan News
that lies open on Webb's desk.

THE CUTTER

Many representations have hitherto been made to the Metropolitan Police as to assaults upon unprotected females in the vicinity of Chelsea by the miscreant known as ‘The Cutter', whose outrages
have been of an increasingly gross and violent nature. His ability to escape the notice of the constabulary has earned him, in some quarters, the reputation of a suburban ghost, a fiend able to strike at will and with complete impunity. We regret to inform our readers that we now possess further authentic particulars concerning this unmanly brute, following a new outrage committed in Brompton.

We understand that Miss Emma Wilmington, a young lady of 18 years of age, the daughter of a gentleman of considerable property, living at Woodbind Cottage, Brompton, stated to police that at about nine o'clock on the preceding night she saw a man loitering by her gate, in front of the house. On going to the door with a light, she inquired what was the matter, and why did he stand there. The person instantly replied that he was sick and ‘For God's sake, do bring me a glass of water'. She returned indoors and brought him a glass. He wore a large blue cloak, such that she at first had mistook him for a policeman. The instant she gave the man the glass, he dashed it to the ground and threw off his outer garment. His visage presented a most hideous and frightful appearance. Without uttering a word, he flung himself upon the unfortunate Miss Wilmington, grabbing hold of her dress, and commenced tearing at her gown with his claws, which were of some metallic substance. She screamed out as loud as she could and it was only through considerable exertion that she escaped from him and ran towards the house. Her assailant, though he followed at first, was disturbed by the sound of an approaching policeman's whistle and fled. No trace of the villain was discovered.

Miss Wilmington further stated, we understand, that she had suffered an awful shock and was in much pain, from many wounds and scratches that had been inflicted upon her person.

We wonder that such a vile and cowardly assault can occur in our great metropolis, and only hope no pains will be spared to bring the miscreant perpetrator to justice.

‘Doesn't sound like our man, sir,' says Bartleby. ‘More like some penny dreadful.'

‘Quite,' replies Webb. ‘I checked with every division. There were no such reports last night, or the night before. But the gentlemen of the press have a story now, do they not? At least when the fellow confined himself to Cremorne, there was only a certain class of females in danger. Now, with the business at the Prince's Ground, it means every respectable maiden in London believes herself at risk.'

‘And the press boys will pander to it.'

‘You may count on it. Now tell that rogue downstairs not to trouble me again.'

‘I'll tell him to hook it.'

‘And you have no news, I take it? What about Dr. Malcolm's establishment?'

‘Oh yes, sir – sorry. The local inspector says it's all very respectable, to the best of his knowledge – ladies with nervous complaints, that sort of thing. Mineral waters. Hot baths.'

‘I had hoped for something more enlightening.'

Bartleby shrugs. ‘Sorry, sir.'

Webb looks dejected. He takes the copy of the newspaper back from the sergeant, and tears it in half.

Caroline Perfitt starts as the door-bell rings in the hall. Although outwardly composed, seated in her drawing-room, she listens carefully for every tell-tale sound below, from her maid opening the door, to the sound of a hat dropped onto the wooden stand, to the distinct beat of a man's footsteps upon the parquet floor. In truth, she is somewhat nervous.

‘Dr. Malcolm, ma'am,' announces the maid.

‘Thank you, Richards, that will be all,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, dismissing her servant. ‘Ah, Dr. Malcolm, how good of you to come at such short notice.'

‘It is no trouble, ma'am,' replies the doctor, with the merest hint of a bow.

‘Please, do take a seat. It is Rose, I am afraid.'

‘I gathered as much, ma'am,' replies Malcolm, making himself comfortable in an armchair facing his client, the black bag of his trade placed carefully to one side. ‘I am sorry to hear it.'

‘Will you take some tea?'

‘No, thank you, ma'am. I am here for Miss Rose and have another call to make in Kensington. Can you describe her symptoms?'

‘Of course. It is quite odd – she was so pale when she came down to breakfast this morning. She told me she did not sleep and could not eat her food. That is not like her at all. And her constitution has been so much improved of late. I just cannot account for it.'

The doctor looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘That is all, ma'am? It is not merely, forgive me, a question of the monthly function?'

Mrs. Perfitt colours a little. ‘No, I do not believe so.'

‘Then, I wonder, has she over-exerted herself in any way?'

‘We attended a charity ball the night before last,' replies Mrs. Perfitt.

Dr. Malcolm smiles, as if struck by a sudden revelation. ‘Then I am sure it is simple tiredness, ma'am. If one taxes the nervous economy, one must pay a price, especially in young ladies of tender years. I am sure there is nothing more to it.'

‘I know you must think me a worrisome fool, Doctor,' replies Mrs. Perfitt.

‘Not at all, ma'am. It is only natural. I would be happy to give her a thorough examination, if it is convenient.'

‘Certainly. Both my husband and I would be very grateful.'

It is half an hour before Dr. Malcolm returns to the drawing-room. Mrs. Perfitt's face betrays little emotion, but her tense posture suggests a degree of anxiety.

‘I am pleased to say, good lady,' begins Dr. Malcolm, ‘that I can find little wrong with your daughter. A certain degree of nervous debility, perhaps, but only to be expected if you will have her dancing until dawn.'

‘Nothing more?'

‘No, ma'am. I recommend a day's bed-rest and lots of water.'

An unmistakable look of relief passes over Mrs. Perfitt's countenance. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I am very grateful. We have an important engagement shortly, you see. I should hate for her to be indisposed.'

‘Think nothing of it, ma'am. I trust your husband is keeping well?'

‘Indeed, thank you.'

‘I am glad to hear it,' replies Malcolm. ‘Although I confess, it is a pleasant coincidence that you called
upon me today. I would have come and seen you in any case.'

‘Sir?'

‘A gentleman from Scotland Yard came to see me the other day. I gather he has already spoken to you? A man by the name of Webb.'

‘Yes, indeed. A detective. He is inquiring into the death of poor Jane Budge,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, though with little sympathy in her voice. ‘Whatever did he want?'

‘You may recall, ma'am, I gave evidence at the trial? In any case, I could not assist him to any great degree. But he had a particular interest in your stay at Leamington Spa. Quite insistent upon it. I wondered if you knew.'

Mrs. Perfitt falls silent for a moment. ‘Good Lord,' she says at last, her voice a whisper.

‘Naturally, I kept my own counsel, ma'am. I would not reveal any confidence placed in me by a patient. I merely thought you should be made aware.'

‘Of course,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, recovering her manners. ‘Thank you.'

Dr. Malcolm bows once more, opening the drawing-room door.

‘Thank you, ma'am.'