The Last Pleasure Garden (30 page)

Rose follows his gaze; it takes her a moment to see what he might mean. ‘My night things. I had to stay in bed to put off Mama.'

‘You needn't have dressed for me,' he replies.

She laughs, nervously.

‘Put them on again,' he says, picking up the nightdress, the soft white material so fine that it flows between his fingers like water. ‘Put them on for me, Rosie. Let me see you.'

Rose blushes once more. ‘I don't like to,' she replies, hesitantly. ‘We don't have long. They'll all be back soon.'

‘Go on,' he says, sitting down in the armchair. ‘You will when we're married; you'll do it for me then. Why not now, eh?'

‘Married? Don't tease,' she says, her voice suddenly abrupt. ‘You know Papa will never—'

‘Hang your bloody father. We'll find someone who'll do it; I know a fellow who can write out the neatest Alfie-Davy you ever saw. We'll have your Papa swearing a blinding oath to anything we like. You said you'd like to be my wife, Rosie.'

Rose walks over to where George Nelson sits, clasping his hand and dropping to her knees. ‘Oh, I would. More than anything!'

‘Well then, just you think about that. Why don't you go and close those curtains?'

Rose gets up, and does as she is told, drawing the curtains shut, leaving the room in a darkened half-light. She pauses for a moment, then walks back towards the hearth. Turning her back to him, she undoes the line of brown buttons at the front of her day dress, until it hangs loose about her shoulders. She carefully peels the cotton free of her skin, letting it drop to the floor under its own weight, revealing
her bare arms and the corset of burgundy satin, which tightly moulds her waist into the perfect shape. She looks back over her shoulder.

‘Undo me then,' she says, in a whisper.

‘E
vening, sir. I see you're working late again. How are things with you?'

Decimus Webb finds his sergeant waiting for him, standing by his desk, as he walks into his office.

‘Tolerable. The Assistant Commissioner would like to see me strung from a lamp-post at the earliest opportunity, but apart from that I am quite well.'

‘Gave you a dressing down, did he, sir? About The Cutter?'

Webb pauses. ‘Sergeant, you have the annoying ebullience that characterises that rare occasion when you stumble upon some useful information. Can I suggest you impart it to me forthwith? Or must I play some wretched game of forfeits before you deign to honour me with whatever fascinating revelation awaits me?'

‘Here, sir,' says Bartleby, pulling a crumpled newspaper from behind his back. ‘Police report in
The Times
, three years old. I had to bribe Sergeant Walker to let me take it out of the library. Have a look at that.'

Webb creases his brow, and peers at the article to which Bartleby directs him.

WOOLWICH. On Wednesday evening, a tall, respectable-looking man, about fifty-five years of
age, dressed in a silk suit which placed him well above the middle rank of life, was brought up by a constable of the K Division, and placed at the bar before Mr. BUTCHER, on the charge of having in a most indecent and disgusting manner exposed his person to a young female in Greenwich Park, a short distance from the Royal Observatory.

‘I hope this is worth my trouble, Sergeant,' says Webb.

‘Oh, it is, sir. You just read on.'

The prisoner at the bar seemed highly conscious of the degrading situation in which he was placed, and objected to giving his name and address, as he also had done at the station-house. The requisite information was, however, elicited by an officer of the court who, on looking into the prisoner's hat, discovered the lining bore the words – ‘The Rev. Augustus Featherstone, No. 14, Cherry Tree Lane, Bromley.'

Webb looks at his sergeant, his eyebrows raised.

‘Puts an interesting complexion on things, doesn't it, sir?' says Bartleby.

‘How did you come by this?' asks Webb.

‘One of the men at Bromley recalled the case, sir. Sent me a note this afternoon.'

Webb nods and reads on.

The prisoner, unattended by any legal adviser, had been brought up instanter by the constable and elected to represent himself.

Mary Davies, residing at No. 35, Barking Lane, Ilford, was then examined and deposed as
follows:- This afternoon, at about four o'clock, I was passing by the shrubbery near the Observatory in Greenwich Park. I saw the prisoner there and when he turned himself round, he exposed to me his person. I then walked briskly in another direction, and was again insulted by him in a similar manner.

Mr. BUTCHER – Were you alone?

Mrs. Davies – No, sir; I had two children with me. I went and gave information directly to a parkkeeper, who caused the man to be apprehended.

Albert Springett, 62 K, said, As I was on duty near the park gate, I was called upon by one of the keepers who pointed out the man and begged me to keep an eye on him, while he went in search of the lady who had complained of him. I waited until the lady was found, and took the prisoner in charge, telling him it was for exposing himself in a public place.

Mr. BUTCHER – Did he make any reply?

Witness. – He said, if he had done so, he was not aware of doing it. He said he was relieving himself.

Mr. BUTCHER (to Mrs. Davies) – When the prisoner exposed himself to you, was he making water?

Mrs. Davies – He was not; he acted towards me in an infamous way and followed me for five minutes or more, creeping and crawling about behind us.

Mr. BUTCHER – You must describe more particularly what he did.

Mrs. Davies – He opened his trousers in front, and in that way exposed himself, sir. I turned my
back on him, and walked to a bench with the children. When I looked around, he was there in the same shameful situation.

Mr. BUTCHER – Did he say anything to you, during this time?

Mrs. Davies – Not a word, your worship.

Mr. BUTCHER – Does the prisoner have anything to say?

Prisoner (with much emotion) – Your worship, I am placed in the most distressing situation that might be imagined. I am convinced that the defendant in such cases has but little chance, as a prejudice will be excited against him from the first. I can only hope you might consider the character of this witness, and not judge too hastily. I might, perhaps, have obeyed the call of nature in a spot not set apart for that purpose, but I had no intention of insulting or offending this female.

Mr. BUTCHER – Constable, have you established the character of this witness?

Constable – No, sir.

Mr. BUTCHER – Then I shall remand this gentleman until to-morrow, in order that such evidence may be procured.

Prisoner was remanded back to the police-station.

‘There is no more?' asks Webb.

‘I telegraphed back straightaway, sir. The constable says he recalls he was acquitted. Doesn't think there was more in the press.'

‘Acquitted?' says Webb, musing.

‘I've got a cab waiting, sir. If you want to go down to Chelsea?'

‘You've heard about the incident at Cremorne last
night, I suppose,' says Webb, his brow still furrowed in thought.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘This does not make him a murderer, Sergeant. In particular, if he was found not guilty.'

‘Only the girl's word against his, I suppose,' replies Bartleby. ‘But it makes a person think, doesn't it?'

Webb folds the newspaper and tucks it under his arm. ‘Very well, let us go and show this to Featherstone. Though I am far from certain we will get any sense out of him.'

Bartleby nods, but hesitates. ‘I swore blind to Sergeant Walker I wouldn't take that out of the Yard, sir,' he says, gesturing to the newspaper.

‘Then I am about to make you a liar, Sergeant,' replies Webb.

The journey to Chelsea goes swiftly, and it is a little past nine o'clock when the two policemen find themselves once more at St. Mark's College. There is, however, no answer when Webb knocks upon the door to Augustus Featherstone's rooms. Bartleby is despatched to the chapel and school-house; Webb makes inquiries in the Masters' Common Room; further questions are directed to the men at the gates upon the King's Road and Fulham Road. But, when they return to the Reverend Featherstone's door, a good hour later, neither Webb nor Bartleby is any the wiser as to his whereabouts.

‘No-one's seen him since last night, as far as I can make out, sir,' suggests the sergeant.

‘So it seems,' mutters Webb. He tries the door-handle. ‘He appears to have left his door open, in any case. Rather careless.'

‘Do you think we should—'

But before Bartleby can finish the sentence, his superior has already opened the door and gone inside.

The study itself is dark and gloomy, the heavy drapes drawn across the windows left closed from the previous night. Webb strikes a match, and lights the gas above the fire-place.

‘Reverend?' says Webb.

There is no reply.

‘Check the other rooms, Sergeant,' says Webb.

Bartleby obliges and returns a minute or so later. ‘Nothing, sir. No sign of him. Do you think he's legged it?'

‘It seems he was supposed to be teaching in the school this afternoon, but did not put in an appearance,' replies Webb. ‘But then, I do not think he is quite himself, if last night is anything to go by.'

‘What do you think we should do, sir?'

Webb takes a long, deep breath. ‘Search the rooms, Sergeant. Thoroughly and carefully. Try not to disturb anything; we are not strictly within our rights, after all.'

‘We already did that when they found his better half, sir.'

‘You looked everywhere?'

‘Well, mainly here in the study, sir. The Reverend said there wasn't anything missing, so I wouldn't say we—'

‘Every room, Sergeant. I have complete faith in you.'

Bartleby nods. ‘Yes, sir. And what will you be doing?'

‘I'll shall be taking a walk in the grounds.'

‘And if anyone comes and asks what I'm up to, sir?'

‘You had better hope that they do not.'

‘Sir!'

Webb extinguishes his pipe, turning to see the figure of Sergeant Bartleby running towards him, across the gas-lit quadrangle.

‘Keep your voice down, man, for pity's sake,' says Webb, as Bartleby jogs to a halt. ‘I assume you have found something? You have been long enough about it.'

‘Have a look at this, sir,' says Bartleby, eagerly, handing over a plain envelope.

Webb opens the envelope and peers inside, his eyes straining to make anything out in the dim light of the gas. For a moment, he cannot quite make sense of it, and pokes the contents with his finger. Then he realises that it is a half dozen or more locks of hair.

‘Found the envelope at the back of his dresser, sir. Like little trophies. We've got him! Featherstone's The Cutter!'

‘The fear of God,' mutters Webb. ‘I should have known.'