The Last Pleasure Garden (35 page)

‘It was his scheme to close the Gardens, Sergeant; or, at least, to teach Chelsea's loose women a lesson. He even told me that he thought people might “learn” from it. I should have paid closer attention; I fear, looking back, he was almost taunting me. I wonder what he thought when he received those schoolboy threats; he must have found it rather amusing.'

‘A queer business, sir.'

‘Quite. I can only imagine the attacks became some kind of morbid compulsion with him. That is why he could not help himself at the ball.'

‘And what about Jane Budge, and his wife? Do you think that's why he did for them? They discovered his secret?'

Webb bites his lip. ‘You are getting carried away again, Sergeant.'

‘Sir?'

‘For the last time. Featherstone was with me outside Cremorne when Budge died. Likewise, it seems unlikely he killed his wife whilst he was simultaneously at a parish meeting.'

‘You don't think he could have arranged it?' says Bartleby. ‘So he had an alibi?'

‘That, Sergeant, would require an accomplice. And I doubt that very much.'

‘Still, someone must have done it, if it wasn't him. '

‘Your mental faculties are as alert as ever, Bartleby. Yes, for all his madness, I do not think Featherstone was a killer. There is a murderer still out there, I am quite certain of it. Of course, whether we choose to make that clear to the Coroner is another matter. Now, hush. Here comes our man.'

The Coroner, it turns out, is a rather pragmatic individual, not given to the speechifying of some of his colleagues in the metropolis. Thus, he goes through the preliminaries of the proceedings at a brisk pace, briefly outlining the duties of the jury and keeping all else to a minimum. The customary visit to the scene of the tragedy is denied the jurymen – principally to avoid the possibility of the entire court becoming lost in Cremorne's maze – and instead the novel expedient is discovered of drawing a chalk sketch upon the ball-room floor, outlining the dimensions of the particular dead end where the Reverend Featherstone met his Maker. All in all, for a Coroner's inquiry, the hearing begins quite swiftly and, once the Coroner has made his opening remarks, witnesses are called. The first is Rose Perfitt, who takes the appointed seat.

‘Miss Rose Perfitt, resident at 37, Edith Grove, Chelsea?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You witnessed the death of the Reverend Featherstone?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Can you tell the court how you came to be in Cremorne Gardens on the night in question?'

‘I had had an argument with my father, sir. I decided to run away from home.'

The sound of excited whispers, exchanged between respectable parties, echoes round the room.

‘And so you proceeded, by yourself, to Cremorne Gardens?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘To what purpose?'

A couple of the gentlemen of the press smirk to themselves.

‘I do not know, sir. I did not think there was any harm in it.'

There is an audible guffaw from the back of the room. The Coroner looks sternly in that direction, whilst Rose Perfitt blushes.

‘And how did you come across Reverend Featherstone?'

As Rose Perfitt answers the question, Bartleby whispers to Webb. ‘She's taking it better than I thought she would, sir. Quite composed, all things considered.'

Webb frowns. ‘Yes, she is.'

‘You are George Nelson, resident in lodgings at 14, Albion Terrace.'

‘Yes I am, sir.'

‘You are by profession a labourer at Cremorne Gardens.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And on ticket-of-leave, is that correct? From Pentonville gaol?'

‘Yes, sir.'

A murmur of concern in the court. The Coroner raises his hand.

‘I would ask the jury to be conscious that whilst Mr. Nelson is a convicted felon, he is an important witness in this inquiry.'

‘Thank you, sir,' adds Nelson. ‘And I should like to say that I have served my time and I have the greatest respect for Her Majesty's justice.'

The inquest lasts for a good three hours. At last, an intermission of a half-hour is called, during which the jury may elect a foreman and deliberate upon their decision. The majority of the crowd decamp to the saloon, where the bar has cannily been opened for the sale of sandwiches and refreshments, albeit of a temperance variety. Webb once more watches Rose Perfitt, as she gets up, for any sign that may pass between her and George Nelson. Her mother, however, swiftly ushers her away.

‘Care for a drink, sir?' asks Bartleby.

Webb does not reply, distracted, as George Nelson walks by.

‘Morning, Inspector,' says Nelson, with a smirk.

‘You do not fool me, Mr. Nelson,' replies Webb.

‘I don't need to,' says Nelson, as he walks in the direction of the saloon. ‘I ain't done nothing wrong. I got my ticket to think of.'

Webb takes a deep breath as Nelson walks off.

‘Rose Perfitt went to Cremorne to meet him, Sergeant. I would swear an oath on it.'

‘You didn't though, did you, sir? You could have mentioned it, to his worship over there.'

‘I think it better they both think we do not suspect them. I am just not sure what it all means.'

‘You think he killed Featherstone, then, sir? And she's lying to protect him?'

‘It had crossed my mind. But, you see, Featherstone was The Cutter, I am sure of that. The business in Greenwich Park, the hair, everything we know about him. What possible motive is there?'

‘Perhaps he found out about them, threatened to expose them. Sir! What if that's it?'

‘But you see, Sergeant, if Rose Perfitt was quite willing to elope with Nelson, regardless, what sense does it make? None.'

Bartleby frowns, puzzled. He does not get an opportunity to reply, since he is interrupted by the sound of a loud, repeated banging, coming from the nearby hall.

‘What the blazes is that?' asks Webb, as the two policemen walk briskly from the room. They find a small circle of people has gathered round a nearby door. Outside the door stands Charles Perfitt, repeatedly banging his fists against the wood panels.

‘Rose!'

Webb steps forward.

‘Sir, whatever is the matter?'

‘Inspector!' replies Perfitt, breathless. ‘You must do something! Rose . . . she went to use the convenience . . . she must have fainted.'

Webb looks over his shoulder, beckoning Bartleby towards the door. ‘Break it down, Sergeant.'

Sergeant Bartleby appears not overly enthusiastic
to put his physical prowess to the test. Nonetheless, he barges at the door, with his shoulder braced, twice, then three times, until the latch inside gives way and it flies open.

Mr. and Mrs. Perfitt come up behind Webb and Bartleby, as they look around the small room, which contains merely a water-closet, a mirror and a sink. Rose Perfitt, however, is nowhere to be seen – though there is an impressive view of the lawn outside, through the open window.

‘T
here is little further I can say regarding the distressing nature of this case. It seems beyond any doubt that his wife's death unbalanced the mind of Augustus Featherstone and there can be no doubt that the verdict of the jury – suicide whilst in a state of temporary mental derangement – is correct and proper. The evidence presented by Inspector Webb of Scotland Yard has been of great assistance, but it is not the place of this court to pass any additional judgment . . .'

The voice of the Coroner resounds through the ballroom. Neither Decimus Webb nor the Perfitts are there to hear it. Instead, they stand outside the hotel, looking out across the Gardens.

‘Perhaps you had better take your wife home, sir,' suggests Webb.

‘I am quite all right, Inspector,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, though her expression is rather bloodless.

‘As you wish, ma'am, although I am not sure there is much to be done here. Ah, here is Bartleby.'

Sergeant Bartleby, in fact, comes jogging briskly down the nearest path.

‘Nowhere to be found, sir,' he says, breathlessly. ‘I've left the men on it, but we can't find her anywhere in the Gardens.'

‘And Nelson?'

‘Vanished, sir.'

Mrs. Perfitt seems to grow visibly paler. ‘Take me home, Charles,' she says at last.

‘Yes, my dear. I think that is best,' replies Mr. Perfitt. But before he can take his wife's arm, Webb interrupts him.

‘I think we may as well drop the pretence, sir. All things considered.'

‘Pretence?' says Mr. Perfitt.

‘Your daughter's plan was to elope with George Nelson, was it not? That was why she came to the Gardens. And now she has accomplished her purpose, albeit in a rather melodramatic manner. I assume you have been keeping a close watch upon her at home?'

Mrs. Perfitt exchanges an anxious look with her husband.

‘I think,' says Mr. Perfitt, ‘it might be best if you came home with us, Inspector. We might have some privacy there, at least.'

‘It began five years ago, Inspector,' says Charles Perfitt, pacing in front of the hearth in his drawing-room. ‘Rose made the acquaintance of George Nelson through Jane Budge. I believe they met him in the Gardens.'

‘The Gardens?' asks Webb, incredulously.

‘During daylight, naturally,' replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Jane and I used to take Rose on walks around the grounds. The place was more respectable in those days.'

‘And they formed a close bond? '

‘I would not say that,' replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘His interest—'

‘His interest lay elsewhere, Inspector,' interjects Mr. Perfitt. ‘You already know the facts of the matter. He would visit Jane Budge, in secret, just as we told you. But, in the end, we discovered Rose had been let in on their secret and had developed a girlish infatuation with him. Young girls of that age are given to such things. Rose has always had a foolish romantic nature; and I suppose he was a handsome young man. I expect it flattered him to have such a beautiful and tender young girl interested in him.'