The Last Pleasure Garden (36 page)

‘And now, how do things stand?'

‘Now, Inspector,' says Charles Perfitt, ‘he is using her to punish me. He believes it was my fault he went to gaol and so he has rekindled this unfortunate passion in her. He wishes to rob me of my daughter and see me suffer.'

‘It doesn't look like she was kidnapped, though, sir,' says Bartleby. ‘You don't think he . . . well, that they . . .?'

Mrs. Perfitt casts a withering glance towards the sergeant. ‘If you mean that my daughter went of her own free will, I am sure she believes that she did. But he is a vicious criminal, Sergeant. Good Lord, why are we here talking? You must do something. Inspector – now you know the whole wretched business, will you not act?'

‘I might be more inclined if you had told me all this before, instead of lying, ma'am,' says Webb, warily.

‘That my daughter should have been infatuated with a common criminal is hardly something I care to make public knowledge, Inspector.'

‘A little late for such discretion now, ma'am, at all events. Still, as for doing something, I am not sure there is much we can do in cases of seduction, if the girl appears complicit.'

‘Surely the law is on our side?' says Mr. Perfitt, desperation in his voice.

‘Up to a point, sir. The girl is below the age of discretion, and I suppose she belongs in legal possession of her father. But whether a magistrate would be willing to have her moved back here by force – well, I would not be quite sure of it, not if she protests.'

‘We could demand it, Inspector, surely? She is mine by law, as you say.'

Webb shrugs. ‘That would be your prerogative, sir. If you think it best. As for Nelson, if she has left voluntarily, then there is no crime committed. Not yet, at least. A marriage would be a different matter, if, say, he were to give misleading particulars as to your consent.'

‘Marriage!' exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. ‘God forbid! Charles – we must do something!'

‘We will try and find her, ma'am, rest assured,' says Webb. ‘If nothing else, I still have a couple of questions I should like to ask her. And perhaps you may persuade her to see sense, without recourse to the law.'

‘Questions?' asks Mrs. Perfitt.

‘Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am. Nothing to trouble yourself with. It's merely this Cutter business. You see, I have the feeling, ma'am,' says Webb, ‘there's something that I'm missing. Like a desiccated puzzle that's lost one of its pieces.'

‘The only thing missing, Inspector, is my daughter. If you are done, perhaps you might expend your mental energies in locating her, rather than upon ridiculous metaphor. As for myself, if that is everything, I'm afraid you must excuse me; I fear I have something of a headache coming on.'

Mrs. Perfitt gets up and, with a brief nod to her husband, hastily leaves the room.

Mr. Perfitt, meanwhile, looks at Webb. ‘Forgive my wife, Inspector. This business with Nelson is a terrible strain. You will try to help us get Rose back? You know what sort of man Nelson is.'

‘I will do my best, sir.'

‘You weren't wrong, sir,' says Bartleby, as the two policemen walk back along Edith Grove.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,' replies Webb. ‘I do appreciate credit where credit is due. Now, may I have some suggestions for how we locate Rose Perfitt and her wretched paramour.'

‘I was wondering about cabs. We weren't far behind them but they made a clean break of it. If I was them, I'd grab a ride, quick as I could.'

‘A good idea, Sergeant. Make that your task for this afternoon.'

Bartleby agrees. Webb, in turn, falls silent for a few moments, lost in thought.

‘They're still hiding something, Sergeant,' he says at last. ‘I can almost taste it. This business with Jane Budge, Nelson and the girl. There's something there. I know there is.'

‘I suppose they don't much fancy him as a prospective son-in-law.'

‘He can't marry her until she's twenty-one, not without some measure of fraud, and that would breach his licence. He has been quite meticulous about that so far; I don't think he would make such a stupid mistake. No that is not it. It's something we haven't uncovered; something important. It may be the key to this whole affair.'

‘I thought you didn't believe in instinct, sir,' says Bartleby.

‘It is not instinct when every inquiry leads to the same place, Sergeant, however mysterious it all seems. Rose Perfitt is at the centre of this, I swear.'

‘Centre of what, sir?'

‘Yes, well, quite. That is the question. What are we missing, eh?'

A
lfred Budge keeps odd hours. His position as potman at the Old King's Head is, in fact, something of a sinecure, a repayment of sorts for the sheer volume of liquor consumed during a lifetime of dedicated imbibing. Thus he is at liberty to come and go much as he pleases and it is not unusual to see him quit his post and totter homewards along the Battersea Road at any hour of the night, whenever the fancy takes him. Indeed, such instances balance out the occasions when he remains in the warm luxury of the public bar from sunset to sunrise, blissfully unconscious of the world around him; with such dedication to his workplace, it is generally considered only fair that he should exercise himself when the mood takes him.

Tonight, after an absence of several nights in a row, he stumbles along the muddy track of Sheepgut Lane at a little past ten o'clock. It is difficult to say what precise obligation draws him back to Budge's Dairy; perhaps some dim recollection of his marriage vows; or the gut desire for a home-cooked meal, rather than the cheap pies and puddings, sold by itinerant merchants, upon which he generally relies for sustenance. Without a doubt, he expects the sharp end of
his wife's tongue upon his arrival and, in the dim corner of his drink-addled mind that once stored his capacity for sound judgment, he is probably conscious that he thoroughly deserves to be castigated. Hence, he creeps cautiously up the path to the dairy's front door.

It is a drunk's caution, mind you. A pantomime of tiptoe footsteps, that is twice as clumsy and noisy as the approach of any normal individual. But, for all his mental confusion, Alfred Budge is still surprised to find that the door is not on the latch, but falls open as he knocks upon it.

‘Maggie?'

No answer. Inside, the room is as black as pitch, only the shape of his wife visible, sitting in her chair in front of the hearth.

Alfred Budge fumbles for the lucifers in his coat pocket, and strikes one. The tiny spluttering light seems puny in the blackness of the room, and a shiver runs down his spine, as he steps a little closer to the fireplace. Then the smell strikes him; the stink of loose bowels, a rotting lingering stench he associates with the privy at the Old King's Head.

The match singes his fingers and he swears to himself as he blows it out, flicking it to the floor. He is close enough to Margaret Budge now to shake her. But instead he lights another match and looks at her face. He knows in his heart what he will find as he touches her cheek, and her head lolls to one side.

But he can only truly believe it when he sees her dead, lifeless eyes.

‘You're used to better,' says George Nelson, more as a statement of fact than an apology, leading Rose Perfitt by the hand into a small room.

Rose looks around. Situated above a fishmonger's, a short distance from the Lambeth Road, the room possesses a bed, covered with a grey-looking mattress and sheets, a fire-place with a cracked mirror, suspended above the mantel, and a simple deal table and twin chairs. The floor is bare boards, except for a frayed piece of red drugget that lies beside the bed. And throughout, there is the distinct scent of the ocean.

Rose Perfitt is indeed used to much better. And yet, she clasps hold of George Nelson's arm with earnest enthusiasm.

‘Our own room!'

‘It stinks but it's all I could get. We'll find something better once your father sees sense.'

Rose nods but already she seems preoccupied by her surroundings. ‘I will get some flowers; that will help. And some proper curtains.'

‘I told you, Rosie, we won't have money. Not at first.'

‘They'll understand in the end,' says Rose, peering through the single sash window that looks onto the street below. ‘Mama will, anyway. When we're married. She always says she only wants me to be happy.'

‘I'd have liked to have seen their faces.'

‘Don't say that,' says Rose, turning to look at him, slightly annoyed.

‘No,' says Nelson, smiling. ‘You're right. A man shouldn't bear a grudge. Now come here, why don't you, you silly little bitch? You know I love you.'

Rose Perfitt grins.

Alfred Budge is not sure what to do.

The lamp. He begins with lighting the lamp. He
fancies that when he lights it, everything will be better. But, when he holds it up, it only shines upon the corpse of his wife, slumped before the empty fireplace, as if waiting for coals to be brought in, for a fire to be started. He stumbles as he sees her, inadvertently leaning against the nearby table, sending a heavy bottle of brandy crashing to the ground. He barely seems to notice it, walking over the broken glass in a daze, crunching it into the floor beneath his boots.

What next?

He checks the back parlour. The room is as cold and damp as ever, and the air almost sobers him up. Death is here too, he can sense it. Not just the coffin of his daughter – though that is still there; he had forgotten about that. The funeral. He must arrange the funeral. Best black feathers. And three little ones, here they are, lying in their cots; he touches the cheek of each infant; cold, dead porcelain.

Something, he thinks, must be done. The police. They will come. They are bound to come.

He goes off in search of a blanket.