The Last Pleasure Garden (13 page)

‘Rose?' says Mrs. Perfitt, opening the bedroom door. ‘My dear, must you keep disappearing to your room?'

Rose Perfitt turns from her seat by the window. ‘I am sorry, Mama, I just felt a little seedy.'

‘You do look tired. Are you coming down with something? Oh, I do hope not – not now. Why, I should think you might be a little more excited.'

Rose smiles. ‘I do want to go to the ball, Mama, I promise. I shall be better tomorrow.'

‘Well, Madame Lannier will bring the dress in the morning. I expect that will raise your spirits?'

Rose nods.

‘Good. Now your dear father is still at his club, so Lord knows what hour he may come home. And I said I would call on Elspeth this evening – she has had one of her turns again.'

‘I hope it is nothing serious?'

‘You know your aunt, Rose – a slight head and she is convinced she has a brain fever. I expect it is nothing. Still, I shall not be back before ten. Tell your father if he comes home before you retire, will you?'

‘Yes, Mama.'

‘You will be quite all right on your own?'

‘Mama!'

‘Very well, dear. Have Richards bring you some supper. You must keep up your strength.'

Rose casts a chastening look at her mother, who smiles and withdraws from the room. She remains seated until she hears the sound of a cab arriving outside, and the front door of the house opening and
close. Getting up, she watches her mother climb into the four-wheeler.

As the cab departs, Rose turns and looks around for her summer shawl.

It is approaching nightfall as the Reverend Featherstone's amateur chorus come to a pause, in order to light the lanterns they have brought with them. John Boon has already disappeared, annoyed and exasperated, back into the gas-lit gardens. Decimus Webb, upon the other hand, remains by the gates. He takes advantage of the pause in the
al fresco
concert to speak to the clergyman.

‘Good evening, Reverend.'

‘Ah, it is you, Inspector, I thought it was,' replies Featherstone. ‘I feared you might arrest us.'

Webb shakes his head. ‘You aren't causing that much of an obstruction, sir. Nor a great public nuisance.'

‘Mr. Boon might disagree with you.'

Webb shrugs. ‘There doesn't seem to be many takers for your pamphlets, sir,' continues the Inspector, nodding at the handful of bills that one of the Reverend's juniors holds out to those approaching the gates.

‘We only hope for “one sinner that repenteth”, Inspector. Anything more is a great blessing.'

Webb nods. ‘I trust your good wife has found nothing else upon her doorstep today, at least?'

‘Thankfully not, Inspector.'

‘Well, that is something. I see you have all your young men assisting you?'

‘Everyone at St. Mark's is of a like mind, Inspector. We must see Cremorne closed. It is the Lord's will.'

Webb nods, but does not comment.

In truth, if the Reverend Featherstone's protest has any obvious effect, it is principally to empty St. Mark's College of its staff and pupil-teachers, leaving the college buildings rather devoid of activity. The few persons that remain behind are mostly wives and servants, and several take the opportunity to visit the college chapel, and spend an hour or two in prayerful contemplation, Bertha Featherstone amongst them.

After the chapel bells are rung for ten o'clock, however, Mrs. Featherstone resolves to return to her rooms. She quits her place at the rear of the chapel's nave and gently opens the heavy wooden door that leads out into the college grounds. The short walk to her apartments in the main building is a peaceful one, and there is nothing in the warm summer night to disturb her serene progress, save the creaking iron weathercock that roosts atop the chapel's summit.

But even Mrs. Featherstone visibly jumps when she hears a strange, muffled scream, as she enters the college quadrangle. Even though the sound is somehow muted, it is unmistakably frantic, a raucous and primitive cry.

For a moment, she cannot quite believe her ears. Echoing stone walls can play tricks, after all; it is, she reasons, an animal, some wretched cat or fox. But then it comes again. She can do nothing but pursue the sound, completing almost a full lap of the cloisters until she realises the noise comes from the servants' quarters, not far from her own rooms. In fact, from the servants' scullery.

In her heart, she knows something of what awaits her, before her eyes see the evidence. For, mixed with the screams, there are repeated desperate thuds against some hard surface, and a sound like the crackling of autumn leaves upon a bonfire. It takes only the sight
of smoke creeping beneath the scullery door to confirm her worst suspicions.

Instinctively, Mrs. Featherstone rushes forward, heedless of any danger to herself, and, as the smoke rises around her, struggles to free the heavy bolt that holds the scullery door firmly shut. The metal is already warm with the blaze, and it takes all her strength to move it. Moreover, she does not anticipate the sudden rush of acrid air and belching fire as the door flies open, singeing her dress; it compels her to run back along the corridor to safety.

It is probably for the best that she does not come too close. For it means she does not see the full horror of Jane Budge's face as she tumbles from the blazing inferno, her body writhing in agony, her hands scratching senselessly at the floor, as the flames dance gaily on her back.

D
ecimus Webb stands alone in the well-kept grounds of St. Mark's in the first light of dawn. The towers of the college buildings seem strangely insubstantial, almost one-dimensional, silhouetted in the earlymorning half-light, like shadows from a lantern-show. In the background he can hear the morning chorus of the neighbourhood's sparrows, underscored by the distant bass rumble of a freight train on the London Western Extension Railway, its line adjacent to the college's grounds. The policeman's face looks a little troubled; it may be that he simply regrets there is no breeze to remove the noxious smell of burnt matter that lingers in the air.

‘Sir?'

The figure of Sergeant Bartleby approaches, coming from the college.

‘Sergeant.'

‘I wondered where you'd got to, sir.'

‘I was just taking a moment to gather my thoughts. What progress?'

‘We'll move the body this morning, sir, to the Chelsea Infirmary. Autopsy this afternoon. Coroner's tomorrow.'

‘Well, I should be surprised if we are mistaken as
to the cause of death,' replies Webb. ‘Still, it is best to be certain that we have not missed anything. And the rest?'

‘I've made arrangements to interview everyone on the premises; there's about sixty resident pupil-teachers, and half a dozen staff and three wives – though most of them seem to have been absent.'

‘I can vouch for that. They were outside Cremorne Gardens, at the Reverend Featherstone's impromptu prayer-meeting.'

‘Ah, yes, sir, you did say.'

‘Did you look at the body, Sergeant?'

Bartleby visibly winces. ‘Yes, sir.'

‘A peculiar murder, all things considered,' says Webb, disdaining to notice his sergeant's queasy reaction. ‘I suppose we should be grateful the whole place did not burn down, and not merely the scullery.'

‘The brigade came out pretty sharp,' replies Bartleby.

‘I know, Sergeant, I was here myself.'

‘You're sure it was no accident, sir?'

‘I should be impressed if Miss Budge managed to set herself alight, and bolt herself inside the room, locking it from the outside.'

‘Well then, what next, sir?'

‘I think we may now interview Mrs. Featherstone,' says Webb. ‘She seemed a little too distressed to be questioned last night.'

‘Still a bit early in the day, though?'

‘Is it? Well, let us find her husband and see what he says about it. I am loath to delay any longer.'

Bartleby assents and the two policemen walk in silence across the lawn, back towards the college. As they approach the cloisters, Bartleby turns to Webb.

‘You weren't to know this would happen, sir. To tell the truth, I didn't take that letter too seriously myself.'

Webb pauses, causing Bartleby to draw to a halt beside him.

‘When I require your opinion, Sergeant, I shall ask for it.'

Mrs. Featherstone sits in her parlour, a strong cup of tea by her side and the two policemen seated opposite, together with her husband. If there is any change to her normal rather implacable appearance, it is only that her dress is a little more creased than might be expected, and her eyes a little tired and bloodshot.

‘Thank you for seeing us, ma'am,' says Webb. ‘Your husband said you might be agreeable to a brief interview.'

‘One must do one's duty in such terrible circumstances, Inspector,' replies Mrs. Featherstone. ‘In truth, I have not slept since the incident.'

‘My wife is a woman of spirit, Inspector,' adds the Reverend. ‘You may rely on her.'