The Last Pleasure Garden (2 page)

‘Not going below, sir?' asks Bartleby, gesturing towards the trap-door and steps that descend into the lower deck, where liquid refreshment is on sale.

Webb shakes his head. ‘It will be far too cramped for my liking and I much prefer to see where I'm going, even on this fool's errand. Besides, it's a good while since I've been down to Chelsea; I expect it has changed a great deal.'

Bartleby casts a longing glance to below decks, but stays beside his superior. ‘You think we are wasting our time?'

‘The whole business is quite ridiculous. It is not a detective matter; not for Scotland Yard, at least.'

‘You think this fellow's harmless?'

‘I do not think he is a modern Sweeney Todd, put it that way, Sergeant.'

Webb's gaze returns to the river and, as the boat passes by, the breweries that line the south bank. The tall smoking chimney of Barclay, Perkins & Co.'s famous establishment wafts the faint smell of hops towards the Palace of Westminster. Webb looks back at his sergeant.

‘Very well, you may go below. Nothing more than
a half of stout. Make a few casual inquiries. Doubtless many of them make it a regular night out.'

‘Thank you, sir,' says Bartleby with a grin.

The journey upstream takes little more than forty minutes, the boat stopping briefly at Nine Elms and Battersea, though few come on board at either location. It is only when the steamer approaches the old wooden supports of Battersea Bridge, passing the giant black tub of the local gasometer upon the southern shore, that a perceptible change of spirits occurs amongst its passengers. Gaily-coloured shawls are gathered up, drinks are downed, hats and bonnets returned to their rightful places. Sergeant Bartleby takes the opportunity to return to the deck, where he finds Decimus Webb watching the sun set, its final rays dissolving into the murky brown silt of the Thames.

‘Well? Anything of interest?' asks Webb.

‘Not much. They've all read the papers. No-one's seen the fellow themselves but a friend of a friend swears they know someone – you know the sort of thing.'

‘Worthless,' mutters Webb. ‘Ah, well, here we are, at least.'

As Webb speaks, the pilot guides their vessel towards the pier upon the north bank of the river, the wheels slowing to a leisurely speed, then stopping entirely. The pier is a wooden structure, illuminated in the dimming twilight by a row of gas-jets, mounted on a makeshift-looking iron rail along its length. Each light burns brightly within a large glass globe, casting a fiery glow over the waiting attendants who grasp at the mooring ropes flung out to the shore. The steamer
is soon pulled in, its hull banging noisily into the timber piles, until it settles, bobbing gently upon the water.

‘Cremorne!' shouts the man on shore, as the boarding plank is secured, the guide-ropes pulled tight. ‘Everybody off!'

The announcement, of course, is a mere formality. Nobody can doubt their location, even though the river esplanade that runs along the south of the pleasure gardens is not marked by any signpost. The signature of Cremorne is its aura of gas-light. It is not from any individual flame, though there are a dozen more lamps along the riverside path. Rather, it is the omnipresent radiance of the Gardens themselves: a garish, cheerful glow that, from the Thames, suggests a magical kingdom hidden from view behind the trees.

The passengers of the steamer all but run into the little riverside ticket hall.

‘Shall we make ourselves known to the management, sir?' asks Bartleby, as the two policemen quit the boat, being amongst the last to alight. ‘I've met with the lads from T Division already, mind you. I know them on sight.'

‘I think,' says Webb, ‘we merely watch and wait. If he is here, he will make a move. Now, Sergeant,' he continues, peering at the queue for the box office, ‘tell me, do you happen to have two bob?'

It is gone half-past nine when the two policemen reach the heart of the pleasure gardens, the famous dancing platform. Its wooden boards are already thronged with people, enjoying the warm summer air. From the outside, the area is almost hidden from view; for it nestles amid a grove of ancient elms, and is surrounded
on two sides by twin tiers of supper-boxes, which resemble the boxes in a theatre. But the stage that the boxes overlook is not of the regular variety. It is the Crystal Platform, a great circular rostrum in the open air, raised a foot or so off the ground, railed around by wrought iron. The railings are interrupted at intervals by tall triple-crowned lamps and, between them, above the crowd, arched iron festoons dripping with tear-drops of coloured cut-glass, sparkling in the gaslight. At the heart of it all is the hexagonal Chinese Pagoda, its upturned eaves and exotic fret-work painted rainbow colours. It contains a ‘Refreshment Room' devoted to the sale of ‘Choice Wines and Sprits' but, more importantly, upon the top storey, a thirty-piece orchestra, providing a noisy accompaniment to the couples gaily waltzing below.

‘They say it's the place for loose women, now the Casino's closed,' remarks Bartleby, gazing at the platform as the waltz comes to an end, and the M.C. calls for a quadrille. ‘And those supper-boxes too. You can imagine, can't you?'

Webb looks around at the boxes. Indeed, in a couple there is merely a hint of candlelight and indistinct movement behind a muslin curtain.

‘I know what they say, Sergeant, and you can spare me your vivid imagination. We are not here to grub up dirt. Keep your eyes peeled for our man.'

‘How do I spot him?'

‘In the act.'

Bartleby looks round the exterior of the platform. White-aproned waiters move briskly around the tables set on the grass, accepting the ‘refreshment tickets' that are the Gardens' particular currency. Men and women seem to lounge in an easy intimacy, listening to the resounding music, admiring the sets formed by
the more proficient dancers. A blue-uniformed member of T Division strolls past, giving the two detectives a discreet nod. But no-one appears remotely suspicious. Plenty are inebriated; a good few may possess dubious morals, but nothing out of the ordinary, not on a summer's night in such a place.

Then Webb taps the sergeant's arm.

‘There – that fellow in the heavy great-coat. A bit warm for that sort of article, is it not?'

Bartleby peers at the man, upon the opposite side of the platform, a good two or three hundred yards distant. He is about nineteen or twenty years of age, flitting behind the dancing couples, with something rather nervous and awkward in his movements.

‘You go round on the left, I will take the right,' suggests Webb.

Bartleby nods, and the two policemen begin to work their way around the seated groups, in front of the lower tier of supper-boxes. It takes them a good couple of minutes to negotiate past Cremorne's revellers, but the man gives no indication that he notices them. Rather, he walks cautiously up to the queue for the sheltered ‘Money Box' that lies just beyond the clearing, one of the small cabins where Cremorne's own bankers change cash into tokens. He stands just behind a young woman wearing a dress of dark blue poplin, and seems to hesitate for a moment.

Webb motions to Bartleby to get closer.

As the quadrille comes to a close, applause echoes round the platform. And the man in the great-coat reaches towards the woman's neck.

‘Grab him!' shouts Webb.

Bartleby springs forward. The sergeant is both considerably taller and faster than the man in the great-coat; he tackles him to the ground even as the man's hand
touches the woman's dress. The woman herself spins around in surprise. A chorus of exclamations break out from the nearby table; some express concern, but mostly they are words of encouragement, as if
al fresco
wrestling is suddenly upon the evening's bill. Webb, for his part, stands to one side. Bartleby looks up with an imploring glance, his captive squirming vigorously in his grip.

‘I could do with a little—' says the sergeant, interrupted by the necessity of avoiding the man's fist.

‘On its way, Sergeant,' replies Webb, as two men from T Division run round the platform. ‘On its way.'

Sergeant Bartleby says nothing, otherwise occupied. He is only relieved when, at length, the strong arms of the two constables prove sufficient to render the struggling man quite prone.

‘Sorry, Miss,' says Webb, at last, turning to address the victim, whilst peering rather strangely at her shoulders. ‘I am a police inspector. Don't be alarmed. Are you quite all right? Did he harm you?'

‘I think he took my necklace,' says the woman, a little shaken, anxiously touching her neck.

‘Oh, damnation,' exclaims Webb, rather to her dismay. ‘Is that all? Check the fellow's pockets, Sergeant. Is there anything?'

Bartleby obliges. A trawl through the coat quickly reveals two sovereigns, a gold fob watch, two necklaces, one silver, one gold, a purse, and a season ticket to the Gardens.

‘Nothing. Is this your necklace, Miss?'

‘Yes, that is mine,' replies the young woman, both shocked and bemused. ‘But what did you expect to find?'

Inspector Webb sighs. ‘A pair of scissors.'

Outside the gas-lit rockery of the Hermit's Cave, in the western portion of Cremorne Gardens, Sarah Jane Hockley, maid-of-all-work, quits the company of the Gardens' famed elderly prognosticator and walks back in the direction of the lawn. She dawdles behind her male companion, a young groom who is eager not to miss the fireworks at ten p.m., and who has, in his own words, ‘waited all night'. In part, her slowness is a growing disinclination for the young man's company; in part, she is bent on reading the prophecy vouchsafed to her by the sage:

Thalaba's Prophecy. The star of your nativity intimates a very good foreboding. Although not entirely unchequered, it promises much future prosperity. The conjunction of Mars with Venus in the square of your nativity offers tokens to show that energy will bring about your advancement and that your union will prove the token of your felicity. See her in the magic mirror. Many future blessings are shown towards the end of the year – many good results will arise, and profitable friendships spring up to your interest.

So fascinating is her destiny, written in a scratchy hand on the crumpled foolscap paper, that she hardly notices the sound of soft footsteps on the grass behind her. And it is far too late to run, once her dress is slashed and torn.

Far too late, when something pierces her side, colouring the ripped muslin bright red.