The Last Pleasure Garden (29 page)

Webb reluctantly climbs up to one deck, then another, until he is no more than a half dozen feet below the trap-door that leads to the tower's terrace. He can make out the brass loading-tubes that already contain a quintet of rockets, and the neatly laid-out store of shells, comets and squibs all waiting to be projected into the night air; and, although it may be his imagination, there seems to be a faint hint of gunpowder in the air.

‘Featherstone! Stop one moment, sir!' shouts Webb.

The clergyman does pause, looking down through the trap-door. ‘Inspector? Whatever are you doing there?'

‘Sir, I beg you, extinguish the lamp and come down.'

‘No, Inspector,' replies Featherstone, his words fast and almost garbled. ‘These sinners must hear the Word, if we are to save them their fate. I have been too blinkered to see it. I must beard the lion in his den!'

‘Sir, extinguish the lamp. There is enough explosive here to blow us both to smithereens.'

‘Explosive?' asks the clergyman, seemingly perplexed.

‘The fireworks!' exclaims Webb. ‘Sir, please, think what you are about. This is not Exeter Hall.'

‘The path that leads to life is straight and narrow, Inspector. There is little time for these poor souls; most are already at the devil's mercy. They must hear me.'

‘They will not hear you if you are blown to kingdom come, sir. Come, be reasonable.'

Featherstone hesitates. ‘My wife, Inspector . . . I owe it to her . . .'

‘I understand, sir,' replies Webb. ‘But she would not wish you to cause a tragedy here, would she?'

Featherstone stops quite still, as if lost in thought; his posture seems to sag a little. ‘No, no. I suppose not, Inspector.'

And, with that, he puts down his Bible, cups his hand above the lamp's brass chimney, and blows out the flame. Webb, in turn, breathes a deep sigh of relief.

It is only when the clergyman begins his descent down the ladder that Webb realises quite how tightly his own hands are clasped around the wood.

Mr. John Boon stands by the King's Road entrance to Cremorne, with Decimus Webb and the Reverend Featherstone, rather stooped and defeated, before him. The face of Cremorne's proprietor is a particular shade of infuriated pink, which lends little charm to his countenance.

‘I cannot believe it, Inspector – you must charge this madman!' exclaims Boon.

‘I think, sir,' Webb replies, ‘that if one considers the Reverend's personal circumstances; and that, in the end, no great harm was done, I am inclined to let the matter rest.'

‘Let it rest! Yes, well, that does not surprise me, coming from you, Inspector. Not at all!'

‘There is no need to be abusive, sir. The Reverend has given me his word that he will not return to your premises, or the immediate vicinity. That is enough for you, surely?'

‘I shall believe that when I see it,' says Boon.

‘May I go, Inspector?' interjects the Reverend Featherstone in a low whisper. ‘I should like to return home, if I may.'

‘Yes, sir. You take care.'

Boon snorts contemptuously, but the two men watch as the clergyman walks out through the gates, and along the King's Road, his shoulders still slumped and weary.

‘That is an end to your ridiculous feud, I hope,' says Webb, at last. ‘Surely you can see the man has been quite broken.'

‘The man is a menace, sir,' says Boon, emphatically. ‘And if this is how you are prosecuting your search for The Cutter, then God help us all.'

‘The Reverend Featherstone is quite harmless, Mr. Boon. He is the least of my worries.'

The Reverend Featherstone returns to his rooms in St. Mark's to find them dark and unwelcoming. No-one has lit the gas; there is no supper ready upon the dining table; his correspondence lies unopened upon the bureau. It takes him a little while to find the matches in the bureau drawer; and then there is the chore of going round the burners. At length, however, when the room has some light, he takes the day's letters and sits down at his writing desk, not far from where he found the corpse of his wife.

He reaches down to the bottom drawer of the desk, and pulls out a silver paper-knife, cutting open the folds of each envelope one by one. When he is done, he methodically returns the knife to the drawer, where it lies, inconspicuous and unseen, hidden from the world, beside a sharp pair of household scissors.

I
t is gone three o'clock in the afternoon when Rose Perfitt hears her mother's footsteps upon the stairs. Rose hastily places the book she is reading out of sight, stuffing it under the bed sheets, and resumes the languid pose of an invalid, lolling on the pillows propped up against the headboard. She answers her mother's knock upon the door with a faint voice, calculated to sound as miserable as possible.

‘Rose, how are you feeling?' asks Mrs. Perfitt, as she opens the door.

‘I'm still a little low, Mama.'

‘Did Richards bring you that soup?' continues her mother, who walks over to the bed, and lightly touches her daughter's forehead with her hand. ‘You do not have a temperature, at least.'

‘I might try and get up later.'

‘I should hope so. You cannot stay in bed all day, my dear,' says Mrs. Perfitt, straightening the sheets as she talks, ‘there is no virtue in that, even if you feel seedy. I promised your father that you would be up and about by the time he comes home.'

‘I was thinking about Mr. Sedgecombe. Has he called?'

Mrs. Perfitt sighs. ‘You know full well he has not, Rose. You can hear the bell as well as anyone.'

‘I might have been asleep,' protests Rose.

‘He has neither called nor left his card,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, wearily.

‘I'm sorry, Mama.'

Mrs. Perfitt manages a forced smile. ‘Never mind, my dear. There will be other young men.'

‘I suppose.'

‘And he was an awful bore, wasn't he?' says Mrs. Perfitt, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. ‘I never knew there was so much to be said about cricket.'

Rose laughs. ‘Mama!'

‘Well, never mind that. Now, I am going to visit your Aunt Elspeth again. She knows you are sickly, mind you. Why she cannot manage for herself, I do not know. I do believe she craves the attention. I do not suppose you would care to come and pay your respects?'

‘No, Mama. But do send her my love.'

‘I shall. I should be back before you father is home. And do not run Richards ragged, either, if you can help it. She has quite enough to do.'

‘I'm sure I will get up soon, Mama. In an hour or so.'

Mrs. Perfitt accedes to this, and leaves her daughter alone, closing the bedroom door behind her.

Rose, in turn, waits until she can hear her mother going downstairs. Then she gets up, pulling her dressing-gown around her, and tiptoes towards her bedroom window, peering out along the street.

An hour later, and Rose Perfitt is up from her bed and dressed. Quite still, standing by her bedroom
curtains, she suddenly catches sight of something upon Edith Grove that sends her dashing from the window. Without the slightest hesitation, she rushes down the hall stairs, her feet barely touching the carpet. She does not pause for breath until she descends the final flight, down into the basement kitchen, her soft slippers sliding on the stone floor. Outside in the narrow well of the area, the railed sunken court in front of the house, she can make out a pair of boots, coming down the whitewashed steps. She hurries to the kitchen door and carefully undoes the latch. Then, with a quick glance up to the street, she swiftly ushers George Nelson indoors.

‘I thought you'd never come,' she says, her tone more one of relief than chastisement.

‘I should be working,' replies Nelson, looking around the kitchen. ‘Told them I had a belly ache.'

‘Well, do hurry up and kiss me then.'

George Nelson, a good foot taller than Rose, smiles at this, reaches out and cups her face in his hands. He leans down and kisses her, his lips lingering on hers for what seems to Rose an eternity. He grins as he pulls back, lightly touching her face with his rough hand.

‘Where are they, then?'

‘Papa is at work and Mama has gone to see Aunt Elspeth.'

‘And?'

Rose sighs in mock vexation. ‘Cook will not come for an hour yet; and I sent Richards on an errand.'

‘She knows I'm here, though, don't she? I bet she does.'

‘George, don't be such a goose!' she exclaims. ‘Of course she does. I gave her my best ring, remember? I told you. She won't say a word.'

Nelson frowns a little. Rose, however, ignores the little show of displeasure and takes his hand; she tugs at it, moving back towards the hall stairs.

‘Come on,' she says, a mischievous look upon her face. ‘Come with me.'

‘Where?' he replies, almost warily.

‘Come on. I'll show you my room. Wipe your feet.'

George Nelson seems to hold back at first. But, in the end, he wipes his feet upon the mat by the door and allows himself to be led, like some wary animal, out of the kitchen and up into the hall. He looks quite incongruous in his working clothes, dodging the china plate displayed upon shelves on the first-floor landing, his heavy boots thudding upon the stairs. But Rose pulls him onwards with almost childlike enthusiasm, until they come to her bedroom door.

‘Here we are then,' she says, proudly, bringing him inside.

Nelson surveys the room. ‘I can see that,' he replies, casually casting his eye over the bed, the marble washstand, the lace curtains.

‘Here is my little desk, where I wrote you all those letters,' says Rose, ‘the ones I told you about. You will have to read them.'

‘I will. Not now, eh?'

‘And that's my bed,' she says.

‘I can see that too. Is that where you dream about me, then?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘What sort of dreams?'

Rose blushes. ‘Just dreams.'

‘What's that?' asks Nelson, looking in the direction of the armchair by the hearth, where a tumble of white silk lies draped over one arm.