The Last Pleasure Garden (31 page)

‘Sir?'

‘Nothing. Something that someone said to me last night. I suppose this would explain why he was not overly concerned by those schoolboy threats. He knew that they were just that, and no more.'

‘This'll be one in the eye for the Assistant Commissioner, sir.'

‘We haven't got our man yet, Sergeant. Unless you know where we might find him?'

‘I'm thinking we should try the Gardens,' replies Bartleby. ‘He's drawn to the place.'

‘I suppose we must. For one thing, it appears I owe Boon an apology.'

‘We'll soon find him now, sir.'

Webb frowns.

‘I am still not convinced, Sergeant, that it is that simple.'

In Battersea, Margaret Budge opens to the door to her back parlour, a candle in her hand. The air in the room is rather damp and foetid. Before her, in the dim light, three small wooden cots are laid out upon the stone floor and, beside them, laid out upon an old oak table, is a plain coffin. It is a parish affair, with no handles or brass, merely half a dozen panels of bare rough elm. There is nothing to distinguish its occupant, save a series of scratches upon the side, which approximate to the name
Jane Budge
, the work of some ill-paid functionary of the parish of Chelsea.

Mrs. Budge looks at the box for a moment, then peers down, checking inside each cot. There is little vital spark in the small creatures that nestle inside the three cribs. Each is an infant less than six months old, with a listless, languid appearance, and eyes that do not seem quite able to open wide. Their meagre bodies, wrapped in dirty off-white swaddling clothes, likewise seem to have little natural childish energy, and each one is, in truth, disproportionately small for their age. One of the three, however, wriggles a little in the glow of the candlelight, reaching up with its tiny hands, clutching at nothing. Mrs. Budge puts the candle to one side and picks the child up, cradling it in her arms.

‘How are you, little 'un, eh?' whispers the old woman.

The child, however, perhaps exhausted by its exertion, does not respond. After a minute or so, Mrs. Budge replaces it in the cot, picks up her candle, and returns to the front parlour of Budge's Dairy. Taking
her regular seat before the hearth, though the fire is not lit, she pauses to contemplate an opened purse upon the nearby table. Its contents – a dozen gold sovereigns – lie piled in a small heap, as if eagerly tipped out and counted; whilst beside it stands a bottle of expensive-looking brandy.

Mrs. Budge reaches for the bottle, pulls out the stopper, and takes a swig of the brown liquor.

‘Best black feathers, now, Janey,' mutters the old woman to herself. ‘Best black feathers, first thing in the mornin'.'

Mrs. Budge takes another swig.

C
harles Perfitt hears footsteps and turns round to see his daughter enter the dining-room.

‘Rose, your Mama told me you were feeling better when she came back. Will you have dinner with us?'

‘Yes, Papa,' says Rose, bending down to kiss her father upon the cheek. ‘If I may.'

‘Rose, dear,' says Mrs. Perfitt, as her daughter takes a seat, ‘I hardly think you need ask permission.'

Mr. Perfitt smiles as Rose kisses him, but then glances rather nervously at his wife. ‘Rose, there is something I would like to tell you. I would have come up and spoken to you this evening but, since you are feeling better, we may as well discuss it now.'

‘Papa?'

‘I have talked to your mother, and to Dr. Malcolm, about your constitution. Malcolm believes we are over-taxing you; that a rest might do you good. Indeed, it might do us all good. So I have made arrangements for a holiday.'

‘A holiday?' says Rose, turning to her mother. ‘Mama! We cannot go on holiday during the Season. Beatrice says we may be invited to the Prince's again; and there is a garden party at the Boscombes' – we are sure to go, Mama, you said so.'

‘Yes, I know, my dear,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, sympathetically, ‘but your father is only thinking of your best interests.'

‘But how long shall we be away?' ask Rose.

‘I thought two months,' replies Mr. Perfitt. ‘I have rented a cottage near Broadstairs; it is a good spot – if the firm has any need of me, I can easily catch the train back, as required.'

‘But, Papa, we can't just go,' says Rose, with obvious anxiety in her voice. ‘I shall miss everything.'

Mr. Perfitt shakes his head. ‘We are leaving on Saturday, my dear. That is an end to it. Now, where is Richards with that soup?'

‘I do not want to go to Broadstairs, Papa,' says Rose, rather too emphatically.

‘My dear!' exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. ‘For heaven's sake, do not make such a fuss. You must do as your father says. We shall come back in time for the end of the Season, I am sure.'

Rose gets up hurriedly from her chair, which scrapes the rug as she pushes it backwards.

‘I am sorry,' she says, ‘I do not think I am hungry.'

With that, Rose quits the room, turning her back on her parents before either has an opportunity to speak.

‘Good Lord,' exclaims Mr. Perfitt, under his breath. ‘I knew she would not be happy, Caroline, but this is quite remarkable. Whatever has got into her?'

‘I shall talk to her when she has calmed down,' says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘She will have to apologise.'

‘I swear, I do not understand her moods.'

Mrs. Perfitt frowns. ‘Neither do I, Charles. Neither do I.'

Rose Perfitt apologises to her father at ten o'clock, having been prevailed upon by her mother. At eleven, she follows her parents in retiring to her bed. At a few minutes before midnight she sneaks down into the kitchen and lets herself out onto the street. On this occasion, she wears one of her own dresses, though it is not a particularly expensive or showy article. It is covered, moreover, as to its upper portion, by a dark green hooded mantle that all but conceals her face from any passer-by. And, in one hand, she carries a capacious leather bag, a piece of travelling luggage, of the sort that commonly accompanies young women in railway carriages. Thus attired, she makes her way along Edith Grove, across the King's Road, and down to the gates of Cremorne Gardens.

‘What you selling, darlin'?' exclaims one waggish gentleman, not of the highest class, gesturing at her rather battered bag as he climbs into a waiting hansom. Rose, however, does not reply but merely draws her hood further over her face, pays for her admission and hurries into the grounds.

But once inside, she hesitates. For her elopement from Edith Grove is an impromptu one, and she has no idea where in particular to find George Nelson, nor quite how to go about it. At length, she decides to follow the nearest path from the main avenue, which, as a fingerpost makes plain, leads directly to the Gardens' Marionette Theatre. It is a rather shabby-looking venue, a Grecian building of two storeys, boasting a colonnade of stunted columns, made from some indeterminate and insubstantial material, akin to papier mâché. She walks over to the ticket window, which, she discovers, houses a short young man of slumped posture and poor manners.

‘I'm sorry,' she says, ‘can you tell me, do you know George Nelson? He is a labourer here.'

The young man shrugs. ‘Can't say as I do. Can't say as I don't. Maybe he's inside, like.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, go and have a look if you like,' says the young man, disinterestedly. ‘Up to you.'

Rose hesitates, looking at the twin doors that form the entrance to the theatre; she can hear the boisterous sound of a brass band from inside the small auditorium. Just as she determines to follow the young man's suggestion, he calls out to her.

‘Tuppence, mind.'

Rose stops, and impatiently rifles through her purse for the change. Once inside, however, she despairs of making any progress. The stalls are quite full to bursting, with men and women standing in the aisles, and a pall of tobacco smoke heavy in the air. The evening's final attraction is one of the Gardens' most demanded acts, The Beckwith Frogs, their name emblazoned upon a giant piece of card at the front of the stage. Performing within a transparent tank of water, almost too large for the theatre, the submersible family – father, mother, son and daughter – are engaged in a watery family meal, to the accompaniment of trumpet and tuba. Mr. Beckwith sips from his tea-cup – to much applause. Master Beckwith gets down from his chair and swims round the head of his mother – to greater applause. All rise for air, then sink to their subaqueous abode once more; the table is cleared and a game of cards begins – to positively thunderous applause.

Rose peers about her. There is no possible way to get behind the scenes; nor, she realises, any certainty of finding George Nelson when she gets there. Her
eyes meets those of a blue-uniformed police constable, stationed upon the other side of the theatre. He looks at her pointedly. It is the same glance that members of Her Majesty's Police reserve for any solitary woman in a crowded theatre; the same unfortunate suspicion that attaches to all lone females in resorts of dubious reputation. But Rose herself is not so certain; she imagines her father has already notified the authorities; that a search is under way, to prevent her reaching her lover. And so she turns and runs, back outside.

She pointedly ignores the ticket clerk and returns to the path. A voice calls out to her, a hand touching her sleeve.

‘Miss Perfitt? I thought it was you. Whatever do you have there?'

Rose jumps in surprise, almost dropping her bag.

‘Oh,' she says, taking a deep breath, ‘Reverend! You startled me.'

‘I
confess, Miss Perfitt,' says the Reverend Featherstone, ‘I am saddened to find you here, in this wretched place, at such a late hour. Here, please, take my arm.'

Rose Perfitt, rather dumb-founded, obeys. The clergyman begins to walk her back along the path towards the central avenue.

‘I – I have to see someone,' she says, stumbling over her words.