The Last Pleasure Garden (32 page)

‘I do not suppose your father knows that you are here?' asks Featherstone.

Rose hesitates. She looks up at the clergyman's implacable, stony expression and despairs of lying. ‘No, sir.'

‘It is some young man, I suppose.'

Rose says nothing but the Reverend clasps his hand upon her arm.

‘I have seen unsuspecting innocence beguiled and corrupted too many times, Miss Perfitt, for me not to read the signs. You intend to elope with this young man, am I right?'

‘Please, do not tell my father, sir,' says Rose, after a pause for thought. ‘I love George and he will marry me, I know it.'

‘George?' says Featherstone. ‘And, tell me, Miss
Perfitt, is he the fellow whom I saw creeping into your house, like some area sneak, this very afternoon?'

Rose's mouth drops open. ‘You saw him?'

Reverend Featherstone smiles, not the friendliest of smiles. His hand still tightly holds his companion's arm, as they stroll down the gas-lit path.

‘I have kept my eye upon you, Miss Perfitt. Do you think me a fool? I have seen you outside the Gardens, time and again, loitering about. Then Mrs. Featherstone – God rest her soul – informed me that she actually observed you come through the gates, quite unaccompanied. It was the night before she died; before she fell prey to . . . well, that is another matter . . . the devil is abroad, Miss Perfitt; there is no other explanation for it. But do you recall? She said you ran away. You had some shame left, then, at least.'

Rose bows her head, perhaps reasoning that if she does not speak, she cannot tell a lie.

‘I thought Mrs. Featherstone must be mistaken. I told her as much,' continues Featherstone, with a sigh. ‘But now it seems I was the one who was wrong.'

Rose bows her head. ‘Please don't tell Papa. He will be so angry.'

‘You should have thought of that before you embarked upon such a terrible course, Miss Perfitt,' continues Featherstone. ‘Long before.'

Rose looks up at the clergyman once more, her eyes pleading with him, welling up with tears. She fancies that, as she glances at him, something softens in his expression.

‘Tell me more about this “George”, then,' says Featherstone, guiding Rose further along the path.

Decimus Webb and Sergeant Bartleby reach the King's Road gate of Cremorne Gardens. The entrance is still busy with carriages collecting and disgorging the Gardens' nocturnal habitués, with the result that it takes the two policemen some time to fight their way through the milling crowd.

‘I shall go and inquire after Mr. Boon,' says Webb, ‘in case he has heard anything from Featherstone.'

‘Are you worried about his safety, sir?' asks the sergeant.

‘I no longer feel quite as certain as I once did about Featherstone's state of mind, I confess,' replies Webb. ‘In any case, speak to all the men on duty. If anyone so much as glimpses Featherstone, they must detain him.'

‘Shall I tell them on what grounds, sir?'

‘Just tell them to watch out for sharp objects, Sergeant.'

‘Do you know what they think of you, Miss Perfitt?' asks Featherstone, as they come towards the river esplanade, where the last steamboat of the night is moored by the pier. ‘Do you know what they imagine, these men and women that we pass, as they watch the pair of us here, strolling in the moonlight?'

‘No, sir,' replies Rose.

‘They believe you to be a whore, Miss Perfitt. They believe that you have sold your virtue to an ageing old man. And are they far from wrong?'

Rose blushes, uncertain how she might answer.

‘Ah,' says Featherstone, as they continue by the riverside, ‘here is the maze. As twisted and crooked as the path upon which you have been walking.'

‘I promise, I will make amends,' says Rose, pleadingly, ‘just do not speak to Papa before I do. I will tell him about George and everything, I promise.'

‘Come,' says Featherstone, ‘let us go inside.'

‘Into the maze?' says Rose, puzzled.

‘Yes,' replies Featherstone, all but dragging Rose along, ‘I think it is quite apt.'

‘You are telling me, sir,' says John Boon, ‘that I have a certified lunatic running around the Gardens, and his name is Featherstone?'

Webb grimaces. ‘I believe it is possible.'

‘Well, this is news,' says Boon with heavy sarcasm. ‘You startle me, sir. You positively astound me.'

‘We now have reason to suspect the Reverend is The Cutter, sir, that is the point. I am just a little concerned he may have come back here. Your man on the gates has not seem him, but if he has proved adept at getting in and out unnoticed before . . .'

‘Quite,' replies Boon. ‘You know, I will be writing to the Commissioner about your conduct, Inspector. You could have arrested the infernal fellow days ago.'

‘On what grounds, sir? We require some evidence, you must appreciate that.'

Boon snorts. ‘I hope whatever poor woman he next assaults may appreciate it too.'

The Reverend Featherstone comes to a halt in the centre of the maze, a clearing about ten feet square. Lit by lanterns, suspended from iron supports that arch above it, the clearing contains two stone benches and reveals four exits back into the neatly crafted corridors between the tall yew hedges.

‘You know the maze rather well, Miss Perfitt?' he remarks.

‘I used to come and play here, as a child, sir.'

Featherstone scowls. ‘I see. An unfortunate cradling.'

‘We did nothing wrong, sir. I am sure respectable people have always come here, during the day at least.'

Featherstone shakes his head, grabbing Rose by the arms, and setting her down on one of the benches. ‘Respectable people? What respectability is there, wretched girl, in imbibing spirituous liquor? In coarse dances and crude entertainments? What respectability is there, when decent girls of tender years squander their virtue? When they are seduced by some cold-blooded villain? What then?'

‘I do not know, sir,' replies Rose. ‘Please, you are hurting me.'

‘I am trying to make you understand, Miss Perfitt. To comprehend the nature of your sin. If you might only show some true contrition—'

‘But I love him, sir. Can that be wrong?'

‘You are in love with the devil, Miss Perfitt. Who do you imagine lies behind such seduction, eh? The Great Enemy that lurks in the heart of every man.'

Rose squirms in Featherstone's grip. ‘What are you doing?' she exclaims, her voice a mixture of anger and, all of a sudden, a tremor of fear.

‘I am sorry, Miss Perfitt. If you will not repent, I fear you must become an object lesson,' says Featherstone emphatically, holding her arm with one hand, whilst the other reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a gleaming pair of scissors.

‘Any luck, Sergeant?' asks Webb, finding Bartleby by the Crystal Platform.

‘I've passed word round, sir. I'm not that sure he's here. There was a constable that saw an elderly gentlemen – in regular get-up, not a clergyman – with a young woman, near the esplanade. He thought the fellow was a bit old for . . . well, for Cremorne. I had a quick look round, couldn't see anything, sir. I don't think that was him – doesn't normally keep company with the girls before he goes for them, does he?'

Webb sighs. ‘Do you think I have made a mess of this whole business, Bartleby?'

‘Not if we can catch him, sir,' replies Bartleby.

‘Thank you for your loyalty, Sergeant,' says Webb, wearily. ‘Still, I think we are done for the night.'

Rose Perfitt's gaze is transfixed by the shining blades. If she suddenly understands the danger of her situation, it is only through a deep sinking sensation in the very pit of her stomach, rather than from any rational assessment. Instinctively, she tries to struggle free, but Featherstone slaps her fiercely across the face, enough to disorientate her, sending her stumbling across the bench.

‘Listen to me, Miss Perfitt,' says Featherstone, grabbing at his victim's hair, ignoring the careful pinning that holds it in place. ‘Listen,' he says in a hoarse whisper, roughly chopping at the roots with the scissors, drawing blood as he does so. ‘Only when men see what lies behind the fresh cheeks and curls of girls like you, will they understand the corruption in this place . . .'