The Last Pleasure Garden (37 page)

‘Do you really love me, George?'

‘You know I do. I said it, didn't I?'

Rose Perfitt stretches out on the bed, content.

‘I know, I just like to hear you tell me.'

It is almost half-past eleven when Alfred Budge returns to the Battersea Road. He passes by several public houses without a glance to see whether they are open or closed and walks briskly along. Occasionally, he looks over his shoulder. Even when he slips on the
pavement, he keeps going, gripping tightly the large bundle of coarse cloth he holds to his chest. He only slows down when he comes to the bridge, treading cautiously down the side road that descends in a steep slope down to the river. Once he is by the wharves he walks purposefully along a familiar stretch of causeway, the timbers creaking beneath his feet. At the end, he drops the bundle and stoops down. He feels a little faint as he bends down, and he has to steady himself with his hand. Distracted, he does not notice the footsteps behind him.

‘What's this then?'

Alfred Budge turns his head, to find a cloaked police constable standing over him. He looks down at the bundle, the blanket having fallen open.

‘Three little Moses,' says Budge, his voice slurred and indistinct.

The police constable blinks. ‘God help us,' he says at last. ‘What's your game?'

‘God help us,' echoes Alfred Budge.

‘D
amn me!' exclaims Bartleby, as he enters the front parlour of Budge's Dairy. Webb, likewise, winces and swiftly pulls out a pocket handkerchief, putting it to his mouth.

‘Go and open the window, for pity's sake,' mutters Webb, swatting ineffectually at the dozen flies that buzz noisily about the room. ‘No wonder that blasted constable stayed outside. If that is what passes for humour in V Division, I am not laughing. Take his number when we leave.'

‘Yes, sir,' coughs Bartleby, struggling with the latch on the front window, finally managing to lever it open. He leans his head outside, and takes a deep breath.

Webb, meanwhile, walks over to the corpse of Margaret Budge, the body still seated on the armchair in front of the fire. He notices the broken glass on the floor near by, and briefly bends down to peer at the remains of the bottle. When finished, he motions towards his sergeant.

‘Over here,' says Webb imperiously. Bartleby reluctantly obeys.

‘You cannot hold your breath for ever, man,' says Webb. ‘You may as well train yourself to bear it. Now, tell me, look at her, what is the cause of death?'

Bartleby casts his eyes over the body. ‘She's not long
dead, is she, sir? I thought she must be, what with this stink in the place.'

‘Correct. A day or two, maybe three at most, I'd hazard. Have a good look, Sergeant, she won't bite.' Bartleby swallows hard and walks around the chair, gingerly moving Mrs. Budge's arms and legs, tilting her head. Then something on the floor catches his eye.

‘Ah. Vomit, sir, dried on the floor here.'

‘And on her sleeve, Sergeant. Anything else?'

Bartleby coughs. ‘I'd say she soiled herself, sir.'

‘Right again. What does this tell us?'

‘Well, it's either stomach fever or poison, sir,' replies Bartleby.

‘Stomach fever? You are a trusting soul, Sergeant.'

‘Just considering the possibilities, sir.'

‘There is no sign of convulsions or rictus, so we may eliminate
nux vomica
,' continues Webb. ‘My guess would be arsenic.'

Bartleby nods, and coughs once more.

‘Very well, Sergeant. The autopsy will tell us. Let us have a look in the back. Perhaps the air will be a little fresher.'

Bartleby willingly agrees and the two men proceed to the back parlour. It is untouched since the previous night, the coffin and empty cots being the principal items of furniture.

‘Jane Budge,' says Webb, reading the name upon the wood. ‘You had best be grateful they did a decent job of sealing her in, Sergeant, or the odour would be considerably worse.'

‘No money to bury her?' suggests Bartleby.

‘I wonder. They found a dozen gold sovereigns in Budge's pocket,' remarks Webb, looking at the cots, turning over the dirty linen in each.

‘Can he account for it?' asks Bartleby.

‘The man can barely account for anything, Sergeant. The doctor says it will take him two days to sober up, if the process does not damage him irrevocably. She was his wife, that much seems certain. Kept her business secret, as well she might.'

Bartleby looks down at the empty cots. ‘Poor little beggars. She should have been registered.'

‘I think you will find, Sergeant, that her kind do not care over much for the finer points of the law. And, I suspect, despite the Act, still no-one much cares to inquire about unwanted infants. They are too much trouble all round.'

‘Do you think he killed her?'

‘Budge?' Webb allows himself a wry laugh. ‘That man could not muster the wits to kill a fly. Not unless it drowned in his beer. And even if he could, I doubt he would choose poison. Tell me, did you notice the broken bottle?'

‘In the front, sir?'

‘Yes. Brandy. Have a look at the label. It is an excellent name, not the sort of thing one finds in a tuppenny beer-shop or low public. There's an empty purse upon the table too; again, good quality silk. A lady's purse.'

‘Stolen?'

‘Or payment, for services rendered. What is the price for adoption, these days? Twelve sovereigns sounds plausible. As for the bottle of brandy, I suspect that is payment of a different sort. ‘

‘You've lost me, sir.'

‘Yes, well, I am afraid that may be because I am stumbling in the dark myself. Search the house. See if you can find anything of interest. I fear I need a breath of fresh air.'

Bartleby emerges from the house an hour later and finds Webb waiting outside, standing in the lane beside the cab that brought them, reading a piece of notepaper.

‘Nothing in there, sir,' says Bartleby. ‘Some baby linen, a few knick-knacks. Nothing to help us at all.'

‘Hmm?'

‘I didn't find anything in the house, sir.'

‘Never mind, Sergeant,' says Webb, getting into the cab as he speaks. ‘I believe our luck has turned.'

‘Sir?'

‘Get in, man,' says Webb impatiently, waving the note-paper at his sergeant. ‘The Yard's found the cab that Rose Perfitt used – you were right. Dropped her and Nelson on the Lambeth Road. You used to have a beat in Lambeth, did you not?'

‘Yes, sir, as it happens.'

‘Then I am sure it will be a simple matter to find them.'

‘George, is that you?'

‘Who were you expecting?'

Rose Perfitt smiles. ‘Only you. Was there anything?'

‘A letter from your mother. She says she'll come and see us, just like I said.'

Rose walks over and throws her arms around her lover's neck. ‘I knew she would, George. And I know we can make her understand; she only needs to see how much I love you. Then she can change Papa's mind.'

‘I'll go on my own, mind,' says Nelson.

‘On your own?'

‘Could be a trick, your father might try and get you back. And we wouldn't want that, would we?'

Rose looks thoughtful. ‘No, you're right.'

Nelson leans down and kisses her upon the forehead.

‘Good girl.'

‘H
ere?'

Decimus Webb looks rather incredulously at the shoddy fishmonger's, whose mackerel and haddock lie in serried rows upon wooden blocks.

‘There's a room above it, sir,' says Bartleby. ‘Up these stairs. Fellow on the corner reckons he saw the pair of them going up there yesterday. Recollects the girl's dress; said you don't see much of that quality around here.'

‘More than likely. Very well, Sergeant. After you.'

Bartleby readily leads the way, up the wooden steps beside the shop, until they come to a landing upon the first floor.

‘Shall we knock, sir?'

Webb demurs and opens the door. Inside, Rose Perfitt is busying herself, straightening the frayed cloth that covers the room's small dining-table. Her appearance still has a good deal of Edith Grove about it, and seems in stark contrast to the dowdy realities of the Lambeth Road. When she sees the two policemen, she jumps in fright.

‘Inspector!'

‘I am sorry, Miss Perfitt,' says Webb. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.'

Rose takes a deep breath. ‘I am afraid you did.'

‘I see you have fallen on your feet,' says Webb, looking around the room.

‘It is just until we are settled,' replies Rose, nervously.

‘How cosy,' says Webb.

There is a silence. Rose, at last, steels herself to speak.

‘I expect you have come to take me back home. Well, I shall not go.'

‘Sergeant,' says Webb, ‘go downstairs and watch the door in case Mr. Nelson returns. I should like to talk to Miss Perfitt alone.'

Bartleby obliges, whilst Webb takes a chair and offers one to Rose Perfitt. She sits down, facing him, uncertain quite what to make of the situation.