The Last Pleasure Garden (38 page)

‘Are you familiar with the practice of what the newspapers like to call baby-farming, Miss Perfitt?' asks Webb.

‘I suppose so.'

‘Yes, I supposed so too. Tell me, how long have you known George Nelson? Be honest with me, now, Miss Perfitt. You no longer need to keep your little secrets, after all.'

‘If you like. Five years, I should say.'

‘You met him when you were, what, thirteen years of age?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you have intimate relations with him then?'

Rose Perfitt blushes bright crimson. ‘That is none of your business.'

‘I rather regret it is police business, Miss Perfitt. Rest assured I take no pleasure in discomforting you.'

‘I did not, Inspector,' says Rose Perfitt, proudly. ‘But even if I had . . . well . . . I am not a criminal.'

‘You would have been of an age to consent to your own seduction. I am aware of that, Miss Perfitt. That is the law of the land and I have neither time nor inclination to quibble with it. But, you see, that is where it all started, is it not? The root of this whole wretched business.'

‘What “business”?'

‘The murder of Jane Budge, Mrs. Featherstone and, of course, Margaret Budge. She was the last one on your list, unless we still have others to find.'

Rose Perfitt puts her hand to her lips, but cannot stifle a nervous giggle. ‘Murder?'

‘I do not find it amusing, Miss Perfitt. I am missing only the fine detail. At thirteen years old, you found yourself with child, did you not? Your parents hid you away in Leamington Spa, so that Dr. Malcolm might discretely attend the birth. As for the infant, it was placed in the care of Margaret Budge. Doubtless you were persuaded it was for the best.'

Rose shakes her head, her face miming disbelief.

‘The child,' continues Webb, ‘died. As any poor creature would die in the hands of such a woman. Starved. Frozen to death. Or perhaps a sudden fever. No matter. The child died and you thought that was the end of it. Your secret was safe.'

‘I have no “secret”, Inspector,' protests Rose Perfitt. ‘You are quite deluded.'

Webb shakes his head. ‘It was George Nelson's return that did it. Jane Budge had put him away. He wanted revenge. Tell me, does he know about the child? Was that what persuaded you to help him kill her? Is that why you have stuck with him?'

Rose Perfitt's mouth drops open. ‘You are mad, Inspector. What do you take me for?'

Webb does not answer. ‘Mrs. Featherstone had
discovered something, I imagine? Perhaps Jane Budge had spoken out of turn? And, finally, Mrs. Budge herself. Was that to indulge Nelson's grudge or yours?'

‘Inspector,' replies Rose, ‘this is making me dizzy. What are you talking about?'

‘I think you know, Miss Perfitt. Although, there is another possibility, of course. That you did it all yourself, to protect your little secret. You all but murdered Nelson's child, after all. He might not take that so kindly. Or did you never plan to elope with him? Did you hope for a respectable marriage, to an agreeable young man? Any hint of an illegitimate child might be rather unfortunate.'

‘This is nonsense – all of it!' declares Rose.

Webb shrugs. ‘I have little proof as yet, but I can find it and I will. No-one can kill three people without a trace, Miss Perfitt. And you are foolish to deny the child, at least. A doctor would know and, if you force my hand, I can propose to a magistrate to have you examined.'

Rose Perfitt freezes. For a second or two she says nothing. At last, when she speaks, a certain steely determination is in her eyes. ‘Very well. Send for a doctor.'

Webb blinks. ‘You are bluffing, Miss Perfitt.'

‘Send for your blessed doctor and be done with it. If that is the indignity required of me, Inspector, then I will submit to it.'

‘I think, first, we shall speak to Mr. Nelson. Where can I find him?'

Rose instinctively looks at a piece of paper that lies on the table. Before she can reply, Webb has it in his hands.

‘Ah, I see. He appears to be going to meet your mother. At the Prince of Orange public house? How
salubrious. Tell me, Miss Perfitt, is blackmail the next stage in your game? He will take good care of you, at a price?'

‘I have no “game”, Inspector, I keep telling you.'

‘Then why would you attach yourself to such a man, Miss Perfitt, so beneath your own station in life?'

‘Because,' replies Rose, tears of frustration in her eyes, ‘I love him.'

Decimus Webb sighs. ‘I can have Dr. Malcolm swear on oath, Miss Perfitt. He will have to admit to it. You will have to explain how you disposed of the child.'

‘Dr. Malcolm?'

‘Come now. Your parents sent you to his establishment in Leamington Spa after your first dalliance with Nelson. Except that it was not to treat your “nerves”, was it?'

‘Oh, this is madness!' exclaims Rose in desperation, wiping her eyes. ‘I have never even been there! Mama was there, I think, when she was not well. I stayed with my sister. Where does all this come from?'

Decimus Webb opens his mouth, but does not speak. He stays stock still, then, at length, closes his eyes and sighs.

‘Bartleby!'

‘Sir?' say Bartleby, running back up the stairs. Webb gets up from his chair and walks hastily towards the door.

‘I have been an utter idiot. Watch Miss Perfitt, Sergeant.'

‘Where are you going, sir?'

Webb does not answer, but hurries down the stairs. In a second or two, however, he reappears at the door.

‘Tell me, Sergeant, where do I find the Prince of Orange?'

G
eorge Nelson opens the door into the private room. It is a little-used, dusty place, upon the first floor of the Prince of Orange, reserved for the likes of commercial travellers or unaccompanied females, anyone who does not wish to be pestered in the public bar. He finds Caroline Perfitt already seated at the table, her hat placed neatly upon it and, in the middle, a bottle of brandy and two glasses, with the liquor already poured.

‘I wasn't sure that you'd come, Missus,' says Nelson, taking the seat opposite, grinning to himself.

‘I had to,' replies Mrs. Perfitt, ‘for Rose's sake.'

‘Did you tell your husband?'

‘He thinks my sister is ill.'

‘Does he?' replies Nelson. ‘How is the old man, anyhow?'

‘You have kidnapped his daughter. How do you think?'

Nelson wags his finger. ‘I know the law, Missus. There's nothing wrong for my part if a girl comes willing. And she is willing, I'll give her that. Tries really hard to please a fellow.'

Mrs. Perfitt visibly winces.

‘Don't you like that, Missus? Don't you want to
hear how much she loves me, your little Rose? Of course, you were better. But she'll learn, give her time; I can teach her a few tricks.'

‘Why, for God's sake? Why are you doing this? You know she has no money. Not even when she is twenty-one.'

Nelson shakes his head, and slams his fist upon the table. Mrs. Perfitt glances anxiously at the brandy, the bottle rattling with the motion.

‘You don't know?' he says, anger in his voice. ‘You think you can put a man away for five bastard years, and he'll just brush it off? You try five years in that hell-hole, with just a bloody number for your name, and see how you like it. I swore I'd pay him back. And I have, because I've got the one thing that's most precious to him in all the world, and he can't do a bloody thing about it. I've got my ticket, you see. I stick to the rules.'

‘What about me? She is my daughter.'

Nelson shrugs. ‘I expect you do as your old man tells you. It makes no odds to me.'

Mrs. Perfitt falls silent.

‘Have some pity,' she says at last.

Nelson snorts in derision. ‘Like you did?'

‘What if I were to tell you that there was a child?'

‘What child?'

‘I had a child, from our union, a boy; it was yours.'

Nelson laughs. ‘Bloody hell. Did
he
know it?'

‘Yes.'

Nelson slaps the table once more, this time with sheer delight on his face. ‘Now that, Missus, is sweet as anything. What became of it?'

‘It . . . he died.'

‘Pity,' says Nelson, still with a smirk upon his face.

‘Please – George – for my sake, give Rose up. You
have made your point. We have all suffered for what we did.'

‘“George” now, is it? What's it worth to you, Missus?'

‘We have money. I am sure if I ask Charles—'

‘To blazes with Charlie-boy. I'm talking about you.'

‘What do you mean?' asks Mrs. Perfitt.

‘You might persuade me, if you liked. Now I look at you, you're still not so bad, for your age; I admire that. You've always made the best of yourself, ain't you?'

Caroline Perfitt looks down at the ground.

‘You will leave Rose alone?' she says at last.

‘I'll think about it,' replies Nelson. ‘Funny. We only did it the once. But I reckon I wouldn't mind another go.'

‘Very well,' she says softly. Nelson grins once more, a smug contented smile spreading across his face.

‘Now, that's more like it, Missus,' he says.

‘Have a drink with me, first,' she says, reaching forward for the brandy.

George Nelson shrugs. ‘If you like,' he says, taking a glass.

Caroline Perfitt watches him as he raises it to his lips. Perhaps she watches too closely, for he hesitates a little, frowning, perplexed by her close scrutiny. And in the same moment, the door to the room is flung wide open.

‘It rather pains me to say it, Mr. Nelson,' says Decimus Webb, breathless, standing in the doorway, ‘but I would not drink that if I were you.'

Nelson looks up in disbelief. ‘What?'

‘I am afraid I am in deadly earnest.'

Nelsons frowns, but lowers the glass, placing it carefully back upon the table.

‘Inspector,' says Mrs. Perfitt, haughtily, ‘whatever do you mean by—'

‘I know the truth, ma'am. I went round the houses to get there, but I know the truth. Please – do not get up – there is nowhere to run and I have a constable not far behind me. You had a child by this man, am I right? You may as well confess it. I am sure we can persuade Dr. Malcolm to tell us, when he knows what you have done to keep it hidden.'

Mrs. Perfitt does not reply. But she makes no denial. Webb continues.

‘Jane Budge arranged for its adoption, if that is the word. Her mother was quite willing to look after it . . . for a month or two at least. But then, a couple of weeks ago, she threatened you; she wanted money, perhaps. She threatened to expose your little secret, just as you were trying to bring your daughter into society. In any case, whatever the reason, you met with her at St. Mark's and you killed her.'

‘It was not like that,' replies Mrs. Perfitt quietly.

‘No?'

‘They told me he was still alive, my boy. I paid them . . . well, I paid them when I could, from the housekeeping. I was a fool. But I found them out in the end.'

‘Ah, I see,' says Webb.

‘I didn't kill her. It was an accident, Inspector. I told her I knew the boy was dead and she threatened me, just as you say. I knocked over the lamp. It was an accident, you see?'

‘An accident that you left her there and locked the door behind you?'

‘I am sorry for that.'

‘An accident, when you had doubtless heard about the threat to “roast” Mr. Featherstone – from his wife,
I assume? A convenient mishap. And what of Mrs. Featherstone? Another accident?'

‘She came to us that afternoon; she knew something, I do not know what. She was dropping heavy hints about the Gardens. I thought perhaps Budge had said something to her.'

‘And so you killed her too? How did you get into the college?'

Mrs. Perfitt sighs. ‘I had a key for the old servants' gate in the Fulham Road. They no longer use it; Budge gave it to me, so I could meet her in secret.'

‘I see,' says Webb. ‘And “The Cutter” helped again, did he not? You thought, with the scissors, he'd get the blame. How ironic that it proved to be Featherstone.'

‘Inspector, I had to do something. It would have ruined us if it came out. Rose could never have married. Don't you see?'

‘Which brings us to Mrs. Budge,' says Webb. ‘When was it? Two days ago? Three? Why so late? You might have killed her before.'

‘If you must know, she wrote to me demanding money; she did not realise I had deduced that the boy was dead.'

‘I still do not follow,' says Webb.

‘I did not know where she lived. She would always meet me at some public place of her choosing.'

‘Ah, of course. So you had to wait until a meeting was arranged; and her death could not be in public. The brandy was a clever touch – was it arsenic?'