by Lee Jackson
‘Yes, Miss. Well, not exactly,’ replies Richards, blushing. ‘He gave me this envelope, Miss. He said I was to take it just to you, seeing how it was a secret.’ The maid holds out a rather dusty-looking envelope. Rose takes it swiftly from Richards’ hand.
‘You may go, Richards.’
‘Thank you, Miss,’ replies the maid, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye.
Rose Perfitt waits until the maid has left the room before taking up her silver letter-opener. She slices open the envelope, peers inside and turns it inside out.
A single petal from a red rose falls onto her desk.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘A warm night, ain’t it?’ says the toll-keeper upon Battersea Bridge, tugging at his shirt collar. ‘I reckon there’s a storm brewing.’
‘Is that right?’ replies Jane Budge, surrendering a copper coin to pay for her crossing.
‘Aye, that’s right,’ says the toll-keeper, gesturing magnanimously towards the turn-stile. ‘Us old ’uns can feel it in our bones.’
‘You’re like my old Ma, ’cepting with her it’s rain, snow, and who’ll win the bloody Derby.’
‘You laugh, my girl. You laugh when you’re soaked through and no ’brella.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ she says, over her shoulder, walking on across the bridge.
In truth, Jane Budge wonders if the old man’s prediction may prove correct. The nocturnal sky seems black as pitch, punctuated by neither the moon nor the stars. She sets herself a brisk pace, past the gas-lights upon the bridge, quickening her step down to the Battersea Road. There, for want of any better mental exercise, she estimates her progress by ticking off each public house as she goes past, useful milestones along the rather dingy thoroughfare. It is only when she passes the Red Cow, considering herself quite alone on the road, that she hears the distinct sound of foot-steps on the stone paving behind her.
She turns around, but there is no-one to be seen. Pausing for a moment, the only figure she can discern in the gloom is several hundred yards away, in the side road next to the last public house, a man bracing his body against a wall with one arm, relieving himself of an excess of beer. He looks far too unsteady to be any danger. She shakes her head and walks on, looking back at him two or three times, to be sure he is not following. But the man merely remains against the wall, as if determined to prop it up all night.
Jane Budge’s nerves become calmer by the time she reaches the brick fields. Perhaps she reasons that her familiarity with the half-made roads is a charm against danger – for any drunk would be as likely to trip and break their neck somewhere along the way, as catch up with her. In any case, she strides along the darkened lanes with some assurance.
But, again, she hears the sound of someone walking. Not the firm clatter of boots on stone, but soft muddy footfalls on the new unpaved street, not far behind her. She rather fancies that she can hear a man breathing.
‘Who’s there?’ she says, stopping in her tracks, looking about her. But she can only see the black outlines of the brick kilns in the nearby fields, which appear rather like malign carbuncles upon the rugged landscape, and there is no reply except the echo of her own voice.
She takes a deep breath and quickens her steps.
It comes as a relief to find the turning down Sheepgut Lane. The two familiar rows of dilapidated cottages doubtless seem comforting, even if indistinct in the pitch darkness. She can, at least, make out the candle in her mother’s window.
There it happens again. A man breathing heavily; the sound of someone moving about.
This time she runs, though she does not quite have the confidence to turn around. But as she approaches Budge’s Dairy, within inches of the gate, a man’s hand grabs her wrist, yanking her body about.
‘Who you running from, Janey?’ says George Nelson.
‘Bleedin’ hell!’ exclaims Jane Budge, her face a picture of astonishment.
‘I knew I’d find you here. Still clutching at your mother’s apron strings.’
Jane Budge shakes her arm, but does not remove her captor’s grip. ‘I thought you were still inside.’
George Nelson looks at her contemptuously. ‘Did you now? Well they gave me a ticket, you see, for good behaviour. So I’m a free man. Can do as I like.’
‘As you like?’ she replies breathlessly. ‘The peelers won’t stand for you coming here.’
Nelson tilts his head quizzically, still maintaining his grasp of her arm. ‘To say hello to my old sweet-heart? It’d be a hard man who could object to that, eh? Where are you working now, Janey? I looked for you at the old place, but you weren’t there. I thought you were their little treasure.’
‘Will you let go of me? You’re hurting me.’
‘That’s a shame. Don’t squirm so. Where are you working?’
Jange Budge bites her lip. ‘Down at the Training College. What’s it to you?’
‘Just wondering who’d have a cheap whore like you, that’s all.’
Jane Budge swings her free hand in a swift arc towards Nelson’s face. He, however, is far too quick for her, grabbing her so that he has both her arms firmly in his grasp.
‘What do you want from us, George?’ she says angrily.
‘What do I want? I spent nigh on five years in Pentonville on account of you, Janey. I suppose I didn’t have much else to think on: what I’d say to you when I got out; what I’d do—’
‘You ain’t man enough to do nothing,’ says Jane Budge defiantly.
George Nelson scowls. ‘Five years, Janey. Hard bed, hard board, hard labour. Leaves a man liable to do anything. Every other day on the ’mill, turning that blasted wheel, till I was fit for nothing. And not allowed to say a word, except “yes, sir”, “no, sir”, “thank’ee, sir”. Imagine that, eh?’
He tightens his grip on her wrists. Jane Budge grimaces in pain.
‘It changes a man,’ he says. ‘It changes him all right.’
As he speaks, there is the sound of a door creaking open. George Nelson turns his gaze to the exterior of Budge’s Dairy. The substantial figure of Mrs. Budge stands upon her doorstep. In one hand she holds an oil-lamp, casting an orange glow, which illuminates the darkness; in the other is a small pistol, the burnished metal of its barrel glinting in the light.
‘Reckon you look much the same to me, George Nelson. Now, let go of my Jane before you get hurt.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ says Nelson.
‘Do for a villain like you? Trespassing on a person’s property in the middle of the night, when you’ve hardly set foot out of the jug? If I killed you stone dead they’d give me a medal and draw up a subscription.’
Nelson’s hesitation, his eyes fixed on the gun, is sufficient for Jane Budge to wring her hands free of him. She hastens to her mother’s side.
‘Off you go, then,’ says Mrs. Budge, with considerable authority.
Mrs. Budge gestures with the gun. George Nelson does not reply. With a silent and sullen parting glance at Jane Budge, he turns back down the path.
Mrs. Budge watches him leave. When she is quite certain he is not coming back, she shepherds her daughter inside.
‘Lor!’ she exclaims, once the front door is bolted. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
Jane Budge shakes her head. ‘What will we do? You heard him. He won’t just let it go, not now he’s out.’
‘I didn’t think he’d have the nerve to come round here, pestering you,’ says Mrs. Budge, standing in front of the fire, a rather worried look upon her face.
‘Where did you get that?’ says Jane, looking at the gun.
‘Your Pa won it – must be ten year back; made a wager with a commercial traveller. Thought I’d best keep it safe.’
‘It ain’t loaded, is it?’
Mrs. Budge shakes her head, placing the pistol on the wooden mantel. She does it rather too casually, however, and the gun falls from the shelf as she lets go of it, landing on the stone floor – with a terrific noise and a sudden explosion of smoke.
Both women instinctively freeze. When the smoke has dissipated, a small china tea-cup that rested decoratively above the fire-place is smashed into half a dozen pieces.
‘Bless me!’ exclaims Mrs. Budge. ‘It was an’ all.’
From the rear of the room comes the sound of a crying child.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘So, another clue falls into our laps, courtesy of your clergyman,’ says Decimus Webb in a tone that would extinguish the enthusiasm of the most eager detective sergeant. ‘But we do not know what it is?’
Bartleby, however, refuses to be quenched. ‘It’s just that the wife was quite insistent you turned out and talked to her husband, sir. Inspector or nothing. I think she thought we weren’t taking her seriously last time.’
‘I hold you responsible for that misapprehension, Sergeant.’
The cab carrying the two policemen pulls up outside the Fulham Road entrance to St. Mark’s Training College.
‘If you met the lady, sir,’ says Bartleby, ‘you might understand.’
‘I will admit,’ replies Webb, paying the driver, ‘that any female that sends you away with a flea in your ear has my utmost respect.’
Bartleby adopts the resigned smile he reserves for such exchanges and seeks directions from the gate-keeper. The two policeman are directed to a peculiar stone octagon that nestles inside the college walls. Two storeys high, it is in a similar Italianate style to the college’s principal buildings, even down to a miniature eightsided campanile that forms the summit of its tiled roof.
‘Apparently it’s the Practising School, sir,’ says Bartleby. ‘The Reverend should be there this time of day.’
If anything, it seems to Webb that the building has the look of some obscure chapel, rather than any school with which he is familiar. The interior does nothing to dispel the impression: a cruciform space within the octagon, with boys on various benches and forms in each arm of the cross, both on the ground floor and in a gallery above. The scholars themselves receive attention from individual monitors, pupil-teachers learning the art of pedagogy, but all of the boys face the centre. And there, seated on a tall chair, is the Reverend Featherstone, his eyes roving around the room. The clergyman’s field of vision is not quite three hundred and sixty degrees, for at the heart of the room is a multi-sided chimney, extending up to the roof, with four substantial fire-places at its base. And yet, there is undoubtedly something of the prison panopticon in the unusual design and, although not given to sentiment, Decimus Webb feels a stab of pity for the pupils in St. Mark’s model school.
‘Ah, Sergeant,’ says the Reverend Featherstone. ‘My wife said you might call.’
‘This is Inspector Webb, sir,’ replies Bartleby. Webb, however, seems a little distracted, leaning over the shoulder of one of the nearby pupils.
‘Sir?’ says Bartleby.
‘Ah, Sergeant. Yes, forgive me,’ says Webb, turning and offering his hand to the clergyman. ‘Pleased to meet you, Reverend. Now, perhaps you could tell us what is the matter? I gather you have received another little missive.’
‘Not quite, Inspector. Perhaps if you might come with me.’
The policemen follow Reverend Featherstone who, signalling to his juniors to continue, quits the schoolroom and leads them outside. He walks in the direction of the main buildings.
‘Have you worked here long, sir?’ asks Webb.
‘Three years or so, Inspector.’
‘And do you find it rewarding work?’
The Reverend Featherstone smiles indulgently, as if humouring his interlocutor. ‘It is my calling, Inspector. So, yes, of course I do.’
‘I would not be responsible for a mob of children if you paid me, sir. I expect the younger boys are the worst, eh?’
‘Inspector, I fear your work must have engendered an unfortunate cynicism. One must simply show them a firm hand. Then one earns their respect.’
‘Ah, well, of course,’ replies Webb.
Featherstone leads the two policemen into the main quadrangle but not to his suite of rooms. Instead, they turn down a rather dark corridor, to a small box-room, tucked away from public view, where the college’s servants keep their cleaning utensils.
‘My wife would not have it in our rooms, Inspector. The smell, you see? I thought it best to leave it here but the servants have complained. The sooner you remove it, the better.’
‘Complained of what, sir?’
Featherstone frowns, and retrieves a rolled-up newspaper from a nearby shelf. Gingerly, he unwraps it with his fingertips, revealing the rather ripe carcase of a scraggy-looking plucked chicken – minus its head.
‘Pungent, I’ll grant you,’ says Webb.
‘Here, Inspector,’ says the clergyman, proffering a piece of paper.
Webb takes it and reads the contents.
Watch out, old bird!
THE CUTTER
‘This is everything?’ says Webb incredulously. He casts a rather irritated glance at Bartleby.
‘Is it not enough, Inspector?’ asks Featherstone. ‘I mean to say, I have no great concern for my safety, but you must take this sort of thing seriously. If some party, whether it is Mr. Boon or not, is hounding me in this way – however ridiculous it may be – well, surely it is a criminal matter.’
‘I should not make wild accusations, sir,’ suggests Webb.
‘But surely you must look into it.’
Webb nods. ‘Well, of course, sir. I can assure you I will give this matter the attention it deserves. You have my word.’
Reverend Featherstone looks relieved. ‘Mrs. Featherstone will be so glad, Inspector.’
Webb nods. ‘Thank you, sir. It is an . . . interesting development. We can find our way out – no need to accompany us – your students will be missing you. Sergeant . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘Be a good man and bring the evidence, will you?’
Bartleby casts his eye over the dead bird and grimaces, holding his breath.
‘I have never, Sergeant, wasted my time in such a ridiculous wild goose chase.’
Sergeant Bartleby begins to speak, but is cut short.
‘Don’t even contemplate that remark, Sergeant.’
‘No, sir. One moment, sir?’ he says, spying a familiar figure crossing the college quadrangle and running back, before the inspector can reply.
‘Miss? Miss Budge, isn’t it?’ asks the sergeant.
Jane Budge looks up, startled. ‘Can’t you leave me be?’
‘I am sorry. I did not introduce myself when we met – my name is Bartleby, Sergeant Bartleby.’
‘Sergeant? And I thought you was a chief inspector,’ replies Jane Budge sarcastically. She looks at the newspaper in the sergeant’s hand, her nose curling up. ‘Lor, if that’s your fish supper, I’d take it back.’
‘It’s a dead bird. It was left here last night, outside Reverend Featherstone’s rooms.’
‘Was it?’
‘Did you see anyone prowling here last night?’
‘I’d have smelt ’em first if I did.’
‘No-one?’
Jane Budge shakes her head. ‘Won’t you take no for an answer?’
‘Sergeant!’ shouts Webb.
‘Well, if you see anything out of the ordinary, Miss, you let me know. At Scotland Yard.’
Jane Budge shrugs. ‘If you like. Your old man’s calling, you know.’
‘I know,’ replies the sergeant with a grin. As he turns away, however, he notices Jane Budge’s hands – the skin around both her wrists mottled with bruises.
‘How did you get those?’ he asks.
Jane Budge pulls her sleeves further down her arm.
‘Well?’
‘Mind your own business, Sergeant, eh?’
The sound of Decimus Webb’s voice interrupts him again, and Sergeant Bartleby reluctantly returns to the inspector, leaving Jane Budge to her own devices.
‘I warn you, Sergeant,’ says Webb. ‘You are not brightening my mood with your
disappearing tricks.’
‘She’s one of the servants, sir. Does for the Featherstones. I thought she might have seen something.’
‘I don’t care if you were asking her to a matinée at the Alhambra,’ says Webb as they reach the southern gates of the college, which lead out to the King’s Road. ‘Come and let’s find another cab. Good God! And throw that wretched thing away, won’t you?’
‘But I thought you said it was evidence?’
‘Evidence of a juvenile prank is all it is, Sergeant. Do you know what I saw scratched on one of those forms in the schoolroom?’
‘Sir?’
‘A small representation of a bird, with a cap and gown. Quite artistic for a youngster. And the word “Feathers”. It is Featherstone’s nickname amongst his pupils, though he appears not to know it. These notes are the productions of some wretched schoolboy with an over-active imaginative faculty.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’
‘Not only am I sure, Sergeant, I suspect we can look forward to more of the same from all quarters. Look over there.’
Webb points to the wall of Veitch’s Nursery, upon the opposite side of the King’s Road. A row of colourful red and green posters, each identical to the other, have been papered over the bricks.
REWARD of £50
For Information which leads to the
CAPTURE of the
Dreadful Fiend known as ‘THE CUTTER’
APPLY Mr. J. Boon, Cremorne Gardens
‘You know, Sergeant,’ says Webb, ‘I do not think this could get any worse.’
Bartleby does not disagree, tossing the rolled-up newspaper into the gutter and wiping his hands on his trousers.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Mama, I said I might see Beatrice at Barassa’s at half-past three.’
‘Oh really, Rose, must you? The cab is an awful expense. When did you make this arrangement?’
‘Bea wrote to me this morning.’
‘Beatrice Watson should know better. What would your father say if he thought you were running off to some dingy confectioner’s every other day?’
‘Mama!’ protests Rose Perfitt. ‘It is not dingy. You know it isn’t. Nor every other day.’
