by Lee Jackson
Mrs. Featherstone shakes her head. ‘No thank you, ma’am. I must be on my way. The Reverend is expecting me.’
It is about five o’clock when Mrs. Bertha Featherstone leaves Edith Grove. She makes her way back to St. Mark’s College, where she oversees her husband’s dinner. Her rather voluminous proportions fill up the small kitchen allotted to the needs of the teaching staff, and the college’s cook is, in truth, a little annoyed at her close superintendence.
At seven, the Reverend Featherstone departs for a parish meeting. He warns his wife that it may run long into the night. She, in turn, tells him that he need not worry, and that she is quite all right upon her own; that the Lord shall keep and preserve her.
At nine, Mrs. Featherstone completes an hour of reading from her Bible, and makes several notes in her commonplace book, as is her custom. The night is so mild that she almost has a mind to go for a walk in the grounds.
Then there is a knock at the door.
At a quarter past nine, Mrs. Bertha Featherstone lies dead upon the floor, her life blood pooled around her black bombazine gown, a sharp pair of scissors projecting from her neck.
PART THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY
A single public morgue, with space for no more than a dozen bodies, serves the parish of Chelsea. The building itself is a practical, economical affair, situated in the shadow of the parish’s workhouse infirmary, little bigger than a working man’s cottage, and not dissimilar in appearance. It lacks, however, the minor comforts and consolations of such a residence. No fire burns at its heart; no rug conceals the paving of the cold stone floor. Its windows are both high and narrow and curtains kept drawn. Indeed, the Chelsea dead-house is kept cold and quiet as any tomb; such is the atmosphere best suited to the wants of its occasional tenants.
Decimus Webb cannot help but shiver in the chill air. If he appears a little awkward as he lifts the white cloth that has been respectfully draped across the corpse of Mrs. Bertha Featherstone, it is not from any morbid sensibility. He has seen a surfeit of such things in his time. Rather, he merely feels somewhat self-conscious, watched by his sergeant who stands near by, as though he is a cheap conjuror pulling back a curtain.
It is not a pleasant sight. Webb peers at the marks of violence upon Mrs. Featherstone’s neck. The skin is utterly white, drained of blood, but the rough wounds are clear enough. He directs his gaze to her face. The eyelids have already been closed by some kindly soul, but the mouth seems fixed open, in a permanent rictus of surprise.
‘Well, Sergeant?’ says Webb, beckoning Bartleby to step forward and take a closer look.
‘At least three distinct wounds, sir,’ replies the sergeant, obeying, albeit with a grimace. ‘I’d say one severed the jugular, another the throat.’
‘Good,’ replies Webb, letting the cloth fall back over the body. ‘I have taught you something of practical value, at least. Where were you this morning, in any case?’
‘Robbery in Peckham, sir. I was on the duty roster. Inspector Pierce was short of men.’
‘Hmm. I am sorry to impinge upon your valuable time.’
‘No trouble, sir,’ replies Bartleby, turning away from the corpse and taking a deep breath.
Webb shakes his head. ‘Come now, Sergeant. I thought we had overcome your squeamishness. I brought you here this afternoon for a purpose; I had hoped it might prove instructive. You’ve seen the body and know the circumstances. What about our murderer now? What does this tell us?’
‘About The Cutter?’
‘No, Sergeant, not about The Cutter,’ replies Webb, his impatience audible in every syllable. ‘For pity’s sake, man, forget this wretched phantom of yours, whoever he may be.’
‘But the scissors, sir?’
‘Damn the scissors,’ says Webb. ‘Look at the women he chooses as victims. Every other female your blessed Cutter has attacked has been a pretty girl in the full bloom of youth. In every case he has slashed at her hair or clothing. Then consider Jane Budge, burnt to death, and Mrs. Featherstone, with her throat cut. Both killed in the same location; both known to each other. Neither a young maiden, by any means. And you persist with the idea that they are all the work of the same man?’
Bartleby does not reply; he knows better.
‘As for the scissors,’ continues Webb, ‘why should this fellow leave them behind? He has never done so before.’
‘Maybe they were lodged in the neck, sir? He’s never actually done for one before, not like this.’
‘But that is precisely it, Sergeant – not like this. Besides, I removed the scissors with my own hands and they came out as easily as a knife from butter. If anything, I rather suspect they were placed there after the event, for dramatic effect.’
‘So we’d think it was The Cutter?’
‘Yes. A very deliberate attempt at misdirection. And so we must now simply ask ourselves who might want Jane Budge and her mistress dead. That is the long and short of it.’
‘It was the Reverend who found her?’ asks the sergeant.
‘Indeed. Now, at least, you are applying your mind. Yes, the Reverend. In a case like this, one must consider wife-murder. The only difficulty is that he was with me outside Cremorne Gardens when Jane Budge was killed; and last night it appears he was at a parish meeting until midnight. From the temperature of the body, it seems likely she was killed much earlier in the evening.’
‘Perhaps he did it earlier, then “found” her when he got back?’
Webb nods. ‘Not a bad idea, Sergeant. But Mrs. Featherstone was seen by at least three people in the chapel, a hour or more after Reverend quit the grounds. Besides – what might be his motive?’
‘The gate-keepers didn’t see any strangers come in to the college?’ asks Bartleby.
‘Not a soul,’ replies Webb.
‘Then it must have been someone that lives there – one of the pupil-teachers or staff.’
‘Yes, I had rather come to that conclusion myself,’ says Webb. ‘In the case of Miss Budge, I wondered if it might have been an intruder. But now, short of discovering it is your confounded phantom, I fear we must presume otherwise.’
‘There’s more than sixty of them in the college,’ says Bartleby, with weary resignation. ‘I’ve already seen them, sir, last time round. Not one had a bad thing to say against Jane Budge. No obvious motive. Nothing queer at all, in fact.’
Webb frowns. ‘Perhaps Mrs. Featherstone will be a different matter. In any case, speak to them again. We must find out Mrs. Featherstone’s movements yesterday. It is possible we have been looking in the wrong places. See what you can discover about the Featherstones’ history; where he last worked. I will have another word with the Reverend myself.’
Bartleby nods. ‘How did he take it, sir? Finding her like that?’
‘He seemed quite stoical,’ replies Webb. ‘Gone to a better place, and so forth. A remarkable thing, to have such faith.’
‘You have to wonder, though, sir,’ says Bartleby. ‘Someone’s done for the servant, for his wife . . .’
‘Whether he will be next?’ replies Webb. ‘It did cross my mind. Of course, Mr. Boon is the only party we know who bears him a grudge. I would not have thought Boon capable of such brutality, however – not over their petty squabble about Cremorne.’
‘Still, maybe the Gardens are at the root of it, sir,’ replies Bartleby, unable to resist the pun, as he opens the door that leads out of the morgue.
Decimus Webb does not dignify him with a response.
‘What about George Nelson?’ asks the sergeant, as they step outside into the daylight.
‘Ah, yes. Well, it seems he was working at Cremorne the whole night; Constable Dawes kept an eye on his movements.’
‘So he’s not our villain, then, sir?’
‘He is a bad piece of work, I am sure of that,’ replies Webb, ‘but not our murderer. In fact, I have relieved Dawes of his duty; we have few enough men available as it is.’
‘Then we best get
cracking, sir,’ says Bartleby, with renewed vigour.
The Reverend Augustus Featherstone sits alone in the chapel of St. Mark’s College, facing the altar. His eyes are closed, his head bowed in the posture of prayer. To all external appearances there is nothing to distinguish him from any other supplicant before the Almighty, his shoulders slumped in pious resignation, the words of a psalm muttered gently under his breath.
And yet, appearances can be deceptive. For there is no-one to look a little closer; no-one to observe the clergyman’s hands; how tightly his fingers are clenched together; how the whites of his knuckles seem to bulge and buckle under the force of his anger, as if in protest at being covered by a mere layer of skin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘Mama!’
Rose Perfitt stands by the drawing-room window in Edith Grove and calls out to her mother.
‘Mama! There is a landau coming. It’s him. It’s Mr. Sedgecombe.’
Mrs. Perfitt gets up from her seat, unconsciously toying with the buttons of her polonaise. ‘Rose, come away at once. Play something at the piano.’
Rose Perfitt pouts. ‘He will be here in just a moment, Mama.’
‘Then at least take a seat, dear. For heaven’s sake, we do not want Mr. Sedgecombe to think we have been waiting on tenterhooks all morning.’
Rose reluctantly takes a seat by the window. Despite her mother’s entreaties, she peers back over her shoulder, looking out onto the road. Her view is obscured by the Swiss lace curtains, tied back on either side of the window-frame, but nonetheless she can make out the figure of Richard Sedgecombe descending onto the street, removing his gloves, and strolling up the house’s front steps.
A bell rings in the hall.
‘Mama,’ says Rose in a confidential whisper, still peering at the carriage outside, ‘there’s a driver and a footman.’
‘Hush!’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘I gave instructions to Richards to bring Mr. Sedgecombe directly up, Rose – you really must compose yourself.’
Rose Perfitt is not entirely sure how to comply with such a request. Nonetheless, with some further instruction, she smoothes down the linen of her promenade dress, and straightens her back, whilst her mother stands poised to greet her guest.
Mr. Sedgecombe is announced. Dressed in a black frock coat of the garden party variety, with a waistcoat of snow-white silk, he presents as handsome a picture of a young man, no more than twenty-four or -five years old, as anyone might wish. In particular, Mrs. Perfitt is distinctly gratified to find him quite as respectable-looking and presentable in the light of day as in the garish gas-light of the ball-room. So much so, that, despite their slight acquaintance, she offers him her hand in greeting and he responds in kind. To Rose, of course, in keeping with the customs of polite society, he merely offers a slight bow.
‘You have a delightful home, ma’am,’ he says, addressing Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Quite charming. I must compliment you upon the refinement of your taste.’
‘You are too kind, sir,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘I must confess, it is very gratifying to find a gentleman with an eye for such things.’
‘I gather Mr. Perfitt is not at home?’
‘I regret he had some small matter of business to attend to,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. Rose almost smiles at this; for the implication that her father is generally a member of the leisured classes is somewhat misleading. Still, if she has an impulse to correct any misapprehension as to her father’s occupation, she restrains it. Mr. Sedgecombe, in turn, bows once more, and addresses her. ‘So pleasant to see you again, Miss Perfitt. A fine day, is it not?’
‘Very fine,’ replies Rose, feeling a little too strongly the watchful gaze of her mother, a brief nervous smile flickering upon her lips. ‘I am very much looking forward to the race.’
Mr. Sedgecombe nods. ‘Yes, well, it should be quite an event for the sporting fraternity. I only hope members of the fairer sex present find it of some small interest. It is very good of you to be my guests.’
‘Would you care for some tea, Mr. Sedgecombe?’ asks Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Please, do take a seat.’
Mr. Sedgecombe hesitates, pulling out his pocket-watch, a gleaming time-piece on a sturdy-looking gold chain. ‘In fact, ma’am – forgive me – I fear we – or rather, I should say myself – well, we are a little late. If Miss Perfitt cares to see the start of the race, then I think we had better depart. There is a delightful refreshment bar at the Club.’
‘Oh, I am sure we should like to see the start,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, glancing at her daughter, then ringing the servants’ bell. ‘It is so good of you to invite us, Mr. Sedgecombe. The Prince’s Club is so charming an institution.’
‘Well, it is good for cricket and rackets, ma’am,’ replies Mr. Sedgecombe, ‘but I prefer to depend upon, may I say,’ – and here he pauses – ‘charming company.’
Mrs. Perfitt smiles, as Richards appears to open the door.
‘Quite so,’ she replies. ‘Rose, was I not only saying the same thing earlier today? The company one keeps is so important.’
‘Yes, Mama,’ replies Rose.
As they travel through Brompton, Mr. Richard Sedgecombe hesitantly broaches various topics of conversation before settling upon the subject of cricket. In truth, it is a rather one-sided discussion, but any unease this provokes in the minds of Mr. Sedgecombe’s two companions is more than compensated for by the many fine qualities of his conveyance. For Mr. Sedgecombe’s carriage not only boasts the crest of his family emblazoned upon the door, but is drawn by two of his father’s finest mares, and possesses springs that seem to transfer not a single jolt or hint of discomfort to the passenger, whatever the irregularities of the macadam below. As they approach Hans Place, however, Mr. Sedgecombe, having finished remarking upon the astonishing turns of fortune in a particular match once played at the Prince’s by old boys of Eton and Harrow, tries another tack.
‘Ever seen a bicycle race before, Miss Perfitt?’ asks Mr. Sedgecombe, after a distinct silence.
‘No, sir, I have not,’ replies Rose, as the cab draws round the central oval, into the drive of the Prince’s Club. ‘Will it be upon the lawn?’
Mr. Sedgecombe smiles indulgently. ‘Upon the grass? I should hope not. The groundsman wouldn’t thank them for that, Miss Perfitt. No, we have a little track – the fellows use it to run laps in the summer. Now, mark my words, Mr. Stanton’s the chap to watch today. They say he did a fifty-mile stretch in three and a quarter hours last season.’
‘Do they?’ replies Rose, as the carriage finally draws up outside the Pavilion. ‘Is that good?’
‘It is capital, Miss Perfitt,’ replies Mr. Sedgecombe, climbing down out of the carriage and holding out his arm. ‘I’d wager my life, you won’t see a man that can beat him.’
Rose steps down from the landau, allowing her host to support her elbow, though in truth it makes little difference to her descent onto the gravel. She grants Mr. Sedgecombe a thankful smile, which seems to please him. Her mother follows, and they make their way to the back of the Pavilion, where a crowd of members and guests gather in anticipation of the race. Mr. Sedgecombe undertakes to return with the best lemonade in London, leaving mother and daughter briefly unaccompanied.
‘How do you like him?’ whispers Mrs. Perfitt, when Mr. Sedgecombe is out of earshot. ‘He is a pleasant young man, my dear.’
‘I suppose so,’ replies Rose. ‘If a little dull.’
Mrs. Perfitt takes a deep breath. ‘Rose, at least try and make yourself agreeable. If nothing else,’ she says, looking round the assembled crowd, ‘one does not know who one might meet.’
The bicycle race begins at three o’clock, on a marked-out track of rough ground, a good distance from the Prince’s Club cricket pitch. Mr. Sedgecombe vouchsafes that it is a five-mile handicap between four gentlemen of great renown in the bicycling fraternity. Certainly, thinks Rose Perfitt, they look the part, dressed in the sportsman’s uniform of loose-fitting breeches, covered by stockings and stou
t boots, a rough jersey and a cap of matching cloth. Each, moreover, is surrounded by a cordon of enthusiastic young gentlemen, who liberally make various oaths and exhortations, whilst slapping their respective contenders upon the back. Naturally, a photograph is taken. Then, at length, the four sportsmen line up beside their vehicles. The crowd watches closely as the competitors ascend the wooden mounting blocks and then swing themselves up above the tall front wheels, at least five feet in height, onto leather saddles. A flag is waved; the crowd cheers; and the race begins.
To the novice, unfamiliar with the sport, it goes gingerly at first, each rider balanced precariously upon his steel-framed steed, seemingly in utter contradiction to the laws of gravity; but then they pick up pace, and wheels, spokes, men all fly past at a remarkable rate. Mr. Sedgecombe’s preference for the famous Stanton does not prove misguided. Three miles into the distance, the latter is sufficiently ahead to make the occasional nod to the crowd and, better still, remove one hand from the handlebars and tip his cap. Indeed, each completed circuit is greeted with applause and hurrahs from many of the Prince’s Club members, who, Mr. Sedgecombe quietly confides in Mrs. Perfitt’s ear, have ‘invested a pound or two’ upon his success.
None of the spectators, however, intent upon the matter in hand, notices the approach of a certain gentleman in a tweed suit, who walks slowly across the Prince’s Club lawn, until he stands near Mrs. Perfitt.
‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ says Decimus Webb.
Mrs. Perfitt looks rather surprised as she turns to notice Decimus Webb. But she regains her composure quickly enough. ‘Why, it is Inspector Webb, is it not?’
Webb assents. ‘Enjoying the race, ma’am?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Inspector – this is my daughter, Rose. And this is Mr. Richard Sedgecombe.’
