by Lee Jackson
Albert Springett, 62 K, said, As I was on duty near the park gate, I was called upon by one of the keepers who pointed out the man and begged me to keep an eye on him, while he went in search of the lady who had complained of him. I waited until the lady was found, and took the prisoner in charge, telling him it was for exposing himself in a public place.
Mr. BUTCHER – Did he make any reply?
Witness. – He said, if he had done so, he was not aware of doing it. He said he was relieving himself.
Mr. BUTCHER (to Mrs. Davies) – When the prisoner exposed himself to you, was he making water?
Mrs. Davies – He was not; he acted towards me in an infamous way and followed me for five minutes or more, creeping and crawling about behind us.
Mr. BUTCHER – You must describe more particularly what he did.
Mrs. Davies – He opened his trousers in front, and in that way exposed himself, sir. I turned my back on him, and walked to a bench with the children. When I looked around, he was there in the same shameful situation.
Mr. BUTCHER – Did he say anything to you, during this time?
Mrs. Davies – Not a word, your worship.
Mr. BUTCHER – Does the prisoner have anything to say?
Prisoner (with much emotion) – Your worship, I am placed in the most distressing situation that might be imagined. I am convinced that the defendant in such cases has but little chance, as a prejudice will be excited against him from the first. I can only hope you might consider the character of this witness, and not judge too hastily. I might, perhaps, have obeyed the call of nature in a spot not set apart for that purpose, but I had no intention of insulting or offending this female.
Mr. BUTCHER – Constable, have you established the character of this witness?
Constable – No, sir.
Mr. BUTCHER – Then I shall remand this gentleman until to-morrow, in order that such evidence may be procured.
Prisoner was remanded back to the police-station.
‘There is no more?’ asks Webb.
‘I telegraphed back straightaway, sir. The constable says he recalls he was acquitted. Doesn’t think there was more in the press.’
‘Acquitted?’ says Webb, musing.
‘I’ve got a cab waiting, sir. If you want to go down to Chelsea?’
‘You’ve heard about the incident at Cremorne last night, I suppose,’ says Webb, his brow still furrowed in thought.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘This does not make him a murderer, Sergeant. In particular, if he was found not guilty.’
‘Only the girl’s word against his, I suppose,’ replies Bartleby. ‘But it makes a person think, doesn’t it?’
Webb folds the newspaper and tucks it under his arm. ‘Very well, let us go and show this to Featherstone. Though I am far from certain we will get any sense out of him.’
Bartleby nods, but hesitates. ‘I swore blind to Sergeant Walker I wouldn’t take that out of the Yard, sir,’ he says, gesturing to the newspaper.
‘Then I am about to make you a liar, Sergeant,’ replies Webb.
The journey to Chelsea goes swiftly, and it is a little past nine o’clock when the two policemen find themselves once more at St. Mark’s College. There is, however, no answer when Webb knocks upon the door to Augustus Featherstone’s rooms. Bartleby is despatched to the chapel and school-house; Webb makes inquiries in the Masters’ Common Room; further questions are directed to the men at the gates upon the King’s Road and Fulham Road. But, when they return to the Reverend Featherstone’s door, a good hour later, neither Webb nor Bartleby is any the wiser as to his whereabouts.
‘No-one’s seen him since last night, as far as I can make out, sir,’ suggests the sergeant.
‘So it seems,’ mutters Webb. He tries the door-handle. ‘He appears to have left his door open, in any case. Rather careless.’
‘Do you think we should—’
But before Bartleby can finish the sentence, his superior has already opened the door and gone inside.
The study itself is dark and gloomy, the heavy drapes drawn across the windows left closed from the previous night. Webb strikes a match, and lights the gas above the fire-place.
‘Reverend?’ says Webb.
There is no reply.
‘Check the other rooms, Sergeant,’ says Webb.
Bartleby obliges and returns a minute or so later. ‘Nothing, sir. No sign of him. Do you think he’s legged it?’
‘It seems he was supposed to be teaching in the school this afternoon, but did not put in an appearance,’ replies Webb. ‘But then, I do not think he is quite himself, if last night is anything to go by.’
‘What do you think we should do, sir?’
Webb takes a long, deep breath. ‘Search the rooms, Sergeant. Thoroughly and carefully. Try not to disturb anything; we are not strictly within our rights, after all.’
‘We already did that when they found his better half, sir.’
‘You looked everywhere?’
‘Well, mainly here in the study, sir. The Reverend said there wasn’t anything missing, so I wouldn’t say we—’
‘Every room, Sergeant. I have complete faith in you.’
Bartleby nods. ‘Yes, sir. And what will you be doing?’
‘I’ll shall be taking a walk in the grounds.’
‘And if anyone comes and asks what I’m up to, sir?’
‘You had better hope that they do not.’
‘Sir!’
Webb extinguishes his pipe, turning to see the figure of Sergeant Bartleby running towards him, across the gas-lit quadrangle.
‘Keep your voice down, man, for pity’s sake,’ says Webb, as Bartleby jogs to a halt. ‘I assume you have found something? You have been long enough about it.’
‘Have a look at this, sir,’ says Bartleby, eagerly, handing over a plain envelope.
Webb opens the envelope and peers inside, his eyes straining to make anything out in the dim light of the gas. For a moment, he cannot quite make sense of it, and pokes the contents with his finger. Then he realises that it is a half dozen or more locks of hair.
‘Found the envelope at the back of his dresser, sir. Like little trophies. We’ve got him! Featherstone’s The Cutter!’
‘The fear of God,’ mutters Webb. ‘I should have known.’
‘Sir?’
‘Nothing. Something that someone said to me last night. I suppose this would explain why he was not overly concerned by those schoolboy threats. He knew that they were just that, and no more.’
‘This’ll be one in the eye for the Assistant Commissioner, sir.’
‘We haven’t got our man yet, Sergeant. Unless you know where we might find him?’
‘I’m thinking we should try the Gardens,’ replies Bartleby. ‘He’s drawn to the place.’
‘I suppose we must. For one thing, it appears I owe Boon an apology.’
‘We’ll soon find him now, sir.’
Webb frowns.
‘I am still not convinced, Sergeant, that it is that simple.’
In Battersea, Margaret Budge opens to the door to her back parlour, a candle in her hand. The air in the room is rather damp and foetid. Before her, in the dim light, three small wooden cots are laid out upon the stone floor and, beside them, laid out upon an old oak table, is a plain coffin. It is a parish affair, with no handles or brass, merely half a dozen panels of bare rough elm. There is nothing to distinguish its occupant, save a series of scratches upon the side, which approximate to the name Jane Budge, the work of some ill-paid functionary of the parish of Chelsea.
Mrs. Budge looks at the box for a moment, then peers down, checking inside each cot. There is little vital spark in the small creatures that nestle inside the three cribs. Each is an infant less than six months old, with a listless, languid appearance, and eyes that do not seem quite able to open wide. Their meagre bodies, wrapped in dirty off-white swaddling clothes, likewise seem to have little natural childish energy, and each one is, i
n truth, disproportionately small for their age. One of the three, however, wriggles a little in the glow of the candlelight, reaching up with its tiny hands, clutching at nothing. Mrs. Budge puts the candle to one side and picks the child up, cradling it in her arms.
‘How are you, little ’un, eh?’ whispers the old woman.
The child, however, perhaps exhausted by its exertion, does not respond. After a minute or so, Mrs. Budge replaces it in the cot, picks up her candle, and returns to the front parlour of Budge’s Dairy. Taking her regular seat before the hearth, though the fire is not lit, she pauses to contemplate an opened purse upon the nearby table. Its contents – a dozen gold sovereigns – lie piled in a small heap, as if eagerly tipped out and counted; whilst beside it stands a bottle of expensive-looking brandy.
Mrs. Budge reaches for the bottle, pulls out the stopper, and takes a swig of the brown liquor.
‘Best black feathers, now, Janey,’ mutters the old woman to herself. ‘Best black feathers, first thing in the mornin’.’
Mrs. Budge takes another swig.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Charles Perfitt hears footsteps and turns round to see his daughter enter the dining-room.
‘Rose, your Mama told me you were feeling better when she came back. Will you have dinner with us?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ says Rose, bending down to kiss her father upon the cheek. ‘If I may.’
‘Rose, dear,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, as her daughter takes a seat, ‘I hardly think you need ask permission.’
Mr. Perfitt smiles as Rose kisses him, but then glances rather nervously at his wife. ‘Rose, there is something I would like to tell you. I would have come up and spoken to you this evening but, since you are feeling better, we may as well discuss it now.’
‘Papa?’
‘I have talked to your mother, and to Dr. Malcolm, about your constitution. Malcolm believes we are over-taxing you; that a rest might do you good. Indeed, it might do us all good. So I have made arrangements for a holiday.’
‘A holiday?’ says Rose, turning to her mother. ‘Mama! We cannot go on holiday during the Season. Beatrice says we may be invited to the Prince’s again; and there is a garden party at the Boscombes’ – we are sure to go, Mama, you said so.’
‘Yes, I know, my dear,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, sympathetically, ‘but your father is only thinking of your best interests.’
‘But how long shall we be away?’ ask Rose.
‘I thought two months,’ replies Mr. Perfitt. ‘I have rented a cottage near Broadstairs; it is a good spot – if the firm has any need of me, I can easily catch the train back, as required.’
‘But, Papa, we can’t just go,’ says Rose, with obvious anxiety in her voice. ‘I shall miss everything.’
Mr. Perfitt shakes his head. ‘We are leaving on Saturday, my dear. That is an end to it. Now, where is Richards with that soup?’
‘I do not want to go to Broadstairs, Papa,’ says Rose, rather too emphatically.
‘My dear!’ exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. ‘For heaven’s sake, do not make such a fuss. You must do as your father says. We shall come back in time for the end of the Season, I am sure.’
Rose gets up hurriedly from her chair, which scrapes the rug as she pushes it backwards.
‘I am sorry,’ she says, ‘I do not think I am hungry.’
With that, Rose quits the room, turning her back on her parents before either has an opportunity to speak.
‘Good Lord,’ exclaims Mr. Perfitt, under his breath. ‘I knew she would not be happy, Caroline, but this is quite remarkable. Whatever has got into her?’
‘I shall talk to her when she has calmed down,’ says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘She will have to apologise.’
‘I swear, I do not understand her moods.’
Mrs. Perfitt frowns. ‘Neither do I, Charles. Neither do I.’
Rose Perfitt apologises to her father at ten o’clock, having been prevailed upon by her mother. At eleven, she follows her parents in retiring to her bed. At a few minutes before midnight she sneaks down into the kitchen and lets herself out onto the street. On this occasion, she wears one of her own dresses, though it is not a particularly expensive or showy article. It is covered, moreover, as to its upper portion, by a dark green hooded mantle that all but conceals her face from any passer-by. And, in one hand, she carries a capacious leather bag, a piece of travelling luggage, of the sort that commonly accompanies young women in railway carriages. Thus attired, she makes her way along Edith Grove, across the King’s Road, and down to the gates of Cremorne Gardens.
‘What you selling, darlin’?’ exclaims one waggish gentleman, not of the highest class, gesturing at her rather battered bag as he climbs into a waiting hansom. Rose, however, does not reply but merely draws her hood further over her face, pays for her admission and hurries into the grounds.
But once inside, she hesitates. For her elopement from Edith Grove is an impromptu one, and she has no idea where in particular to find George Nelson, nor quite how to go about it. At length, she decides to follow the nearest path from the main avenue, which, as a fingerpost makes plain, leads directly to the Gardens’ Marionette Theatre. It is a rather shabby-looking venue, a Grecian building of two storeys, boasting a colonnade of stunted columns, made from some indeterminate and insubstantial material, akin to papier mâché. She walks over to the ticket window, which, she discovers, houses a short young man of slumped posture and poor manners.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘can you tell me, do you know George Nelson? He is a labourer here.’
The young man shrugs. ‘Can’t say as I do. Can’t say as I don’t. Maybe he’s inside, like.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, go and have a look if you like,’ says the young man, disinterestedly. ‘Up to you.’
Rose hesitates, looking at the twin doors that form the entrance to the theatre; she can hear the boisterous sound of a brass band from inside the small auditorium. Just as she determines to follow the young man’s suggestion, he calls out to her.
‘Tuppence, mind.’
Rose stops, and impatiently rifles through her purse for the change. Once inside, however, she despairs of making any progress. The stalls are quite full to bursting, with men and women standing in the aisles, and a pall of tobacco smoke heavy in the air. The evening’s final attraction is one of the Gardens’ most demanded acts, The Beckwith Frogs, their name emblazoned upon a giant piece of card at the front of the stage. Performing within a transparent tank of water, almost too large for the theatre, the submersible family – father, mother, son and daughter – are engaged in a watery family meal, to the accompaniment of trumpet and tuba. Mr. Beckwith sips from his tea-cup – to much applause. Master Beckwith gets down from his chair and swims round the head of his mother – to greater applause. All rise for air, then sink to their subaqueous abode once more; the table is cleared and a game of cards begins – to positively thunderous applause.
Rose peers about her. There is no possible way to get behind the scenes; nor, she realises, any certainty of finding George Nelson when she gets there. Her eyes meets those of a blue-uniformed police constable, stationed upon the other side of the theatre. He looks at her pointedly. It is the same glance that members of Her Majesty’s Police reserve for any solitary woman in a crowded theatre; the same unfortunate suspicion that attaches to all lone females in resorts of dubious reputation. But Rose herself is not so certain; she imagines her father has already notified the authorities; that a search is under way, to prevent her reaching her lover. And so she turns and runs, back outside.
She pointedly ignores the ticket clerk and returns to the path. A voice calls out to her, a hand touching her sleeve.
‘Miss Perfitt? I thought it was you. Whatever do you have there?’
Rose jumps in surprise, almost dropping her bag.
‘Oh,’ she says, taking a deep breath, ‘Reverend! You startled me.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
‘I co
nfess, Miss Perfitt,’ says the Reverend Featherstone, ‘I am saddened to find you here, in this wretched place, at such a late hour. Here, please, take my arm.’
Rose Perfitt, rather dumb-founded, obeys. The clergyman begins to walk her back along the path towards the central avenue.
‘I – I have to see someone,’ she says, stumbling over her words.
‘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.’
