by Lee Jackson
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
‘There is little further I can say regarding the distressing nature of this case. It seems beyond any doubt that his wife’s death unbalanced the mind of Augustus Featherstone and there can be no doubt that the verdict of the jury – suicide whilst in a state of temporary mental derangement – is correct and proper. The evidence presented by Inspector Webb of Scotland Yard has been of great assistance, but it is not the place of this court to pass any additional judgment . . .’
The voice of the Coroner resounds through the ballroom. Neither Decimus Webb nor the Perfitts are there to hear it. Instead, they stand outside the hotel, looking out across the Gardens.
‘Perhaps you had better take your wife home, sir,’ suggests Webb.
‘I am quite all right, Inspector,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, though her expression is rather bloodless.
‘As you wish, ma’am, although I am not sure there is much to be done here. Ah, here is Bartleby.’
Sergeant Bartleby, in fact, comes jogging briskly down the nearest path.
‘Nowhere to be found, sir,’ he says, breathlessly. ‘I’ve left the men on it, but we can’t find her anywhere in the Gardens.’
‘And Nelson?’
‘Vanished, sir.’
Mrs. Perfitt seems to grow visibly paler. ‘Take me home, Charles,’ she says at last.
‘Yes, my dear. I think that is best,’ replies Mr. Perfitt. But before he can take his wife’s arm, Webb interrupts him.
‘I think we may as well drop the pretence, sir. All things considered.’
‘Pretence?’ says Mr. Perfitt.
‘Your daughter’s plan was to elope with George Nelson, was it not? That was why she came to the Gardens. And now she has accomplished her purpose, albeit in a rather melodramatic manner. I assume you have been keeping a close watch upon her at home?’
Mrs. Perfitt exchanges an anxious look with her husband.
‘I think,’ says Mr. Perfitt, ‘it might be best if you came home with us, Inspector. We might have some privacy there, at least.’
‘It began five years ago, Inspector,’ says Charles Perfitt, pacing in front of the hearth in his drawing-room. ‘Rose made the acquaintance of George Nelson through Jane Budge. I believe they met him in the Gardens.’
‘The Gardens?’ asks Webb, incredulously.
‘During daylight, naturally,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Jane and I used to take Rose on walks around the grounds. The place was more respectable in those days.’
‘And they formed a close bond? ’
‘I would not say that,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘His interest—’
‘His interest lay elsewhere, Inspector,’ interjects Mr. Perfitt. ‘You already know the facts of the matter. He would visit Jane Budge, in secret, just as we told you. But, in the end, we discovered Rose had been let in on their secret and had developed a girlish infatuation with him. Young girls of that age are given to such things. Rose has always had a foolish romantic nature; and I suppose he was a handsome young man. I expect it flattered him to have such a beautiful and tender young girl interested in him.’
‘And now, how do things stand?’
‘Now, Inspector,’ says Charles Perfitt, ‘he is using her to punish me. He believes it was my fault he went to gaol and so he has rekindled this unfortunate passion in her. He wishes to rob me of my daughter and see me suffer.’
‘It doesn’t look like she was kidnapped, though, sir,’ says Bartleby. ‘You don’t think he . . . well, that they . . .?’
Mrs. Perfitt casts a withering glance towards the sergeant. ‘If you mean that my daughter went of her own free will, I am sure she believes that she did. But he is a vicious criminal, Sergeant. Good Lord, why are we here talking? You must do something. Inspector – now you know the whole wretched business, will you not act?’
‘I might be more inclined if you had told me all this before, instead of lying, ma’am,’ says Webb, warily.
‘That my daughter should have been infatuated with a common criminal is hardly something I care to make public knowledge, Inspector.’
‘A little late for such discretion now, ma’am, at all events. Still, as for doing something, I am not sure there is much we can do in cases of seduction, if the girl appears complicit.’
‘Surely the law is on our side?’ says Mr. Perfitt, desperation in his voice.
‘Up to a point, sir. The girl is below the age of discretion, and I suppose she belongs in legal possession of her father. But whether a magistrate would be willing to have her moved back here by force – well, I would not be quite sure of it, not if she protests.’
‘We could demand it, Inspector, surely? She is mine by law, as you say.’
Webb shrugs. ‘That would be your prerogative, sir. If you think it best. As for Nelson, if she has left voluntarily, then there is no crime committed. Not yet, at least. A marriage would be a different matter, if, say, he were to give misleading particulars as to your consent.’
‘Marriage!’ exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. ‘God forbid! Charles – we must do something!’
‘We will try and find her, ma’am, rest assured,’ says Webb. ‘If nothing else, I still have a couple of questions I should like to ask her. And perhaps you may persuade her to see sense, without recourse to the law.’
‘Questions?’ asks Mrs. Perfitt.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. Nothing to trouble yourself with. It’s merely this Cutter business. You see, I have the feeling, ma’am,’ says Webb, ‘there’s something that I’m missing. Like a desiccated puzzle that’s lost one of its pieces.’
‘The only thing missing, Inspector, is my daughter. If you are done, perhaps you might expend your mental energies in locating her, rather than upon ridiculous metaphor. As for myself, if that is everything, I’m afraid you must excuse me; I fear I have something of a headache coming on.’
Mrs. Perfitt gets up and, with a brief nod to her husband, hastily leaves the room.
Mr. Perfitt, meanwhile, looks at Webb. ‘Forgive my wife, Inspector. This business with Nelson is a terrible strain. You will try to help us get Rose back? You know what sort of man Nelson is.’
‘I will do my best, sir.’
‘You weren’t wrong, sir,’ says Bartleby, as the two policemen walk back along Edith Grove.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ replies Webb. ‘I do appreciate credit where credit is due. Now, may I have some suggestions for how we locate Rose Perfitt and her wretched paramour.’
‘I was wondering about cabs. We weren’t far behind them but they made a clean break of it. If I was them, I’d grab a ride, quick as I could.’
‘A good idea, Sergeant. Make that your task for this afternoon.’
Bartleby agrees. Webb, in turn, falls silent for a few moments, lost in thought.
‘They’re still hiding something, Sergeant,’ he says at last. ‘I can almost taste it. This business with Jane Budge, Nelson and the girl. There’s something there. I know there is.’
‘I suppose they don’t much fancy him as a prospective son-in-law.’
‘He can’t marry her until she’s twenty-one, not without some measure of fraud, and that would breach his licence. He has been quite meticulous about that so far; I don’t think he would make such a stupid mistake. No that is not it. It’s something we haven’t uncovered; something important. It may be the key to this whole affair.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in instinct, sir,’ says Bartleby.
‘It is not instinct when every inquiry leads to the same place, Sergeant, however mysterious it all seems. Rose Perfitt is at the centre of this, I swear.’
‘Centre of what, sir?’
‘Yes, well, quite. That is the question. What are we missing, eh?’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Alfred Budge keeps odd hours. His position as potman at the Old King’s Head is, in fact, something of a sinecure, a repayment of sorts for the sheer volume of liquor consumed during a lifetime of dedicated imbibing. Thus he is
at liberty to come and go much as he pleases and it is not unusual to see him quit his post and totter homewards along the Battersea Road at any hour of the night, whenever the fancy takes him. Indeed, such instances balance out the occasions when he remains in the warm luxury of the public bar from sunset to sunrise, blissfully unconscious of the world around him; with such dedication to his workplace, it is generally considered only fair that he should exercise himself when the mood takes him.
Tonight, after an absence of several nights in a row, he stumbles along the muddy track of Sheepgut Lane at a little past ten o’clock. It is difficult to say what precise obligation draws him back to Budge’s Dairy; perhaps some dim recollection of his marriage vows; or the gut desire for a home-cooked meal, rather than the cheap pies and puddings, sold by itinerant merchants, upon which he generally relies for sustenance. Without a doubt, he expects the sharp end of his wife’s tongue upon his arrival and, in the dim corner of his drink-addled mind that once stored his capacity for sound judgment, he is probably conscious that he thoroughly deserves to be castigated. Hence, he creeps cautiously up the path to the dairy’s front door.
It is a drunk’s caution, mind you. A pantomime of tiptoe footsteps, that is twice as clumsy and noisy as the approach of any normal individual. But, for all his mental confusion, Alfred Budge is still surprised to find that the door is not on the latch, but falls open as he knocks upon it.
‘Maggie?’
No answer. Inside, the room is as black as pitch, only the shape of his wife visible, sitting in her chair in front of the hearth.
Alfred Budge fumbles for the lucifers in his coat pocket, and strikes one. The tiny spluttering light seems puny in the blackness of the room, and a shiver runs down his spine, as he steps a little closer to the fireplace. Then the smell strikes him; the stink of loose bowels, a rotting lingering stench he associates with the privy at the Old King’s Head.
The match singes his fingers and he swears to himself as he blows it out, flicking it to the floor. He is close enough to Margaret Budge now to shake her. But instead he lights another match and looks at her face. He knows in his heart what he will find as he touches her cheek, and her head lolls to one side.
But he can only truly believe it when he sees her dead, lifeless eyes.
‘You’re used to better,’ says George Nelson, more as a statement of fact than an apology, leading Rose Perfitt by the hand into a small room.
Rose looks around. Situated above a fishmonger’s, a short distance from the Lambeth Road, the room possesses a bed, covered with a grey-looking mattress and sheets, a fire-place with a cracked mirror, suspended above the mantel, and a simple deal table and twin chairs. The floor is bare boards, except for a frayed piece of red drugget that lies beside the bed. And throughout, there is the distinct scent of the ocean.
Rose Perfitt is indeed used to much better. And yet, she clasps hold of George Nelson’s arm with earnest enthusiasm.
‘Our own room!’
‘It stinks but it’s all I could get. We’ll find something better once your father sees sense.’
Rose nods but already she seems preoccupied by her surroundings. ‘I will get some flowers; that will help. And some proper curtains.’
‘I told you, Rosie, we won’t have money. Not at first.’
‘They’ll understand in the end,’ says Rose, peering through the single sash window that looks onto the street below. ‘Mama will, anyway. When we’re married. She always says she only wants me to be happy.’
‘I’d have liked to have seen their faces.’
‘Don’t say that,’ says Rose, turning to look at him, slightly annoyed.
‘No,’ says Nelson, smiling. ‘You’re right. A man shouldn’t bear a grudge. Now come here, why don’t you, you silly little bitch? You know I love you.’
Rose Perfitt grins.
Alfred Budge is not sure what to do.
The lamp. He begins with lighting the lamp. He fancies that when he lights it, everything will be better. But, when he holds it up, it only shines upon the corpse of his wife, slumped before the empty fireplace, as if waiting for coals to be brought in, for a fire to be started. He stumbles as he sees her, inadvertently leaning against the nearby table, sending a heavy bottle of brandy crashing to the ground. He barely seems to notice it, walking over the broken glass in a daze, crunching it into the floor beneath his boots.
What next?
He checks the back parlour. The room is as cold and damp as ever, and the air almost sobers him up. Death is here too, he can sense it. Not just the coffin of his daughter – though that is still there; he had forgotten about that. The funeral. He must arrange the funeral. Best black feathers. And three little ones, here they are, lying in their cots; he touches the cheek of each infant; cold, dead porcelain.
Something, he thinks, must be done. The police. They will come. They are bound to come.
He goes off in search of a blanket.
‘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.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
‘Damn 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.’
