The Last Pleasure Garden

by Lee Jackson

  Bartleby obliges. A trawl through the coat quickly reveals two sovereigns, a gold fob watch, two necklaces, one silver, one gold, a purse, and a season ticket to the Gardens.

  ‘Nothing. Is this your necklace, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, that is mine,’ replies the young woman, both shocked and bemused. ‘But what did you expect to find?’

  Inspector Webb sighs. ‘A pair of scissors.’

  Outside the gas-lit rockery of the Hermit’s Cave, in the western portion of Cremorne Gardens, Sarah Jane Hockley, maid-of-all-work, quits the company of the Gardens’ famed elderly prognosticator and walks back in the direction of the lawn. She dawdles behind her male companion, a young groom who is eager not to miss the fireworks at ten p.m., and who has, in his own words, ‘waited all night’. In part, her slowness is a growing disinclination for the young man’s company; in part, she is bent on reading the prophecy vouchsafed to her by the sage:

  Thalaba’s Prophecy. The star of your nativity intimates a very good foreboding. Although not entirely unchequered, it promises much future prosperity. The conjunction of Mars with Venus in the square of your nativity offers tokens to show that energy will bring about your advancement and that your union will prove the token of your felicity. See her in the magic mirror. Many future blessings are shown towards the end of the year – many good results will arise, and profitable friendships spring up to your interest.

  So fascinating is her destiny, written in a scratchy hand on the crumpled foolscap paper, that she hardly notices the sound of soft footsteps on the grass behind her. And it is far too late to run, once her dress is slashed and torn.

  Far too late, when something pierces her side, colouring the ripped muslin bright red.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In Edith Grove, Brompton, the sound of a Haydn sonata fills the upstairs drawing-room. It is played rather competently by a pretty young woman of eighteen years of age. She sits alone, practising at the pianoforte, with her back to the door. She possesses an abundance of curled auburn hair, which trails down her neck in loose ringlets, and there is a certain grace and self-possession in her posture, not least in the delicate movement of her hands upon the keyboard.

  The voice of her mother interrupts her.

  ‘Rose!’

  Rose Perfitt stumbles over her notes, stops, and turns her head. Her mother stands at the door.

  ‘Rose, it is past two o’clock, please.’

  ‘I am sorry, Mama,’ she replies. ‘I just wanted to finish . . .’

  Mrs. Perfitt shakes her head. ‘My dear, please, a little peace and quiet. You may play later.’

  Rose obeys, removing the music and closing the piano lid. Her mother is a handsome woman, her face scarcely hinting at her forty years. It is not too fanciful to see in Mrs. Perfitt’s well-bred features the source of her daughter’s youthful beauty.

  ‘Are you expecting anyone, Mama?’

  ‘No, but Alice Watson may just call. I would simply like a little time to compose myself, if I may.’

  Mrs. Perfitt smiles a tight-lipped smile, as if to express a sense of relief at the restoration of peace and quiet in the drawing-room. She settles herself on the ebonised chair that sits by the hearth.

  ‘You might read, my dear,’ she suggests to her daughter, who wanders idly to the window, peering through the lace curtains, down onto the street below.

  ‘I think there’s someone coming,’ says Rose, teasing back the lace.

  ‘Rose, the window! Don’t be so vulgar!’ exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. Her daughter instantly releases the fabric.

  ‘It’s Mrs. Featherstone.’

  ‘Oh, heavens!’ exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. ‘That woman!’

  Mrs. Perfitt pauses for thought, looking at her daughter. ‘Rose, go and brush your hair.’

  The social niceties of the ‘morning-call’, the illogically-named custom of paying afternoon visits to one’s friends and neighbours, have never held much fascination for Rose Perfitt. The endless exchange of visiting cards, the polite refusals of cups of tea, the awkward discussions of the weather, have always seemed a terrible bore to her youthful mind. The only consolation she can take from Mrs. Bertha Featherstone’s presence in the drawing-room, when she returns from arranging her coiffure, is that the latter carries her bonnet in her hand, and has her woollen shawl – a rather unnecessary article for the time of year – still wrapped about her shoulders. It is, thinks Rose to herself, intended to be a brief visit.

  ‘Ah,’ exclaims Mrs. Featherstone, a rather robust-looking broad-built woman, turning to face Rose Perfitt, once she has settled in a chair, ‘here she is, your youngest. I trust you are well, Miss Perfitt?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Very well.’

  ‘But you look a little pale, Miss Perfitt? Are you sure you are not ill? I generally notice such things. The Reverend says I am most sensitive to human frailty.’

  ‘I don’t believe so, ma’am,’ replies Rose, politely. ‘I am quite well.’

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps,’ says Mrs. Featherstone, seeming a little aggrieved by this contradiction of her infallibility. ‘Still, never mind that. Mrs. Perfitt, now, how long has it been?’

  ‘Oh, I could not say.’

  ‘Well ma’am, forgive me for not calling sooner.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, with the utmost sincerity.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. Well, I have come today because, if I may be blunt – and knowing your charitable instincts, ma’am – I wondered if I might presume on your support for a worthy cause.’

  Mrs. Perfitt waves her hand majestically in regal permission, though a rather glacial smile remains fixed upon her face.

  ‘The Reverend—’

  ‘And how is your dear husband?’ interrupts Mrs. Perfitt.

  ‘In good health, ma’am, thank you,’ replies Mrs. Featherstone, not deflected from her purpose. ‘And he is planning a charity bazaar at the College, in aid of the Society for the Suppression of Vice. That is what I came to tell you. Such a good cause! Lady Astbury has promised to do the penny ices, quite a coup, you know.’

  ‘Has she really? Well, then, you must let us know the date. We shall be sure to attend, won’t we, Rose?’

  ‘Oh!’ replies Mrs. Featherstone, joyfully, before Rose can even answer. ‘You are a rock, ma’am.’

  Mrs. Perfitt nods. ‘And I am sure Mr. Perfitt will be willing to contribute a little something.’

  ‘Ma’am!’ exclaims the clergyman’s wife, her naturally stony expression melting into a warm smile. ‘I confess, I knew we might rely on your goodwill. I said as much to the Reverend.’

  Mrs. Perfitt merely gestures once more, this time a dismissive shake of her hand, indicative of her own unworthiness.

  ‘No, no, you are too modest,’ continues Mrs. Featherstone, reaching inside her handbag. ‘Now, what was the other matter? Ah yes! I have the Reverend’s latest pamphlet in here somewhere. Now, where is it? May I give you a copy?’

  ‘I am sure we have it, thank you,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, perhaps a little too hastily.

  ‘Oh, that cannot be. It has only just arrived from the printer’s.’

  ‘Really?’ says Mrs. Perfitt, her perfect smile creasing a little. ‘The Reverend is so prolific.’

  ‘With cause, ma’am, with good cause,’ says Mrs. Featherstone, producing a folded pamphlet, which she hands to her hostess. ‘There!’

  Rose Perfitt, seated beside her mother, leans over to read the title:

  CREMORNE : THE CURSE OF THE NEW SODOM

  ‘You have heard what went on there last night?’ asks Mrs. Featherstone.

  ‘No, I do not believe so.’

  ‘A servant-girl was stabbed in the Gardens. The act of some frenzied madman; and I understand it is not the first such incident. One wonders whatever the girl’s mistress could have been thinking, giving her liberty to show herself in such a place? And yet, still, I’ll warrant they will renew the licence, come November. The Reverend is quite at his wit’s end, ma’am.’<
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  ‘I am sorry to hear that.’

  There is the sound of the door-bell ringing downstairs, but politesse demands that no-one should remark upon it.

  ‘We must see the place closed for good,’ continues Mrs. Featherstone. ‘It is our duty.’

  ‘It would improve the area, I am sure,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, with polite indifference in her voice. There is a hint of a yawn, stifled in her throat. ‘It has rather gone downhill.’

  The conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door.

  ‘What is it, Richards?’ asks Mrs. Perfitt of the young maid-servant, who stands timidly, half in the room, half upon the landing.

  ‘Begging pardon, ma’am, Mrs. Watson presents her card.’

  A fleeting look of relief passes over Mrs. Perfitt’s face.

  ‘Do have her come up.’

  Rose Perfitt quits the drawing-room after the departure of Mrs. Bertha Featherstone and the arrival of her mother’s more intimate friend, Mrs. Watson, complaining of a ‘head’. Behind her, as she closes the door, the conversation is rather more animated.

  ‘Alice, I swear, that woman is enough to make one turn Mahometan!’

  ‘Caroline, really! Behave yourself!’

  Rose ascends to her bedroom upon the second floor and closes the panelled door behind her. She walks over to her writing desk by the window, and sits down, feeling for one of its concealed compartments, the artifice of some long-forgotten master of the carpenter’s art. Sliding the drawer open, she pulls out a careworn white envelope and unfolds the letter inside. The paper gives the impression of having been read and read again, even though it is written in her own hand.

  My Dear Beloved,

  All this day I have wished for one moment to kiss you, to have you in my embrace. Come tonight, sweetheart, and we shall be happy . . .

  Rose stops reading, and looks to the window. It is a warm day, even for the time of year. She lifts up the sash, leans out and smells the afternoon air. In the distance, past the end of Edith Grove, across the King’s Road, she can just make out the distant walls of Cremorne Gardens, plastered with the multicoloured fly-posters that promise untold delights within.

  CHAPTER THREE

  OUTRAGE AT CREMORNE. A young woman is now lying at the Chelsea Union Infirmary having suffered a brutal assault at the hands of an unknown assailant. Sarah Hookey, a servant who resides at 23, Worthing Terrace, Pimlico, was in the Gardens on Saturday evening last when her person was attacked with a sharp instrument, which cut her dress, and penetrated her side. A number of men, attracted by her cries, hastened to the scene. The woman lapsed into an unconscious state and was carried by Constable 104 T to the King’s-road, where she was conveyed in a cab to the infirmary. There is every hope of a recovery, but the perpetrator of this peculiar sanguinary outrage remains at large.

  Decimus Webb puts down his copy of The Times and looks rather despondently out of the window of the cab, at the shops and houses of the King’s Road. Bartleby, seated beside him, picks up the paper, and reads the brief article.

  ‘They’ve got the name wrong,’ says the sergeant.

  ‘That is the least of our worries, Sergeant,’ replies Webb, as the cab begins to slow. ‘Just wait until the gutter rags put two and two together. I’ve already had a personal note from the Assistant Commissioner.’

  The cab judders to a halt. As the two policeman alight, Bartleby spies a piece of paper trodden into the dirt by the side of the road. He picks it up.

  ‘I think you’re too late, sir. Look here – “Ballad of the Cremorne Cutter”. Look’s like a new one. Now, let’s see—’

  ‘Spare me the doggerel, Sergeant, I can quite imagine,’ replies Webb.

  The cab-man, overhearing the conversation, looks down from his perch atop the hansom. ‘Saw a little ’un selling those yesterday. Selling like hot-cakes they were.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ says Webb, passing the man his fare. ‘That will be all.’

  ‘I’ll wait if yer like.’

  ‘I am sure there’s no need,’ replies Webb, rather sourly. The cab-driver shrugs, tugs on the reins, and swings the vehicle around, whilst the two policemen approach the pay-box that guards the iron gates to the pleasure ground. The clerk inside deliberately busies himself with other matters.

  ‘Will you let us through?’ asks Webb.

  ‘We ain’t open until three,’ replies the clerk brusquely.

  ‘My name is Webb. Mr. Boon is expecting us, I believe.’

  ‘Ah,’ says the clerk, eyeing the policemen up and down, then tapping his nose in the approved ‘knowing’ fashion, ‘is he now? Well, why didn’t you say so?’

  The clerk takes up a set of keys, and steps out to the iron gates. ‘Here, come through. You’ll find him at the Circus, I reckon. Through the Fernery – you can’t miss it.’

  Webb and Bartleby follow the man’s directions. The walk through Cremorne in daylight is not an unpleasant one. For, despite its man-made vistas, it possesses a certain rustic charm in the large oaks and elms that dominate the landscaped paths. But there is also something of going behind-the-scenes: the fountains have been turned off; the marble limbs of the Greek gods that adorn the park’s arbours seem pale and wan in the daytime; it is, all in all, a little lifeless.

  At length, the two policemen reach the Circus, though the area is obscured in part by the primeval foliage of the Fernery. The Circus itself is a large circular amphitheatre of wooden construction, surrounded on all sides by raised benches, gaily decorated with flags and streamers, with a canvas tent for a roof, rising to some forty or fifty feet above the ground. In the dirt-covered ring at its centre a dozen horses prance in circles, forming complex patterns around a moustachioed gentleman in riding costume, who directs them with the occasional flick of a long whip. There is no audience but for a solitary, rather portly middle-aged man in a fashionable silk suit, watching from the side. He gets up when he sees the two policemen.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ says the man, enthusiastically, before either Webb or Bartleby can introduce themselves. ‘Twelve horses. Fine specimens, thoroughbreds, but is it a decent draw? Now, I’ve told him, put a posture-master on each one, have them juggle, and we’re in business, eh? Now, am I right? I believe I am; one must always think of the public, eh? Always!’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, sir,’ replies Webb.

  ‘So, enough of that, what do you do, eh?’

  ‘Mr. Boon?’ says Webb.

  ‘Of course, sir!’

  ‘My name is Inspector Webb. This is my sergeant, Bartleby.’

  ‘Ah,’ replies Mr. Boon. His enthusiasm instantly ebbs. ‘I see. You must excuse me. We have been holding auditions and . . . well, an honest mistake. Please, take a seat.’

  ‘Then I can assume you know why we are here?’ says Webb.

  ‘I regret I do. That business last night. First, how is this unfortunate girl?’

  ‘The surgeon says it was a lucky escape; a flesh wound,’ says Bartleby.

  ‘Well, that is something,’ remarks Boon. ‘I suppose it is the same man that attacked her – the same as the others?’

  ‘More than likely,’ replies Webb. ‘But, I would like to be quite clear, he has never stabbed someone before?’

  ‘I hope the police have all the facts, Inspector. There have been three incidents to my knowledge. In each case he only cut away some of the girl’s hair. I must confess, when I first asked for help from Scotland Yard, I did not expect it to come to this. I thought the fellow was merely a nuisance.’

  ‘I hardly think you can consider us responsible, sir,’ says Bartleby.

  ‘No, I did not mean that. But if the fellow . . . well, what if he does it again? Does this wretch have a thirst for blood?’

  ‘Please, sir,’ says Webb, ‘if you’ll forgive me, there is no need to be quite so dramatic. We’ve drafted in ten more men from Westminster. If he tries it again, we will catch him.’

  ‘I see. You have no clue as to his identity?’


  ‘I’ve spoken to all the women personally, sir,’ interjects Bartleby. ‘Not one recalls anything of value. One thought he was a tall fellow; one thought he was short. I don’t believe any of them even saw him, not to speak of. He picks his moment.’

  Boon sighs, rather theatrically. ‘You must realise, if this continues, I will be ruined. This could be the final straw for Cremorne.’

  ‘Sir?’ says Webb.

  ‘You need not be coy, Inspector. You must have read a certain letter that appeared in The Times last month?’

  Webb nods. ‘I seem to recall something rather uncomplimentary.’

  ‘Uncomplimentary! To say the least! I have suffered the grossest imputations upon my character that one can imagine – you might think I keep the Gardens open specifically for the ruin of young women. And now this!’

  Webb says nothing.

  Mr. Boon frowns. ‘We do our utmost to maintain propriety – you may ask anyone.’

  ‘I am sure we spied a few females of the unfortunate variety on Saturday night, sir,’ suggests Bartleby.

  ‘As with any public place of recreation. What theatre or concert-room would be any different? Come, you know how it is. We do not encourage any species of immorality. Quite the reverse.’

  ‘That is not the Gardens’ reputation, though, is it, sir?’ suggests Bartleby.

  ‘The result, Sergeant,’ replies Boon, a note of anger in his voice, ‘of the braying of half a dozen narrow-minded puritans, who have hounded me in the press. I’ve half a mind to sue, you know.’

  ‘I am sure,’ replies Webb with a rather disinterested tone to his voice. ‘Tell me, are you the owner of the grounds, sir?’

  ‘The lessee, Inspector. I hardly see what difference that makes.’

  ‘No, quite. And we can assume you have no idea yourself as to the identity of the attacker?’

  Boon shakes his head despairingly. ‘You may as well call him “The Cutter”, Inspector. Everyone else is.’

  ‘I am not of a melodramatic disposition, Mr. Boon,’ replies Webb. ‘And I do not much believe in monsters or phantoms, not of any variety.’