by Lee Jackson
The guard who stands at the prison’s perimeter looks at him sternly as he passes.
‘Mind you don’t come back, eh?’ says the man in question.
George Nelson looks at the official, pauses for a moment, then spits on the ground.
‘Hook it,’ says the guard, a look of unconcealed contempt on his face.
Nelson does not reply but walks on, round the corner of the gaol, onto the Caledonian Road. He pauses, standing in the shadow of the prison walls. Perhaps his only reason to stop is the ill-fitting discharge suit, which, he discovers, obliges him to adopt a somewhat shuffling gait. Or it may simply be the sight of the traffic – the waggon that slowly passes by; the omnibus in the distance; the dozen people making their way along the pavement – the ebb and flow of daily life he has not seen for five years. Regardless, he stands there, seemingly frozen, for a good few minutes, before he recovers, and directs his steps to the opposite side of the road, where the Bull in the Pound public house is conveniently situated.
The landlord does not even blink at the spectacle of George Nelson as he enters the public bar. He is used to the rather shabby fustian outfits provided by Her Majesty for those quitting Pentonville. In fact, though he keeps early hours for the nearby Metropolitan Cattle Market, the convenience of his hostelry as a watering-place for the ex-residents of the prison is not lost upon him, and he makes no effort to discourage such custom.
‘Give us a pipe and some baccy, for God’s sake,’ says Nelson, placing his hands on the bar. ‘And a pint.’
The landlord smiles at the familiar request.
‘Been a long time, has it, old son?’
‘Five years,’ replies Nelson, as the landlord pulls on the beer-pump.
‘Need lodgings? I know a good few places. Cheap ’uns.’
Nelson shakes his head. ‘I know where I’m going.’
The landlord shrugs.
George Nelson stays for an hour or so in the Bull in the Pound, seated by the door. As occasional customers enter, he peers out, back at the high wall of the gaol, as if to reassure himself of his location and that his freedom is not illusory. At last, with every ounce of tobacco burnt through in the clay pipe, and his pint pot quite empty, he reaches inside the unfamiliar jacket of his suit, and retrieves an envelope, stamped with Her Majesty’s crest, the lion and unicorn. Unfolding the contents, he reads it through:
Order of Licence under the Penal Servitude Acts,
1853 to 1864
WHITEHALL
17th day of May 1875
HER MAJESTY is graciously pleased to grant to George Frederick Nelson who was convicted of Rape at the Central Criminal Court on the 14th day of June 1870, and was then and there sentenced to be kept in Penal Servitude for the term of six years and is now confined in the Penitentiary Prison, Pentonville, Her Royal Licence to be at large from the day of his liberation under this order, during the remaining portion of his said term of Penal Servitude, unless the said George Frederick Nelson shall be convicted on indictment of some offence within the United Kingdom, in which case such licence will immediately be forfeited by law, or unless it shall please Her Majesty sooner to revoke or alter such Licence.
Nelson looks at the document long after he has finished reading it. He takes a long breath, then returns the ticket-of-leave to its envelope, replacing it in his jacket pocket.
Standing up, he nods to the landlord, who has long since lost interest in him, and makes his way out of the bar. Behind him, upon the small deal table at which he was seated, lie the crumpled remains of a pamphlet, entitled The Long Road that leads to Heaven.
CHAPTER NINE
Decimus Webb takes a sip from his mid-morning mug of coffee, as he stands and stares out of the narrow window of his office, looking at the cobbled yard below. It is a warm day, even for the time of year, and he notices that the mud between the stones in the courtyard has disappeared, baked into a dry layer of dust. Then he hears the familiar sound of someone ascending upon the stairs at a brisk pace.
‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ says Webb, even before Bartleby opens the door.
‘Morning, sir,’ replies Bartleby.
‘You needn’t look so cheerful,’ mutters Webb. ‘Unless you’ve just captured our wretched scissor-man single-handed.’
‘No, sir. Beautiful day, though, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. Do you have anything further to report? I can make out the weather for myself.’
‘Well, I’ve been and seen Miss Hockley in the infirmary; she seems to be doing well enough. They reckon the wound will heal quite nicely, given time. And then I went and had a word with her mistress.’
‘And?’
‘Decent sort. Runs a little confectioner’s on the Old Kent Road. Nothing to say against her. She came to her with a good character and she was happy to let her go out to Cremorne on Friday night.’
‘Very liberal,’ replies Webb, taking another sip of his drink.
‘What’s more, sir, she doesn’t know of anyone who might have a grudge against the girl. Apparently she’d been keeping company with the young man she was with for a few weeks, but nothing untoward – no rows or nothing.’
‘Yes, well, I do not think we will find anything there,’ replies Webb. ‘She was certain that her young man was ahead of her, not behind. I think our man is a simple opportunist. The way he cut at her, there is nothing to suggest great preparation, or even much determination.’
‘And what do you make of that, sir?’ asks the sergeant, gesturing to the Featherstones’ letter, which sits atop a pile of papers on Webb’s desk. ‘Have you had a chance to look at it?’
‘Yes, and I have read your report. I think the Featherstones are safe enough. To my mind, it smacks of a prank – red ink, for pity’s sake!’
‘Do you think Mr. Boon sent it?’ asks Bartleby.
‘That, Sergeant, is rather a can of worms, is it not? I certainly have no wish to be dragged into this ridiculous dispute over the Gardens.’
‘Still, perhaps we should talk to Boon again, sir?’ suggests Bartleby.
‘No need,’ replies Webb. ‘As it happens, I had a letter from Mr. Boon this morning. He says that he plans to call on me shortly – for what reason I cannot quite make out. And I can tell you, for what it is worth, his handwriting appears quite different to that of your “Cutter”.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’
Webb, however, does not reply, as something catches his attention outside.
‘Ah, here he is, I think. Yes – keeps his own carriage, too, by the look of it – no expense spared.’
‘Mr. Boon?’
Webb nods. ‘And with a young lady as his companion. You had better find us a couple more chairs, Sergeant.’
Mr. Boon enters Decimus Webb’s office with a young woman upon his arm. She is smartly dressed in a dark emerald day-dress, and carries a folded parasol in her hand. After a brief introduction, both parties are seated in front of Webb’s desk.
‘Now, sir, what may I do for you?’ says Webb.
‘You have no news, then, Inspector?’ asks Boon.
‘Not since we last spoke, sir, no.’
‘Very well, as I thought. Then I have a proposal for you. This is, as I say, Miss Richmond. I expect you recognise her.’
Webb looks at the young woman, whose rather average features bring no-one particularly to mind. ‘I can’t say as I do, sir.’
‘Come, sir. Miss Richmond, one of our fair city’s greatest artistes. You tell me you do not know her?’
Webb shakes his head rather wearily. ‘Perhaps my sergeant can assist – Bartleby?’
Sergeant Bartleby frowns as he looks at the young woman. ‘There is something, sir, but I can’t quite place it.’
‘Please, Inspector,’ says Boon, ‘I did not intend a guessing game. Miss Richmond is “The New Female Blondin – The Most Astounding Aerialist and Mistress of the Gymnastic Art”. Her performances have engendered adulation and astonishment in all who have seen her. No
w, if you dare, tell me you have not heard of her!’
‘Of course!’ says Bartleby, with some enthusiasm. ‘I saw you at Astley’s last year, Miss. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
‘Mr. Boon, Miss Richmond,’ interrupts Webb, ‘this is delightful, I am sure. But I seem to recall you mentioned a “proposal”?’
‘Quite right! I have a plan, Inspector. We cannot wait on this maniac to strike at will. We must lure him out. Miss Richmond has a delightful head of hair, as you can see’ – the young woman blushes rather fetchingly – ‘and she assures me that she is happy to oblige, if it may help rid us of this danger to her sex. And, besides, she has her own contract to consider; we had planned three shows a night from June.’
Webb clasps his hands together. ‘I struggle to get your meaning, sir.’
‘A trap,’ says Boon, in the manner of a conspirator. ‘Miss Richmond waits in a quiet spot – and then we have him!’
Webb sighs. ‘Am I to understand you propose to entice the wretch to assault this young woman?’
‘And then we pounce!’ says Boon, banging his hand on Webb’s rather cluttered desk for emphasis. Several pieces of paper fall to the floor.
‘Oh good Lord,’ says Webb. ‘You are not serious?’
‘Of course.’
Webb smiles politely in the direction of Miss Richmond. ‘I am sorry, Miss. I applaud your courage, but I could not allow such a thing. The danger to yourself would be far too great.’
‘But, Inspector!’ protests Boon. ‘Surely with trained men at hand—’
‘No, sir. Categorically no.’
‘Very well,’ says Boon, a hint of indignation in his voice, ‘then you leave me no choice in the matter.’
‘No choice?’
‘I had hoped I might be spared the expense. But I can see there is no other way. I give you notice, Inspector, that I intend to place an advertisement upon every wall in Chelsea. A fifty-pound reward to whomever can accomplish this lunatic’s capture.’
‘I hardly think that is a good idea, sir,’ says Webb.
‘I have no choice, if you cannot find this fellow. I think the promise of a reward may work wonders.’
Webb shakes his head, but Boon interjects before he can speak.
‘My mind, Inspector, is quite made up. Come, Miss Richmond. We will leave the inspector to his work. Good day to you both.’
And, with that, John Boon rises dramatically from his chair, straightens his jacket, and leads the rather submissive Miss Richmond from the room. Decimus Webb watches them go and then places his head in his hands, rubbing his temples.
‘Hot-headed, these theatrical types, sir,’ says Bartleby, going over to the window and looking at Boon’s carriage pulling out of the courtyard. ‘But a reward – can’t be that bad, surely?’
Webb casts a despairing glance at the sergeant. ‘Bartleby, really. Do you think, knowing the sorts who visit Cremorne, that they will be overly scrupulous about finding the right culprit? For fifty pounds we’ll get a dozen “Cutters” a night; and none of them our man, I’ll lay odds. One may have a squint; or he may have a low brow; or merely look askance at some female. That will be all it takes; anything will suit. It will work against us.’
Webb places his hands on his forehead.
‘Just once I would like to meet a simple out-and-out villain.’
George Nelson looks at the room on offer. It is a small space in the attic floor of a somewhat below-par lodging-house, in a rather dingy side street. It is barely large enough for the bed, wash-stand and dressing table within.
‘Meals included?’
The landlord shakes his head.
‘Laundry?’ says Nelson.
The landlord smiles, but shakes his head again.
‘I’ll take it.’
‘How long for?’ asks the landlord. ‘Month? I can’t say less than a month. I’d be doing myself a disservice if I said less than a month. In advance.’
‘A month then,’ says Nelson, shaking his hand.
‘What’s your line of work?’
Nelson pauses. ‘Nothing in particular.’
‘Lost your position, eh? What brings you here?’
The ticket-of-leave man walks over to the room’s small window and peers out. ‘Thought I’d look up some old friends.’
CHAPTER TEN
Rose Perfitt stands perfectly still upon a low stool in the work-room of one Madame Lannier, ‘Superior Milliner and Dressmaker’, as the latter circles about her, minutely examining her form, like a scholar pondering some marble Venus in the basement of the British Museum. Rose’s appearance is a matter of professional pride to Madame, who has spent fifteen minutes adorning her in a garnet-coloured ball-gown of corded silk, albeit one as yet with no trimmings, the body and cuirasse held together with a temporary arrangement of cleverly placed pins. Madame Lannier, it must be said, is a renowned perfectionist and must have things ‘just so’.
Rose’s mother, meanwhile, accompanying her daughter to the fitting, merely sits upon a wing chair by the door, observing the proceedings.
‘You must keep the back straight, Mademoiselle, if you please,’ insists the dressmaker, a thin woman with a surprisingly firm manner, who tugs gently at the dress’s putative cuirasse, then, seeming to change her mind as to the cause of the difficulty, manipulates Rose’s shoulders, pushing them firmly into an acceptable posture. Rose does her best to oblige.
‘Now,’ says Madame Lannier, turning to Mrs. Perfitt, ‘the skirts are tied back like so, yes? Vous comprenez, Madame? That is la ligne for the season – you see the waist, yes? Très prononcé – here and here. Then, of course, we attach the train. My girls will add the lace trim tomorrow.’
Mrs. Perfitt beams. ‘I think it will be delightful, Madame Lannier. What do you think, Rose dear?’
‘I do like it, Mama, but I would rather—’
‘Attendez!’ interrupts Madame Lannier, observing a slight turn by her model. ‘Do not move, my child, please, not yet.’
‘Rose,’ says Mrs. Perfitt, ‘please do not make a fuss. It is quite perfect. Your father will be so proud.’
‘How much?’
Mr. Perfitt’s query resounds throughout the Perfitts’ drawing-room.
‘Charles, do not pretend for a moment that you even care about such trifles.’
‘You know I do not hold with such extravagance, Caroline. It will quite turn Rose’s head. She is in the clouds enough, as it is. You saw her at dinner – I could barely get a sensible word out of her.’
‘My dear, we have discussed this,’ replies his wife, reaching for his hand and taking it in hers. ‘One cannot turn up to the Prince’s Ground in some ready-made from Marshall and Snelgrove. This is your daughter’s entrée into Society.’
Mr. Perfitt replies with a rather indistinct murmur of disapproval.
‘You will come too. And I shall be her chaperon – why, don’t you trust me to keep my eye on her?’
‘I should hope I did.’
‘Well then. You need not worry so. She will be quite safe.’
Mr. Perfitt looks to the floor, and says nothing. His wife squeezes his hand.
‘I expect,’ he says at length, ‘it is one of those modern articles, all waist and whalebone.’
‘Madame Lannier makes everything to the latest fashion, if that is what you mean,’ replies his wife, smiling gratefully at the touch of good humour returning to his voice.
‘Then I am sure it will be something no decent young woman would wear.’
‘I shall be wearing something similar myself,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘If you do not think it is suitable . . .’
‘I suppose if she must go, she ought to look her best.’
‘Thank you, Charles,’ says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Thank you. Oh Lord, that reminds me,’ she continues, ‘I shall need something to settle Madame Lannier’s account. It is due the week after next.’
Rose Perfitt sits at her desk. Instead of opening her treasured cache of letters, a da
ily ritual she has already performed, she begins a new missive, addressed to her older sister:
17 May 1875
My Dearest Laetitia,
Just a little note, as I said I would write. Today we went to Lannier’s, an awful bore, though Mdm. made herself very agreeable afterwards. She said I shall look like a princess at the ball – très gentile, n’est ce pas? But I think Mama hopes I shall be a Cinderella. Of course, my dress will not be magicked up, except by Papa’s ten guineas! HE thinks it is all nonsense – poor Papa! I confess, my dear Letty, I am getting so excited about the dancing that I know I shall be quite out of my mind with it on the night; and I cannot believe that three whole days remain until Saturday. I mean to enjoy it like anything. Mama says no-one present will have less than seven thousand a year – she thinks that I shall go fishing out one of them like a prize angler. I cannot say why, my dear Letty, if you can forgive me a little secret, but I do not think such men will ever capture your little one’s heart; but I expect they shall all mark my programme. For I long to dance!! I trust your Mr. Worthing and the boys are keeping well. The weather here is heavenly – I hope it lasts. I shall write to you properly, I promise, once the agony of waiting is over!
Your loving sister,
Rose
Rose smiles, satisfied with her prose, folds the letter into an envelope and rings the servants’ bell. Her maid arrives promptly.
‘Can you see this is posted tonight?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
An hour later, as Rose Perfitt is completing her evening toilette, assiduously brushing her long hair, she is interrupted by a knock at her door.
‘Come in?’
The Perfitts’ maid reappears. ‘Beg pardon, Miss.’
‘Yes?’
‘I posted that letter, Miss.’
‘Thank you,’ replies Rose, perplexed. ‘Richards – whatever is it?’
‘There was a gentleman, Miss. He came up to us when I was at the pillar-box.’
‘I do not follow. Was he pestering you?’