by Lee Jackson
‘What, ma’am?’
‘You ask about her character, Inspector. There was one particular circumstance, though I would not wish it to reflect badly upon her. It is rather delicate.’
‘Speak plainly, ma’am, I beg you.’
‘Very well,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt, although she seems a little affronted by the policeman’s lack of politesse. ‘My husband, at one point, did suspect her of improper conduct.’
‘Theft?’ suggests Bartleby.
Mrs. Perfitt shakes her head. ‘No, Sergeant, nothing of that sort. It was, rather, he thought that she was engaging in relations of a questionable character with a particular young man.’
‘Ah,’ says Webb. ‘I see. But your husband was proved wrong?’
‘I almost wish he was right, Inspector. You see, he discovered the man in question . . . his name was Nelson, I recall . . .’ says Mrs. Perfitt, faltering, her cheeks colouring a little. ‘You must forgive me . . . he discovered him forcing himself upon her.’
Webb frowns. ‘I am sorry you are obliged to recall such matters, ma’am.’
‘Quite. Charles – that is my husband – insisted the fellow was brought to trial. And, I am glad to say, he was convicted and sent to gaol. We did not feel it would be right to make any reference to it in Jane’s character, but the whole business was rather awkward.’
‘And how long was this before she left your employment, ma’am?’ asks Webb.
‘Perhaps a month or so,’ says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Poor girl.’
‘And is there anything else about her that you recall? Did she have any family? How did she come to you?’
‘I believe it was through one of the local agencies, Inspector. My husband may have the correspondence. As for her family, I am not so intimate with the personal affairs of my maids.’
‘Of course, ma’am,’ replies Webb. ‘Well, in that case, I think it might be best if I returned for a quick word with your husband, perhaps this evening?’
‘I can provide you with the address of his firm, Inspector,’ suggests Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Barker and Co., in the City.’
Webb smiles politely. ‘Thank you, but tonight would be more convenient, ma’am, if you don’t mind. What time shall we say?’
‘You might come at seven o’clock,’ suggests Mrs. Perfitt, ‘before dinner.’
‘Excellent,’ says Webb, moving to stand up. ‘Then that is all, I think. Again, I am sorry for intruding, ma’am.’
‘Not at all,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Inspector, you did not say how poor Jane died?’
‘I hoped to spare you the details, ma’am. They are rather unpleasant.’
‘I am sure I will hear them at some point, Inspector.’
‘Very well. She was caught in a fire, ma’am.’
‘A fire? Really? It was not an accident then? You are certain?’
‘No, ma’am,’ says Webb. ‘Quite deliberate.’
‘Why did you want to leave seeing his nibs until tonight?’ asks Bartleby, as the two men walk back down Edith Grove.
‘It is merely because I think we would do better to spend a little time over this “awkward” business of Miss Budge and – Mr. Nelson, was it not? – before we talk to Mr. Perfitt. It may provide us with a few more questions about the girl, even if it does not provide any answers. You can talk to the local division about it, for a start. Find out where Nelson’s serving his time. We might even pay him a visit.’
Bartleby nods, notebook already in hand. ‘And what about Mrs. Perfitt, sir?’
‘What about her, Sergeant?’
Bartleby pauses for thought. ‘She said she wasn’t intimate with her maids, but her husband seems to have kept a close eye on Jane Budge – close enough for him to discover this fellow having his way with her.’
‘And then they got rid of her; because no-one cares for soiled goods, do they, Sergeant? A good character supplied to compensate, naturally.’
‘You don’t think it was Jane Budge’s aversion to country air, then?’
Webb allows himself a derisive snort. ‘I should think not.’
There is another pause before Webb turns to the sergeant. ‘Did she strike you as an “excellent” sort of servant, Sergeant?’
‘Hard to tell, sir. More the skivvying sort, rather than your lady’s maid, I’d say.’
‘But Mrs. Perfitt described her as “excellent”. That was not Mrs. Featherstone’s opinion, by any means. Curious, eh?’
‘Perhaps Mrs. Featherstone has different standards, sir.’
‘I doubt they are higher than those of Mrs. Perfitt,’ replies Webb. ‘I’d say she has fairly high standards herself.’
‘It could be that she didn’t want to speak ill of the dead,’ remarks Bartleby.
‘I suppose that must be it.’
‘Who was that, Mama?’ asks Rose Perfitt, entering the drawing-room. Her mother stands by the window, watching the street.
‘No-one, Rose,’ replies her mother. ‘No-one at all.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Reports of murder are not uncommon in the great metropolis. Some may even be all but overlooked: a brawl in an East End beer-shop may result in a fatal wound, but merits only two lines in the day’s Police News. The wife-murder; the poisoning; the mutilated corpse – anything with a hint of sensation – is another matter entirely. Rumour of such dreadful events is carried not only by the papers, but by word of mouth, passing from one man or woman to another, travelling at speed like some dreadful contagion. And the murder of Jane Budge is no exception. Whether it is the association with the peculiar reputation of the ‘Cremorne Cutter’, or the effect of the words ‘Woman Burnt Alive’ rendered in bold type, her demise swiftly becomes the subject of common gossip. Thus, in due course, less than twenty-four hours after Jane Budge has breathed her last, the news reaches one Mrs. Margaret Budge in Battersea.
It arrives in the form of a neighbour, a woman hesitantly bearing a copy of the Battersea Evening Record who finds Mrs. Budge at home, alone but for an infant in her arms. The woman is, in truth, no great friend of the Budge family and merely stops long enough to offer some words of comfort – and, perhaps, to observe the effect of her evil tidings. But if the woman expects tears, she is disappointed. Mrs. Budge appears perversely calm; and so the woman excuses herself and leaves, audibly muttering the word ‘unnatural’.
Mrs. Budge watches her visitor depart, then casually places the baby she is holding, a small undernourished creature, to one side. There is almost always one such child in Mrs. Budge’s tender care. Indeed the presence of a mewling infant is something Margaret Budge rather takes for granted; an almost comforting constant in her life. On cue, the child cries out a little at being abandoned, immediately missing the warmth of her adoptive mother’s bosom.
Mrs. Budge herself puts her hands to her head and lets out a sigh, a low throaty sob. Her round face trembles and tears trickle down her cheeks. The child responds in kind, its cry more insistent and aggravated.
‘Hush now,’ says Mrs. Budge, at length.
But the child does not oblige.
‘Hush,’ says Mrs. Budge, placing a finger on the child’s lips. ‘Hush.’
Still it screams.
Mrs. Budge rises wearily from her chair, to the small cupboard that serves as her medicine cabinet.
‘You need something to calm your spirits, little ’un,’ she says out loud, a distracted expression upon her face. ‘A nice dose of quietness, eh? I expect we both do. And what will I tell her father? Not that he’ll care, the old sot.’
The child screams all the more. Mrs. Budge sighs a second time, her face still wet with tears, and pours out a spoonful of Godfrey’s Cordial, her hand rather unsteady, spilling a good deal upon the floor. She puts the bottle down, laying the spoon beside it, talking to the infant, her tone shifting to a harsh whisper.
‘I hope that bastard Nelson swings for it.’
The object of Margaret Budge’s curses is, in fact, not many miles distant. He sits alone in t
he tap-room of the World’s End tavern, a quiet, smoky resort of Chelsea’s labouring classes, concealed from the outside world by frosted glass and separate from the more refined snug by a nicely carved wooden partition. It is suited to men who enjoy a quiet drink at the end of a day’s work; its seats are plain and wooden, without padding or ornament; its tables made of cheap varnished deal. A handful of locals sit chatting animatedly near the bar but George Nelson remains on his own, seated at a small table, a pint pot in his hand. He does not look up when two newcomers enter from the King’s Road – or, at least, not until they stand directly over him.
‘George Nelson?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘No need to take that tone,’ says Decimus Webb.
‘Peelers, ain’t you?’
Webb smiles, apparently gratified to be recognised. George Nelson puts down his drink.
‘My name is Inspector Webb. This is my sergeant. May we join you?’
Nelson looks up, as if about to say something rather forcefully against the idea. But he seems to hold himself back. ‘Join me? You buying then?’
Webb shakes his head and sits down beside Nelson.
‘Shame,’ says Nelson.
‘I think you know why we’re here,’ suggests Bartleby.
Nelson shrugs. ‘I ain’t done a thing. I’ve got my ticket; I already reported to the station. I don’t want any trouble.’
Webb raises his eyebrows. ‘I’d have thought a man in your position would steer clear of Chelsea in the first place; make a fresh start.’
‘I’ve pals here. What do you want with us?’
Webb looks directly into the ticket-of-leave man’s eye. ‘I think you know, Mr. Nelson. But I’ll happily spell it out for you. A strange coincidence, you see – I’ve been making inquiries today into the murder of a young woman named Budge; she was killed last night. I find out this morning that five years ago she was assaulted by a certain George Nelson – a nasty piece of work by all accounts. I make further inquiries. It turns out that our Mr. Nelson has just finished his penal servitude; that he’s out on leave.’
‘Bad business that fire,’ replies Nelson, taking a gulp of his drink. ‘I just read about it, as it happens. In the paper.’
‘Is that so?’
‘What, you don’t think I can read?’
‘You don’t seem very sorry about it,’ says Bartleby.
Nelson looks up at Bartleby. ‘Maybe I ain’t.’
‘Where were you last night, Mr. Nelson?’
‘Here.’
‘All night?’ asks Webb. ‘Between, say, nine and eleven o’clock?’
‘I was here. Ask the landlord there; he knows me. Ask anyone you fancy.’
Webb looks at Bartleby and nods. The sergeant heads off in the direction of the bar.
‘When did you last see Miss Budge, then?’ asks Webb.
Nelson frowns. ‘Five year back, I should say.’
Webb pauses. ‘I don’t see many of your pals about, Mr. Nelson. Why did you really come back, eh? Did you want to punish that wretched girl for what she did to you? For putting you away?’
‘I said already, I was here the whole night,’ repeats Nelson, in monotone.
Webb pauses. ‘A costly habit, drink. Have you found employment?’
‘The Gardens.’
‘Cremorne?’ asks Webb.
‘I used to work there. They’re happy to have me.’
‘What is your position?’
‘General labourer. Scene-shifter.’
‘They must have thought highly of you, to take you back, knowing the sort of man you are. A risk for them. All those young women, actresses, ballet girls . . .’
Nelson places his drink firmly down upon the table, turning to look Webb directly in the eye. ‘Look here, Inspector – I know your game. But I never did nothing to that damn girl.’
Webb does not reply. Nelson takes a deep breath.
‘Ah, here’s your poodle now,’ says the ticket-of-leave man as Bartleby returns.
‘Well?’ says Webb.
‘He was here, sir,’ says Bartleby. ‘The landlord and two others will vouch for it.’
Nelson takes another sip of his drink. The hint of a smile curls at the edge of his lip. ‘That’s cooked your goose, ain’t it, Inspector?’
Webb ignores the remark. If he is about to ask Nelson any further question, he thinks better of it. ‘We may wish to speak to you again, Mr. Nelson. Do not leave your current lodgings without notifying us.’
Nelson nods, an expression of mock gravity upon his face. ‘I know the rules of the ticket, Inspector. I know ’em all right.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ says Webb, getting up from his seat.
‘One thing, Inspector,’ says Nelson.
‘What?’ says Webb.
‘Who do you think killed her then? They say it’s this “Cutter” fellow, don’t they?’
Webb wordlessly gets to his feet.
‘Let me know if you catch up with him,’ says Nelson, grinning. ‘I’d very much like to stand that gentleman a drink.’
‘Warm sort of chap, wasn’t he?’ says Bartleby, as the two policemen walk along the King’s Road.
‘I’ve yet to meet a convict with great love for the police, Sergeant,’ says Webb. ‘Still, these men who vouched for him – did they seem reliable?’
‘Far as I could tell, sir. They didn’t seem to have been put up to it. I’ve got their names. And I’ll ask the lads at T Division what they know about the landlord.’
Webb nods. ‘He had a grudge against the girl, we know that much.’
‘You think he had someone else do it?’
‘Possibly; though he does not strike me as the type. A queer way to go about it, too. One might imagine a garrotting would suit his purpose; a knife in a dark alley as the girl made her way home. This fire smacks of something different; hardly the act of a determined assassin.’
‘Spur of the moment?’
Webb smiles. ‘Correct, Sergeant. Improvisation. Or, perhaps, desperation.’
‘Where now, sir?’
Webb pulls out his watch from the pocket in his waistcoat.
‘Back to Edith Grove.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Webb and Bartleby find Charles Perfitt already returned home, expecting their arrival, waiting together with his wife. Introductions are swiftly made, and soon the policemen are seated once more in the Perfitts’ drawing-room.
‘I fear you have wasted your journey, Inspector,’ says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘I have talked to Mr. Perfitt—’
‘Caroline, please,’ interrupts Charles Perfitt, rather firmly. ‘I am quite able to speak for myself.’
Mrs. Perfitt blushes and falls silent.
‘I am sure that you are correct, ma’am,’ replies Webb, tactfully. ‘And I don’t wish to detain you or your husband longer than is necessary. I gather then, sir, that you do not have any further particulars regarding the personal circumstances of Jane Budge?’
‘I looked through my papers, Inspector. She came to us through an agency, as we were new to the area. She was only a young girl at the time. We took her on trial, and she proved suitable. I can provide their address, if you like, though I am not sure they are still in business.’
‘Thank you, sir. Bartleby here will make a note of it. Did you have any contact with Jane Budge after she left your employment? I suppose you or your wife must have passed her in the street upon occasion, the college being so near by?’
‘Not to any great extent, Inspector,’ replies Mr. Perfitt. ‘I may have seen her, in passing, on occasion.’
‘So you do not know, for instance, if she had any particular acquaintances or friends? Or if there was someone who might wish her harm?’
‘I have no idea, Inspector,’ replies Mr. Perfitt. ‘Why ever should I? Besides, from what I hear, some lunatic is responsible – that same fellow who’s been molesting these girls in the Gardens?’
‘We cannot be certain of that, sir,’ s
ays Webb. ‘I merely wondered if you took any particular interest in Miss Budge’s welfare, after she left you. Mrs. Perfitt explained you decided to give her a good character, even after the unfortunate business with Mr. Nelson.’
‘I would prefer not to discuss that painful affair, Inspector, if it is all the same to you. I know that my wife has already mentioned it – and I would rather she had not – but, really, I cannot imagine that we need to rake it up again.’
Webb frowns. ‘I fear we policemen must grub in the dirt upon occasion. One never knows what one may find. I would not wish to distress Mrs. Perfitt, however . . .’
Webb’s implication is not wasted on Charles Perfitt. ‘Yes, Caroline, perhaps you might be spared this, at least.’
‘Really, Charles,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘There is no need.’
‘Caroline,’ returns her husband firmly, ‘I rather think the inspector is right.’
‘Very well,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. And with a polite, if somewhat forced, smile, she gets up and quits the drawing-room.
‘You must forgive my wife, Inspector. She can be rather headstrong.’
Webb dismisses the apology with a wave of his hand. ‘I am sorry to be the cause of any awkwardness, sir. But I fear we do need to discuss George Nelson. He is, at least, the only person we have yet discovered with any grudge against Jane Budge. An unpleasant character too, though he appears to have an alibi.’
Charles Perfitt smiles ruefully. ‘Yes, well I expect Pentonville Prison will stand for that.’
‘No,’ says Webb. ‘I am afraid it is not quite so cast-iron as Pentonville. You see, he was released on ticket-of-leave two days ago.’
Charles Perfitt’s face becomes suddenly pale.
‘You seem surprised, sir?’
As Caroline Perfitt quits the drawing-room, she finds her daughter loitering near by, upon the stairs.
‘Rose! Heavens, were you eavesdropping?’
‘No, Mama!’ replies Rose indignantly. ‘I just heard we had guests, that is all. It is the same men that came this morning, isn’t it? I saw them in the road.’