by Lee Jackson
Mr. Perfitt’s journey is a brief one, no more than ten minutes’ walk, if that. He finds the World’s End itself to be shut at such an early hour, as he expected, and therefore makes several inquiries of passing strangers – inquiries as to the availability of cheap lodgings in the vicinity. Dressed in his fine black City suit, with rain spattering off his umbrella, he elicits more than a few puzzled looks from the maid-servants and delivery boys whom he importunes. Nonetheless, he eventually finds himself in a narrow side street behind the public house called Albion Terrace, where several of its old tenements are let by the room. And, by persevering further, it is not long before he is welcomed into a particular establishment. The landlord of the place is quite happy to present Mr. Perfitt’s compliments to one George Nelson and returns to announce that Mr. Perfitt is cordially invited to ‘go up’.
The staircase in question turns out to be a rather ancient assemblage of bare boards, with its banisters preferring to arrange themselves in twos and threes at odd intervals, suggestive of comrades long since lost – perhaps to the unchecked descent of a heavy piano, or substantial chest of drawers. Nelson’s attic room is upon the third floor, the door slightly ajar. With no word from inside, Mr. Perfitt knocks and walks in.
He finds George Nelson standing bare-foot in front of him, tucking his shirt into his trousers.
‘Ah, now then, look who’s come to see me,’ says Nelson, ‘so early in the morning.’
‘I did not intend to wake you,’ says Mr. Perfitt, warily, his voice sounding far from confident.
‘I ain’t too particular. It’s just a fellow likes his sleep, after he’s been in the jug,’ says Nelson, picking up a grubby-looking mirror from the nearby dressing table and straightening his hair with his fingers. ‘Even this here object,’ continues Nelson, returning the mirror to its place, and nodding at his rather Spartan bed, ‘feels like you’re on the softest feathers there ever was.’
‘I expect you would care to know why I have come here,’ says Mr. Perfitt in his best business-like fashion.
‘I can guess.’
‘I will be blunt, Mr. Nelson. I will pay you money. Good money. One hundred pounds to leave us alone; to quit Chelsea.’
George Nelson smiles. ‘Mr. Nelson is it? Now why would a fellow do something so contrary to his wants and inclinations?’
‘Two hundred then.’
Nelson positively grins. ‘Is that what I’m worth? I remember it were only fifty last time, weren’t it?’
‘Two hundred and fifty. My final offer,’ says Mr. Perfitt.
‘Not three?’ says Nelson, cheerfully. ‘And here’s me reckoning my stock was up.’
‘Three then, damn you, but not a penny more,’ exclaims Mr. Perfitt.
George Nelson shakes his head, a mocking smile upon his lips. Then, without any warning, he lunges towards Charles Perfitt, pushing him backwards against the half-open door, so that it slams shut with the full weight of his body falling against it. With one hand, Nelson presses hard against Perfitt’s chest; with the other he grabs him violently by the throat, his rough fingers crushing his victim’s starched collar. Mr. Perfitt in turn, can do little but struggle in vain, barely able to breathe.
‘Damn me, would you? Damn me? If I’m going to hell, I reckon I’ll be seeing you on the way down, eh? I bet you bloody laughed, didn’t you – you and that bitch of yours – when they sent me down. I bet you split your bloody sides?’
Mr. Perfitt tries to speak, his words coming out in a whisper. ‘One word from me—’
‘And what? It’ll look pretty queer the likes of you sniffing round here, I reckon.’
Mr. Perfitt can barely utter a reply. Looking at Perfitt’s flushed features, Nelson leaves the question hanging in the air, stepping back and releasing his grip.
‘No-one will take the word of a convict,’ splutters Mr. Perfitt, recovering his equilibrium.
Nelson shakes his head and picks up the razor that lies besides his mirror, moving with slow deliberation. ‘I tell you straight, you bastard, if you try that game again, I can bide my time. And when I come out, I’ll do for you, and that wife of yours. And I’ll take my bloody time about it.’
‘Then just tell me what you want,’ exclaims Mr. Perfitt, frustration in his voice.
‘I don’t want nothing,’ replies Nelson. ‘Well, excepting the love of a good woman. Now, you know what that’s like, don’t you?’
‘Listen to me – I swear, if you so much as come near my wife or daughter—’
Nelson laughs in derision. ‘I wouldn’t so much as piss on your Missus if she was on fire.’
Mr. Perfitt blanches a little, but ignores the taunt. ‘And Rose – give me your word that will not come near her. Give me your word and I will say nothing of this encounter. We may call our account settled.’
Nelson pauses for a moment, as if in thought. ‘If you like.’
‘I have your word?’
Nelson nods.
‘Very well,’ says Mr. Perfitt. ‘That is settled.’
Nelson says nothing. His guest, therefore, opens the door and quits the room, descending the stairs in a hurry. It is only his pride that prevents him from running; and it is only when he is sure that he is out of Nelson’s sight that he wipes the sweat from his brow.
George Nelson sits on his bed, a smile of evident satisfaction in his face. He reaches into the pocket of his coat, laid by his side, and pulls out an envelope. Reaching over to his dresser, he roots inside one particular drawer with his hand. At length, he retrieves a handful of dried red petals, which he slides carefully into the open envelope.
‘I don’t need to go near her, old man,’ he mutters to himself. ‘She’ll come to me, will your little Rosie. She always had a fancy for me. And then we’ll see who’s laughing.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The police station of T Division at Chelsea, which sits upon the King’s Road, is located not half a mile east of Cremorne Gardens, a little past the World’s End public house. It is not so large or bustling as many of its contemporaries in the great metropolis, a plain brick building, distinguished only by the customary blue lamp above its front door. Indeed, were it not for that distinctive light it might be easy for a stranger to pass it by, quite unaware of its function.
Inside, however, there are clues for the discerning eye: walls are plastered with police notices, half a dozen bearing photographic likenesses of certain ‘wanted’ gentlemen; there is a wooden dock, with a regulation height-gauge beside it, to measure the precise dimensions of those brought up on a charge; and in the small offices that lead off the hall, one or two of the desks boast not only pen, paper and ink, but a pair of handcuffs or a wooden truncheon laid carefully to one side.
It is in one such office – an hour or so after the Coroner’s jury has returned a verdict of ‘wilful murder’ upon Jane Budge – that Decimus Webb sits, his forehead creased in concentration, with a small black notebook in front of him.
‘Any luck, sir?’ asks Bartleby, appearing at the door. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘Inspector Cheadle – the fellow in charge here – was at Nelson’s trial. He has kindly provided me with his notes – but his handwriting is almost as bad as yours.’
‘I am sure it can’t be that bad, sir.’
‘Hmm. It seems Nelson pleaded innocent, said the girl consented.’
‘They always say that, don’t they?’ replies the sergeant.
‘In this case, however, the testimony of Mr. Perfitt said otherwise. Miss Budge was quite fortunate in that respect, at least.’
‘Sir?’
‘It appears she let Nelson into the Perfitts’ kitchen voluntarily; they were also seen keeping company on several occasions. Now, in such circumstances, how would you rate her chances of seeing Mr. Nelson convicted, without a witness?’
‘Not good.’
‘I think you are too optimistic, even in that. But there is something wrong here, if one reads this account of the trial and we
assume that Inspector Cheadle is a reliable reporter. You recall Mrs. Perfitt’s comments – that she did not want to cast aspersions on Jane Budge’s character, given what happened?’
Bartleby nods.
‘But Budge did not deny in court that she was on familiar terms with Nelson; in fact, it appears that she had let him inside the house on at least two other occasions – well, Mr. Perfitt almost said as much, did he not?’
‘He did, sir. But I don’t quite take your point.’
‘She deceived her employers, Bartleby. Whatever her relations with Nelson – whether carnal or otherwise – they were hardly proper; certainly not what respectable people like the Perfitts expect from their servants. So why did they keep her on? Why give a good character to this girl who repeatedly admitted this villain into their home?’
‘Pity, sir?’ says Bartleby.
‘You may think me a cynic, Sergeant, but Mrs. Perfitt did not strike me over much as the pitying kind.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to say, sir,’ replies Bartleby. ‘Not when you hear who Constable Dawes saw visit George Nelson this morning. He just sent word with the local man on the beat.’
Webb looks up. ‘Dawes?’
‘Our plain-clothes, sir. Had him stationed at the World’s End, if you recall.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, who was it?’
‘Mr. Perfitt. Made a point of finding where George Nelson lived, asked directions, and then went and paid a call.’
‘You are sure it was Perfitt?’
‘Our man followed him. Then the local constable identified him.’
Webb closes the notebook in front of him. ‘I trust Dawes was not seen.’
‘I don’t think he was spotted. He’s a good man.’
Webb taps his fingers upon the desk. ‘Mr. Perfitt, eh? Rather curious for a man who wanted absolutely nothing to do with Nelson.’
Webb pauses for a moment.
‘Tell me, Sergeant, do you recall how the Perfitts described their trip to Leamington Spa, after Nelson’s trial?’
Bartleby smiles. ‘Made a note of it, sir. Mrs. Perfitt said it was a holiday; her husband said it was a rest-cure. I thought she was probably being discreet, sir – not wanting to admit to trouble with her nerves.’
‘Possibly,’ says Webb, musing for a moment. ‘He gave us the name of their doctor, did he not?’
‘Reginald Malcolm,’ replies Bartleby, without even referring to his notes. ‘Looked him up yesterday – office in Harley Street.’
‘Very good, Sergeant,’ replies Webb. It is a rare moment of praise untinged by sarcasm; Bartleby cannot quite contain a triumphant smile.
‘When you have stopped grinning like a lunatic, perhaps you might care to arrange an interview for me with Dr. Malcolm – at his convenience, of course. There is something amiss with this whole business, I am sure of it. Something does not quite ring true. I just cannot put my finger on it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bartleby pauses upon the threshold.
‘Well, Sergeant, what is it?’
‘No more thoughts on The Cutter, sir?’
Webb sighs. ‘I have not forgotten him, Sergeant. There were no reports last night?’
‘No, sir. Perhaps he’s gone to ground. I just wondered if this business with Nelson is . . .’
‘Well, out with it?’
‘Distracting us, sir. I mean, even if The Cutter’s nothing to do with this Jane Budge case – we still have to nab him.’
‘Your opinion is noted, Sergeant,’ replies Webb. ‘And if you have any suggestions, I am happy to hear them.’
Bartleby pauses.
‘I thought not,’ says Webb. ‘Now let me return to my reading.’
Decimus Webb quits Chelsea police station at a little after seven o’clock in the evening. Rather than walking directly towards his home in Clerkenwell, he turns his steps westwards, back along the King’s Road towards Cremorne. He passes the World’s End tavern with barely a sideways glance and only comes to a halt when he reaches the great gates to Cremorne Gardens. For, standing upon the pavement, addressing anyone who comes to the Gardens’ ticket booth, is the Reverend Featherstone, with a Bible in one hand, and a bundle of pamphlets in another.
‘Back again, sir?’ asks Webb.
‘Ah, Inspector. Yes, I am afraid the Lord’s work must still be done. One must persevere. And my wife is a little less delicate today; I will not say she has quite recovered from her experience, but she is much better.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ replies Webb.
‘I do not suppose you have any news for us? You have not caught The Cutter, I take it?’
Webb looks away, as if reminded of something he would rather forget. ‘Not yet, sir. I was just taking a stroll, mustering my thoughts. Is Mr. Boon not with you?’
Featherstone smiles. ‘He was here a little earlier, but does not have much patience. That is how we shall defeat him, Inspector. With God’s love and patience.’
‘Defeat, sir? You make it sound like a battle.’
‘It is, Inspector. For the souls of the poor wretches who are lured here to Cremorne. You have not come to remove me, I trust? I had assumed, after our last discussion, that there could be not objection to my coming here.’
‘Not if you are polite and peaceable, sir. It’s not Scotland Yard’s business to interfere in such matters.’
‘I am gratified to hear it.’
As the clergyman speaks, a pair of coaches draw up, discharging a rather noisy party of smartly dressed young men and women onto the pavement. The Reverend Featherstone offers his pamphlet to the gentlemen as they pass by, but is thoroughly ignored – to the obvious amusement of their female companions.
‘You don’t seem to have much luck, sir, if I may say so,’ observes Webb.
‘We shall see, Inspector. It is a hard path I have chosen, but I am sure it is the right one. This place is a cancer in the very heart of our fair suburb. I have seen young persons – many of them of respectable families, mind you – corrupted, time and again. And now we have this business of The Cutter – I consider it the fruit of this social evil, which we have allowed to flourish, quite unchecked. Bitter fruit, Inspector. I only pray that a few of them may learn from it.’
Webb sighs. ‘I rather gather from Mr. Boon that it’s doing wonders for his business – apparently the public rather likes the mystery.’
‘Lord preserve us!’ exclaims the Reverend Featherstone.
‘Some people don’t know what’s good for them, sir,’ remarks Webb.
‘No,’ replies the clergyman, his face rather downcast, ‘you are quite right. Some people do not.’
Alone in her room, Rose Perfitt opens a sealed envelope with tremulous fingers. Dipping her hand inside, she finds its contains nothing but scattered red petals and a brief handwritten note, which she reads eagerly.
She smiles as she begins to get ready for bed, placing one of the petals to her lips.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rose Perfitt sleeps uneasily as the church bells of Chelsea chime midnight, soft cotton sheets twined and trapped around her body. In her hand she clasps a folded piece of paper to her breast, unconsciously pressing it tight against the fabric of her nightdress, even as she tosses and turns in her slumber.
Outside, meanwhile, there is almost perfect silence in Edith Grove, only a faint rustling breeze, the soothing murmur of a warm summer’s night. It does not rouse her. Instead she merely turns over once more, the pupils of her eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids.
It is much the same every night. A carriage ride through unfamiliar streets; left and right, then left again. For in the dark recesses of Rose’s dreaming, the streets of Chelsea take on a peculiar geography that she can never quite comprehend. Roads she has never known become roads in which she has lived; one is mixed up with the other.
And then they give way; they melt or vanish, as if the bricks and stone paving were merely snow or ice that dissolve in the sun; for all the ter
races and winding paths of her imagination can only lead Rose Perfitt to one place – the ornate iron gates of Cremorne Gardens.
They are not quite identical to the reality, of course. They are a little bigger; somewhat more forbidding and grand than their worldly counterparts. And the man in the ticket booth has a sterner face, one that is somehow both awful and familiar at the same time. In fact, he is a little like her father; and this always disconcerts her.
But he lets her through; he lets her through every night.
Where next?
First, with the instantaneous progress of a dreamer, she comes to the Gipsy’s Grotto or the Hermit’s Cave or the Wizard’s Lair – for they are all one and the same, the promise of reading from the dark page of futurity – where she pulls aside the muslin curtain and sits down upon a wooden stool.
The grotto walls are encrusted with oyster shells, plastered in pearly magnificence upon every surface. A single candle lights the face of the Hermit, who squats in the flickering shadow. An old man, he has the eyes of a gipsy, deep brown orbs that resemble dark caves themselves, infinite recesses in which one might become thoroughly lost. And Rose is sure she must know him too; for he surely knows her every secret.
‘Cross my palm with a shilling, my dear.’
He hands her a piece of paper – the name of her first love.
In Edith Grove the wind grows a little stronger and the lace curtains in Rose’s room flutter like the skirts of a dancer pivoting on her toes. The gust of cool night air seems to breathe life into them, and Rose’s own breath grows faster, as she clutches the piece of paper ever tighter to her chest.
‘In consequence of its Immense Success, and by Particular Desire, the splendid Decorative entertainment “A Feast of Roses”, illustrative of T. Moore’s beautiful poem “Lalla Rookh” will now be repeated.’