by Lee Jackson
When the gentlemen in question departs, Mrs. Alice Watson leans over to Caroline Perfitt and whispers in her ear.
‘My dear, what a stroke of luck! Poor Bea is so jealous! Do you know who that young man is?’
Mrs. Perfitt replies in the negative.
‘The second son of Viscount Sedgecombe. Twelve thousand a year and his own estate in Hertfordshire.’
‘Really?’ replies Caroline Perfitt, as coolly as she can manage. ‘Rose – my dear – do come here for a moment. Let me see your hair.’
Much to Rose Perfitt’s delight, the ball at the Prince’s Club goes on into the early morning, with the gallant members of the Royal Artillery Band performing sterling service for a good two hours more. Once they are done, the event draws to a close and the assembly at last begins to disperse, back to the snaking train of carriages that once more fills Hans Place. The process is a slow one, and little conclaves of ball-goers gather in the open courtyard outside the club, gossiping, exchanging polite conversation until the welcome approach of their vehicle, whether it be a landau, barouche, brougham or a mere clarence cab. In some cases, the champagne has loosened tongues. There are occasional bursts of raucous laughter from certain parties, which the more staid supporters of the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity look upon with a degree of disdain – a look normally reserved, perhaps, for beggars suspected of the worst impostures.
But there is nothing in the noise of the crowd loud enough to conceal a distinct sound from gardens at the rear of the Pavilion: the piercing cry of a woman’s scream, that carries through the night air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Decimus Webb stands at the rear of the Prince’s Club, in the loggia beneath the iron-railed balcony that runs the length of the Pavilion’s upper floor. He retrieves his tobacco-box and pipe, and strikes a match, watching the flakes grow red in the bowl, savouring the rich smell of Latakia before he puts it to his lips. Inside, the sound of furniture being moved resonates throughout the building: scraping and thumping, rumblings of activity from every room, as the traces of the previous night’s revels are gradually removed. Outside, there are similar efforts: a pair of groundsmen assess damage to their cricket pitch, and shake their heads in disappointment; near the conservatory, the club secretary looks rather mournfully at chips in the paintwork of the rackets court. But these are all commonplace, the predictable results of hosting an evening of public entertainment. Less explicable, or at least less commonplace, is the presence of three uniformed policemen, moving carefully through the shrubbery that extends around the side of the house.
Webb, pipe in hand, walks a little way from the building, towards the men in question, where he finds Sergeant Bartleby superintending the procedure.
‘Anything, Sergeant? Footprints?’ asks Webb.
‘The ground’s quite hard, sir, with all this hot weather. Nothing to speak of. We found a couple of scraps of the girl’s dress. Looks more like pieces she tore herself, running away from The Cutter. That’s about our lot. Been over it twice.’
‘Very well,’ says Webb with an air of resignation, ‘call the men off. Doubtless they have better things to do with their time.’
Bartleby obeys, and orders the three policemen to quit. Webb, meanwhile, extinguishes his pipe and looks back at the house.
‘The girl still refuses to speak to us? What is her name again?’ asks Webb.
‘A Miss Mansell, sir. Society family, Belgrave Square. The parents insist she is too over-wrought – not up to it.’
Webb frowns. ‘What do you make of it, Sergeant? It is the same as the other attacks?’
‘I’d say so,’ replies Bartleby, ‘with the exception of the location, of course. The girl was answering a call of nature; sounds like she’d had a bit too much champagne – although I doubt you’ll hear that from her family. I think the fellow was lurking here, waiting for someone to come his way.’
Webb nods. ‘Possibly. The house and terrace were too well lit, that much is obvious. And the injury, it is not serious?’
Bartleby colours slightly. ‘The man slashed at her dress and cut her rear, I believe, sir. That’s what the doctor told me. As long as there’s no infection, she should recover.’
‘But she did not see her attacker?’
‘No, sir. Not as far as I could make out, from what they said,’ replies Bartleby, tailing off in mid sentence, as one of the uniformed policemen, having extricated himself from the shrubbery, comes running over.
‘Sorry, sir,’ says the constable, ‘I just spotted this – snagged on that bush by the wall.’
Webb looks at the young policeman’s offering, a ragged strip of black cloth. He takes it from him, rubbing it between thumb and finger.
‘Silk, Bartleby. Good quality silk; not dirty or damp, so it cannot have been there long. A gentleman’s suit, I should imagine.’
‘You reckon it’s our man, sir?’
‘That I cannot say, Sergeant. But it offers one possibility, does it not? It must have occurred to you already. What if the reason that The Cutter chose to branch out from Cremorne Gardens to the Prince’s Ground last night – and appeared at so late an hour – is that he was a guest at this ball too?’
‘So you’ll want a list of names, sir?’ says Bartleby.
Webb looks back at his sergeant and nods. ‘Names and addresses, if you please. And then I should like you to—’
‘Interview all of them,’ interrupts Bartleby, with a weary sigh.
Decimus Webb turns over the shred of material in his hand. ‘Yes, all of them. If there is anyone at the Yard, get them to assist you. Here, you may as well have this – one never knows.’
Bartleby takes the piece of silk, looks it over, and places it inside his jacket pocket.
‘I’d have preferred your traditional slipper.’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ replies Webb without a flicker of amusement, ‘very droll.’
‘You won’t be with us, sir?’
Webb takes out his pocket-watch. ‘First I have a meeting with the Assistant Commissioner – a report upon our “progress”. Then, this afternoon, I shall be seeing a certain Dr. Malcolm in Harley Street.’
‘Do you think that’s really worthwhile, sir?’ asks Bartleby.
‘Which?’ replies Webb. ‘If you mean the Assistant Commissioner, I would not care to comment. If you mean the doctor, that is another matter. I found something else in Cheadle’s notes. It appears Dr. Malcolm gave evidence in court. He treated Jane Budge after she was assaulted.’
‘Not too surprising,’ suggests Bartleby. ‘He was the Perfitts’ doctor.’
‘A good reason, then, why I should like speak to him.’
Dr. Reginald Malcolm turns out to be a short, robust-looking man, with a ruddy complexion and impressive side-whiskers, who maintains a consulting room in his home in Upper Harley Street, Marylebone. He greets Decimus Webb with a confident, professional smile, long practised upon his patients.
‘Now, Inspector,’ says Dr. Malcolm, as the two men shake hands and take a seat, ‘I gather you wish to discuss something with me – though I did find your sergeant’s note a little oblique. I assume it is not a medical inquiry?’
Webb smiles. ‘I fear I am in the best of health, sir. It is in regard to a murder investigation.’
Dr. Malcolm nods. ‘Is it the girl who was killed at St. Mark’s, Inspector? Jane Budge?’
‘Ah, I see you are familiar with the unfortunate circumstances, sir,’ replies Webb.
‘I read something in The Times. Terrible business.’
‘Quite. I have been trying to learn something of the girl’s personal history. You treated her, did you not, some years ago? You were her employers’ physician?’
‘The Perfitts, yes. I still have that honour. I assume you know the facts of the matter, Inspector? The girl was violated by a brute of a man named Nelson. Mr. Perfitt asked me to do what I could for her.’
‘You gave evidence at the trial, did you not?’
&n
bsp; ‘Merely as to the nature of her injuries,’ replies the doctor. ‘Forgive me, Inspector – you think this is of some relevance to her death?’
‘It might. George Nelson was given a ticket-of-leave shortly before Jane Budge’s murder, sir. We know he still harboured a grudge against her; but I need to be sure of certain facts.’
‘Ah, I see,’ replies the doctor. ‘Well, I can only give you my medical opinion, Inspector. I did not know the girl in any other capacity.’
‘I understand, sir. The nature of her injuries then – what did they tell you?’
‘That George Nelson was a savage. He struck her about the head and upper body repeatedly, if I recall. There was considerable bruising and the head was quite swollen. I had some fear for her sight in one eye. I am sorry, I cannot recall which without reference to my notes – it was some years ago.’
Webb bites his lip. ‘Forgive the indelicate question, doctor, but I assume there was injury elsewhere? Her legs, perhaps?’
‘Not that I recall. But she was not intact, if that is your question; I made a thorough examination of her person. I suppose the wretch beat her into submission.’
‘And I gather you also treated Mrs. Perfitt for her nerves? I imagine the incident quite unsettled her.’
Dr. Malcolm waves his hand dismissively. ‘Inspector, I am quite happy to help with your questions about Jane Budge, but you can hardly expect me to comment upon my current patients.’
Webb smiles. ‘I meant no offence, sir. But, if you will bear with me, am I right in thinking you have an establishment in Leamington Spa?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And I understand you practice the water-cure?’
‘Yes I do,’ replies Dr. Malcolm, suddenly a little annoyed. ‘Inspector, please, do not insult my intelligence. I can tell you nothing about my treatment of Mrs. Perfitt. Such things are a confidential matter. I cannot imagine what prompts your interest – but I suggest you speak to the good lady directly.’
‘Again, my apologies,’ says Webb, getting up and offering his hand. ‘Well, if that is the full extent of your recollection, sir, I won’t waste your valuable time any further.’
Dr. Malcolm silently shakes the policeman’s hand with a little less enthusiasm than upon his arrival. As he shows him to the door, however, Malcolm speaks up.
‘You are the man charged with catching The Cutter, are you not?’
‘Regrettably, I am,’ replies Webb.
‘The newspapers are not overly complimentary regarding your efforts.’
‘We try not to pay too much heed to the press, sir.’
‘Really?’ continues Malcolm. ‘You realise that this fellow must kill one of these females, in the end?’
‘Sir?’
‘I happen to have made several studies of lunacy and the action of the will, Inspector. These repeated attacks are a symptom of an ever-increasing derangement of the man’s nervous economy.’
‘I don’t quite follow you, sir.’
‘It is quite straightforward. The man has yielded to some primitive impulse to wound these women; it doubtless gives him some unnatural form of satisfaction. Unless you catch him, Inspector, that base instinct, which drives him on – which atrophies the will further with each assault – will only increase.’
Webb scowls. ‘Well, I intend to catch him, sir, don’t you worry.’
It is gone eight o’clock at night before Webb and Bartleby meet at Scotland Yard. The latter presents several folded sheets of paper, upon which a series of names and addresses is written out, together with a cash sum against each one.
‘The Mendicity people gave me a copy of their subscription list for the ball, sir. Nearest thing we’ve got, when it comes to knowing who was there. Together with the ones we spoke to on the night, we’re well on our way to seeing most of them. I’ve got three men working on it. Nothing to report as yet.’
Webb nods and scans the list. ‘Quite an occasion. The Perfitts, I see.’
‘Yes, sir. Guests of a Mrs. Watson, apparently. I’ve spoken to her. Friend of Mrs. Perfitt’s.’
‘And Reverend and Mrs. Featherstone. I would not have thought it their idea of an evening’s entertainment.’
‘I’ve not seen them yet, sir. Apparently he’s a governor of the Society.’
Webb falls silent for a moment.
‘Any luck with the doctor, sir?’ asks Bartleby.
‘No. But he got rather full of himself when I asked him about Mrs. Perfitt’s illness. More so than absolutely necessary, I should say. In fact, I have a task for you.’
‘Sir?’
‘Find out who goes to this spa of Dr. Malcolm’s; see if you can get anything from the local constabulary. I should like to know a little more about it.’
‘You think there was something queer going on there, sir?’
‘Never mind what I think, Sergeant. Just send a telegram tonight. And be discreet.’
Bartleby nods. As he quits Webb’s office, he stops on the threshold.
‘How did it go with the Assistant Commissioner, sir?’
Webb looks up from his desk. ‘He was quite satisfied, once I explained the principal obstruction to my inquiries.’
‘Sir?’
‘A particular sergeant who insists on asking idiot questions.’
Bartleby smiles rather nervously, not entirely sure whether his superior is joking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
22nd May 1875
My Dearest Laetitia,
Letty! I am so glad to hear there is nothing the matter with you or your darling little ones. Mama and Papa seem in much better spirits, so you most forgive your little sister’s foolish imaginings.
What news? Of course, the ball! Letty, dear, I should like to tell you everything but I do not care to boast – suffice to say that I was quite in demand amongst the most handsome young gentlemen and that we danced until the very last. It might have been the perfect evening – but for the actions of some unmanly brute.
Have you heard of this monster, Letty? He is mentioned in today’s Times – Papa was reading it – they are calling him ‘The Cutter’ and he perpetrates horrible attacks on young women, stabbing at their clothes. I cannot imagine what sort of creature he is – but he attacked a girl at the Prince’s Ground, just as Papa had gone to find our carriage – Mama and myself were quite defenceless! Bea said she thought it terribly exciting – she can be a silly goose – but the police did not catch him. It made me think of Spring-Heeled Jack – do you remember how you used to tell me those awful stories? How you used to scare me!
Letty, dear, I am writing such nonsense, as I always do. But I have kept the good news until last – a certain Mr. Sedgecombe left us his card today – he is an acquaintance of Mrs. Watson – we danced a waltz – and he begs us to accompany him to the Prince’s next week. There is to be a bicycle race between two members of the club and he requests the pleasure of our company as his guests. Mama is thrilled – he is the son of a Viscount!
Is he handsome, you ask? A little.
But then I do not think a girl should have two loves; you know my heart was stolen long ago. I used to think I was foolish to treasure such a notion; but no more. Now, can you keep that a secret, Letty? I will see him tonight.
Do not say a word to Mama and I will tell you everything in good time.
Your loving sister,
Rose
PS Do you recall Budge, who was our maid? Bea tells me she has been killed, poor thing, in a fire! Apparently it is common knowledge and the police suspect a murder! Some are saying it is this ‘Cutter’. And Mama and Papa have not said a word! I wonder if this is what upset them. I wish they would not keep such things from me – I do not care to be wrapped up in clover and cotton wool.
Letty – write soon!
Rose Perfitt finishes writing to her sister at eleven o’clock, her room dimly lit by a single lamp. As she seals the letter in its envelope, she hears a muffled knock at her bedroom door. She walks swiftly ov
er to open it and ushers in the maid, who carries a bundle of clothes under her arm.
‘Is that everything?’ asks Rose.
‘Yes, Miss. Are you sure you want these, Miss? I don’t want to lose my place.’
‘I will not say a word, I swear. Now,’ continues Rose, taking off a small silver ring from her finger, and holding it out, ‘there – just as I promised.’
The girl looks uncertain.
‘Go on,’ urges Rose Perfitt. ‘Remember – it will be our secret. Make sure Mama does not see it, mind.’
The maid stands still for a moment, then takes the ring and places the bundle upon the bed.
Rose swiftly ushers her from the room and then, bolting her door, begins to undress.
Rose Perfitt leaves Edith Grove, by means of the kitchen door, at half-past eleven. She has watched the policeman who makes a regular patrol along the street, and knows that she has a good ten minutes before he reappears. Even so, she creeps up the area steps with a cautious, hesitant tread. She wears a rather commonplace dress of brown serge, and a dull red shawl, wrapped about her shoulders and head. Both are borrowed from her maid.
She walks down to the King’s Road and crosses it. At the entrance to Cremorne, there is a small queue, illuminated by the great octahedral gas-light that hangs suspended from the gates. Rose patiently waits her turn, trying not to heed the curious glances of several young gentlemen. She belatedly realises that her plain dress looks out of place, in the hour when pretty demi-mondaines in silk and satin take cabs down to Chelsea from the West End. The sight of a modest servant amongst the nocturnal denizens of the Gardens is itself a slight oddity. But it is too late to change and she has no wish to be recognised, so she pays her shilling and walks inside.