by Lee Jackson
‘You had blood on your hands.’
‘I tried to help him. It was too late.’
‘How convenient for you. The constable here,’ says Webb, nodding in the direction of the nearest policeman, ‘has you down for the Cremorne Cutter, Mr. Nelson, not the old man.’
Nelson shrugs. ‘Then he’s an idiot.’
The policeman in question visibly bristles.
‘Still,’ continues Webb, ‘I think we better have you down the station house, just to be safe. We shall let the Coroner decide. Put the cuffs back on him, Constable.’
The constable readily obeys with a certain degree of vigour that has George Nelson regret his remark. But the convict does not complain, allowing himself to be shackled.
‘Bring him this way, if you will,’ says Webb, quitting the room, and walking down the hotel corridor, in the direction of the saloon. Bartleby follows, with Nelson in the custody of the two policemen, one holding each arm. When Webb comes up to the saloon, rather than proceeding directly to the hotel lobby, he opens the double doors that lead inside.
Rose Perfitt immediately rises from her seat, a look of surprise on her face.
‘Inspector! Whatever are you doing? I told you – he . . . that man . . . he is quite innocent.’
‘Just routine, Miss. Nothing to worry about,’ replies Webb. ‘We’ll soon have you home.’
Rose, speechless, sits down. But not before a glance passes between her and George Nelson, who slightly shakes his head in disapproval, as if to say ‘no, don’t say a word’.
It is just a glance; it lasts the briefest of moments. Still, it does not escape Decimus Webb’s notice and, when they have left the room, he allows himself a brief smile before he calls over Bartleby.
‘Take him to the station house, Sergeant. Release him in an hour or two.’
‘Sir?’
‘I have seen all I need to see.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It is two o’clock in the morning by the time Decimus Webb returns Rose Perfitt to Edith Grove. With unusual tact, mindful of prying neighbours, he descends to the area and rings the tradesman’s bell outside the kitchen door, keeping Rose by his side. Unsurprisingly, given the hour, it takes repeated efforts to rouse the Perfitts’ maid-servant from her sleep. Nonetheless, Webb perseveres and, after a minute or two, when Richards appears, he has the consolation of knowing the whole household must also have been awakened. The theory is swiftly proven by the appearance of Mr. Perfitt, in his dressing-gown, a protective poker in hand, treading carefully down the kitchen steps, a few seconds after his maid-servant.
‘What the devil is this?’ he exclaims, as the maid lets them in. ‘Good Lord, Rose!’
‘The good news, sir,’ says Webb, shepherding Rose Perfitt into the kitchen, ‘is that your daughter is virtually unharmed, despite appearances.’
‘But what in heaven’s name does this mean?’ asks Mr. Perfitt.
‘Well, we found your daughter in Cremorne Gardens, sir. Apparently she was in the process of running away from home. As for the condition of her clothes and hair, as I say, I believe she is unharmed. It is something of a long story.’
Mr. Perfitt nods, although his expression is one more of disbelief than anything else. ‘Rose, are you quite all right?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ replies Rose, quietly.
‘Then I think you had best go to your room, while I talk to Inspector Webb. Richards – you had best help her.’
Rose readily assents and quits the room with the maid, leaving the two men alone.
‘I think we should talk, sir,’ says Webb, ‘but, in this instance, I would rather your wife were present.’
‘I fear we have been foolish, Inspector,’ says Charles Perfitt, having heard an abbreviated explanation of the night’s events.
Webb raises his eyebrows, turning his gaze from the drawing-room mantelpiece to his reluctant host and hostess.
‘How so, sir?’
‘Rose has always had an unfortunate interest in the goings on at the Gardens,’ interjects Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Such places, to a fanciful young girl, may possess an unfortunate fascination.’
‘We should have removed her from their influence long ago,’ continues Mr. Perfitt. ‘But we thought she was quite cured of it.’
‘You make it sound like she has some disease, sir,’ says Webb. ‘Cremorne Fever, perhaps.’
‘You may find this amusing, Inspector,’ replies Mr. Perfitt. ‘I assuredly do not.’
‘No,’ says Webb. ‘Quite. However, you might consider it was not so much the Gardens as Reverend Featherstone who is to blame for your daughter’s condition – at least, as far as this evening goes.’
‘And you are convinced Reverend Featherstone was The Cutter?’ asks Mrs. Perfitt.
‘It seems rather likely. We have some additional evidence – it will all come out at the inquest.’
‘Inquest?’
‘Why, there must be a Coroner’s inquest, ma’am, suicide or not. Your daughter will be the principal witness. I should have thought that would be obvious.’
Mrs. Perfitt looks aghast. ‘Must this all come out? Think of the scandal, Inspector!’
‘It can and it must, ma’am,’ replies Webb emphatically. ‘And, as for the scandal, I fear your daughter has only herself to blame.’
‘But Inspector!’ protests Mrs. Perfitt. ‘She is not well. You saw how fragile she is when you came to the Prince’s Ground. If our good name is to be dragged through the papers – frankly, I am not sure she can bear it!’
Mr. Perfitt, however, touches his wife lightly on the arm. ‘Enough, Caroline. Please.’
‘I am only thinking of Rose, Charles,’ says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘You might do the same.’
‘I think, my dear, we must be grateful she is still with us at all. Our position in society is not everything. We must live with what Rose has done. Besides, it is clearly not the inspector’s fault.’
Mrs. Perfitt bows to her husband’s will, albeit reluctantly, and falls silent.
‘Is there anything else, Inspector?’ asks Mr. Perfitt.
‘Ah, yes,’ replies Webb. ‘I neglected to mention the man who found her. Saved her life, most likely.’
‘Who?’ asks Mr. Perfitt. ‘I should be happy to thank him for it.’
‘George Nelson,’ says Webb, observing the Perfitts’ faces closely. Both seem suitably shocked and a silence descends upon the room.
‘Nelson? An odd coincidence,’ says Mr. Perfitt at last.
‘Is it, sir? I do not suppose that your daughter has ever been acquainted with Mr. Nelson?’
Mr. Perfitt reddens a little. ‘Are you insinuating something, Inspector? If so, I’d rather you came out with it.’
‘No, sir. It’s just I rather formed an impression that they knew each other.’
‘Did Rose tell you this?’ asks Mrs. Perfitt.
‘No, ma’am. Quite the opposite.’
‘Well then,’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘There is your answer.’
Webb shrugs. ‘I have been wrong before, ma’am. Well, I had best leave you be. We will notify you about the inquest directly – but it will be tomorrow or the day after.’
‘So you believe he killed poor Jane Budge, and his own wife?’ says Mrs. Perfitt, as Webb gets up to leave.
‘Who, ma’am?’
‘Reverend Featherstone, Inspector! Who else?’
‘You would think so, ma’am,’ replies Webb, as if still musing over the question in his own mind, ‘wouldn’t you?’
Mrs. Perfitt walks into her daughter’s room without knocking, her head held high. She finds Rose seated on her bed, dressed in her nightgown once more, staring into the corner of the room. An oil-lamp burns on the nearby dresser, and the glow of the flame seems to emphasise her puffy, swollen eyes and red cheeks. Rose gets up as her mother enters.
‘Mama, I’m sorry, truly I am.’
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ says Mrs. Perfitt, her voice a flat, controlled monotone. ‘Nelson?
’
Rose nods her head.
‘I should have seen the signs. What a fool I was.’
‘I’m sorry, Mama, I love him; I always have done. I can’t help it. You see, he wants to marry me.’
‘Marry?’ says Mrs. Perfitt, incredulous.
‘I know Papa won’t agree, not yet. But if you were to talk to him . . .’
The stiff resolve in Mrs. Perfitt’s stance seems to suddenly ebb away. She takes a step backwards, leaning against the door, taking a deep breath. For a second, she closes her eyes, as if to rally her strength. When she opens them again, the look she gives her daughter is somewhere between pity and contempt.
‘You stupid, stupid, little girl,’ she says, spitting out the words. ‘After all we have done for you. How could you!’
‘Mama!’ protests Rose, her tears welling up once more.
But Mrs. Perfitt does not answer. She merely turns on her heel, quits the room and slams the door behind her.
And then there is the sound of a key being turned in the lock.
CHAPTER FORTY
The Coroner’s inquest upon the death of Augustus J. Featherstone is convened in the Cremorne Hotel, being the nearest public building to the place of his demise. The venue is the hotel’s modest ball-room. Decimus Webb, amongst the first to arrive, looks over the efforts of John Boon’s staff in creating the temporary court. A substantial desk has, it appears, been moved from one of the private rooms, to accommodate the literary requirements of the Coroner; a trestle-table, likewise, has been laid on for the benefit of his officers. As for the jury and general public, chairs from the saloon and lesser bars, requisitioned for the purposes of justice, lie arranged in neat rows, in a good approximation to the plan of the Old Bailey. Decimus Webb sits down next to Bartleby, in the seats reserved for witnesses, and wonders to himself where a distinct smell of liquor is coming from. Then he realises – the chairs still carry with them the spirituous, tobacco-heavy scent of the saloon.
The room soon fills up. Such is the interest in the deceased clergyman that all the seats are quickly taken and, after a short interval, the walls are all but obscured by curious members of the public. Some are the usual habitués of such public spectacles; others Webb recognises as members of St. Mark’s College. Many of those seated are respectable female residents of Edith Grove and its environs. Almost without exception, they turn their gaze to Rose Perfitt and her parents as the three of them enter the room from a side door, and take their place amongst the witnesses. Webb himself watches Rose closely, not least to see whether she turns her head towards George Nelson, seated a few feet away. But she keeps her gaze directly ahead, rather unnaturally rigid in her posture.
‘Nerves, do you think?’ says Bartleby, observing his interest.
‘I should imagine,’ replies Webb. ‘She is about to confess before all her friends and neighbours that she was caught wandering about the Gardens, unaccompanied, at midnight. I am sure some will consider that a greater scandal than anything Featherstone might have done. He was,’ continues Webb in a sardonic tone, ‘a man of the cloth, after all.’
‘Why do you think he did it?’ whispers Bartleby.
‘It was his scheme to close the Gardens, Sergeant; or, at least, to teach Chelsea’s loose women a lesson. He even told me that he thought people might “learn” from it. I should have paid closer attention; I fear, looking back, he was almost taunting me. I wonder what he thought when he received those schoolboy threats; he must have found it rather amusing.’
‘A queer business, sir.’
‘Quite. I can only imagine the attacks became some kind of morbid compulsion with him. That is why he could not help himself at the ball.’
‘And what about Jane Budge, and his wife? Do you think that’s why he did for them? They discovered his secret?’
Webb bites his lip. ‘You are getting carried away again, Sergeant.’
‘Sir?’
‘For the last time. Featherstone was with me outside Cremorne when Budge died. Likewise, it seems unlikely he killed his wife whilst he was simultaneously at a parish meeting.’
‘You don’t think he could have arranged it?’ says Bartleby. ‘So he had an alibi?’
‘That, Sergeant, would require an accomplice. And I doubt that very much.’
‘Still, someone must have done it, if it wasn’t him. ’
‘Your mental faculties are as alert as ever, Bartleby. Yes, for all his madness, I do not think Featherstone was a killer. There is a murderer still out there, I am quite certain of it. Of course, whether we choose to make that clear to the Coroner is another matter. Now, hush. Here comes our man.’
The Coroner, it turns out, is a rather pragmatic individual, not given to the speechifying of some of his colleagues in the metropolis. Thus, he goes through the preliminaries of the proceedings at a brisk pace, briefly outlining the duties of the jury and keeping all else to a minimum. The customary visit to the scene of the tragedy is denied the jurymen – principally to avoid the possibility of the entire court becoming lost in Cremorne’s maze – and instead the novel expedient is discovered of drawing a chalk sketch upon the ball-room floor, outlining the dimensions of the particular dead end where the Reverend Featherstone met his Maker. All in all, for a Coroner’s inquiry, the hearing begins quite swiftly and, once the Coroner has made his opening remarks, witnesses are called. The first is Rose Perfitt, who takes the appointed seat.
‘Miss Rose Perfitt, resident at 37, Edith Grove, Chelsea?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You witnessed the death of the Reverend Featherstone?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you tell the court how you came to be in Cremorne Gardens on the night in question?’
‘I had had an argument with my father, sir. I decided to run away from home.’
The sound of excited whispers, exchanged between respectable parties, echoes round the room.
‘And so you proceeded, by yourself, to Cremorne Gardens?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘To what purpose?’
A couple of the gentlemen of the press smirk to themselves.
‘I do not know, sir. I did not think there was any harm in it.’
There is an audible guffaw from the back of the room. The Coroner looks sternly in that direction, whilst Rose Perfitt blushes.
‘And how did you come across Reverend Featherstone?’
As Rose Perfitt answers the question, Bartleby whispers to Webb. ‘She’s taking it better than I thought she would, sir. Quite composed, all things considered.’
Webb frowns. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘You are George Nelson, resident in lodgings at 14, Albion Terrace.’
‘Yes I am, sir.’
‘You are by profession a labourer at Cremorne Gardens.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And on ticket-of-leave, is that correct? From Pentonville gaol?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A murmur of concern in the court. The Coroner raises his hand.
‘I would ask the jury to be conscious that whilst Mr. Nelson is a convicted felon, he is an important witness in this inquiry.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ adds Nelson. ‘And I should like to say that I have served my time and I have the greatest respect for Her Majesty’s justice.’
The inquest lasts for a good three hours. At last, an intermission of a half-hour is called, during which the jury may elect a foreman and deliberate upon their decision. The majority of the crowd decamp to the saloon, where the bar has cannily been opened for the sale of sandwiches and refreshments, albeit of a temperance variety. Webb once more watches Rose Perfitt, as she gets up, for any sign that may pass between her and George Nelson. Her mother, however, swiftly ushers her away.
‘Care for a drink, sir?’ asks Bartleby.
Webb does not reply, distracted, as George Nelson walks by.
‘Morning, Inspector,’ says Nelson, with a smirk.
‘You do not fool me, Mr. Nelso
n,’ replies Webb.
‘I don’t need to,’ says Nelson, as he walks in the direction of the saloon. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong. I got my ticket to think of.’
Webb takes a deep breath as Nelson walks off.
‘Rose Perfitt went to Cremorne to meet him, Sergeant. I would swear an oath on it.’
‘You didn’t though, did you, sir? You could have mentioned it, to his worship over there.’
‘I think it better they both think we do not suspect them. I am just not sure what it all means.’
‘You think he killed Featherstone, then, sir? And she’s lying to protect him?’
‘It had crossed my mind. But, you see, Featherstone was The Cutter, I am sure of that. The business in Greenwich Park, the hair, everything we know about him. What possible motive is there?’
‘Perhaps he found out about them, threatened to expose them. Sir! What if that’s it?’
‘But you see, Sergeant, if Rose Perfitt was quite willing to elope with Nelson, regardless, what sense does it make? None.’
Bartleby frowns, puzzled. He does not get an opportunity to reply, since he is interrupted by the sound of a loud, repeated banging, coming from the nearby hall.
‘What the blazes is that?’ asks Webb, as the two policemen walk briskly from the room. They find a small circle of people has gathered round a nearby door. Outside the door stands Charles Perfitt, repeatedly banging his fists against the wood panels.
‘Rose!’
Webb steps forward.
‘Sir, whatever is the matter?’
‘Inspector!’ replies Perfitt, breathless. ‘You must do something! Rose . . . she went to use the convenience . . . she must have fainted.’
Webb looks over his shoulder, beckoning Bartleby towards the door. ‘Break it down, Sergeant.’
Sergeant Bartleby appears not overly enthusiastic to put his physical prowess to the test. Nonetheless, he barges at the door, with his shoulder braced, twice, then three times, until the latch inside gives way and it flies open.
Mr. and Mrs. Perfitt come up behind Webb and Bartleby, as they look around the small room, which contains merely a water-closet, a mirror and a sink. Rose Perfitt, however, is nowhere to be seen – though there is an impressive view of the lawn outside, through the open window.