The Last Pleasure Garden Read Online Free Page B

for a cab is a considerable one, and Webb begins to regret his decision to dismiss the driver that brought them to Chelsea.
    â€˜What do you make of it, sir?’ says the sergeant.
    â€˜There is no connection between the women that this “Cutter” attacks, Sergeant. I am sure of that much – except that they are in the first bloom of youth. He seems quite particular about that. They have all been from completely different corners of the metropolis, for a start. Ah, which reminds me, did you talk to the “hermit”?’
    â€˜Why, do you think he knows who it was, sir?’ says Bartleby with a grin.
    â€˜Sergeant,’ says Webb in gruff admonition.
    â€˜Sorry, sir. I did. No joy there. He’s an old fellow, theatrical sort, made a point of telling me how he knew Macready. Was in his “cave” the whole time. The thing is, he wears spectacles when he’s not on duty. He might have second sight but I wouldn’t say his regular eyes are up to much.’
    â€˜Hmm,’ replies Webb.
    â€˜Maybe it wasn’t the same man that stabbed Miss Hockley as attacked the others,’ continues Bartleby. ‘Maybe it was more personal-like?’
    â€˜Yes, well, you should look into the girl’s circumstances,’ replies Webb. ‘That would be wise. At least you are thinking it through. But did you see her dress?’
    â€˜Her dress, sir?’
    â€˜I meant to point it out when we saw her at the infirmary. It looked to me like the cut of a pair of scissors – not a puncture or a gash like a knife might make, but a series of three or four sharp lacerations along a line, then the tear. No, I rather feel it is the same man. You know, I am not even sure if he meant to stab her.’
    Webb pauses and frowns. ‘Telegraph the mad-houses in London and the counties. A madman seems the most likely explanation. If it is some escaped lunatic, I don’t want anything missed.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’

    John Boon opens his afternoon’s post. The first item is, however, not at all to his liking: it is a pamphlet of a biblical nature, containing several odious comparisons between the entertainments on offer at Cremorne Gardens, the ‘New Sodom upon the Thames’, and the Canaanites’ worship of idols.
    Boon rips the paper to shreds.

C HAPTER FOUR

    â€˜R ose! Must you constantly watch the street? I have told you before.’
    â€˜Sorry, Mama. I was just looking out for Father.’
    Mrs. Perfitt looks indulgently at her daughter.
    â€˜Rose, I will speak to him as soon as he comes home. I am sure he will say yes.’

    Charles Perfitt is a tall, well-proportioned man, forty-five years of age, with smartly trimmed whiskers of the mutton-chop variety. Like most of the gentlemen arriving at Chelsea Station of an evening, he wears an immaculate business suit and hurries off the train as quickly as possible, walking briskly down the platform to the exit. He makes a point, however, of nodding to the booking-clerk as he passes the ticket office. It is his custom, upon his return from the City, to pay this small homage to the old party in question. For the clerk has taken the receipts of the London Western Extension Railway at Chelsea for as many years as Mr. Perfitt can recall. The old man, of course, nods back. Mr. Perfitt, as satisfied with this transaction as with any of his cleverly calculated dealings with jobbers upon the Stock Exchange, then turns his steps towards the King’s Road.
    Mr. Perfitt’s journey is an agreeable walk by any standard. The route passes the Italianate towers of St. Mark’s Training College – which look rather pleasing in the evening light, hinting at some forgotten corner of Tuscany – and, upon the opposing side of the King’s Road, lie the famous nurseries of Messrs. Veitch, whose rose gardens and treasured exotic blooms, concealed by a high wall, lend a sweet fragrance to the surrounding