The Last Pleasure Garden Read Online Free

King’s-road, where she was conveyed in a cab to the infirmary. There is every hope of a recovery, but the perpetrator of this peculiar sanguinary outrage remains at large.
    Decimus Webb puts down his copy of The Times and looks rather despondently out of the window of the cab, at the shops and houses of the King’s Road. Bartleby, seated beside him, picks up the paper, and reads the brief article.
    â€˜They’ve got the name wrong,’ says the sergeant.
    â€˜That is the least of our worries, Sergeant,’ replies Webb, as the cab begins to slow. ‘Just wait until thegutter rags put two and two together. I’ve already had a personal note from the Assistant Commissioner.’
    The cab judders to a halt. As the two policeman alight, Bartleby spies a piece of paper trodden into the dirt by the side of the road. He picks it up.
    â€˜I think you’re too late, sir. Look here – “Ballad of the Cremorne Cutter”. Look’s like a new one. Now, let’s see—’
    â€˜Spare me the doggerel, Sergeant, I can quite imagine,’ replies Webb.
    The cab-man, overhearing the conversation, looks down from his perch atop the hansom. ‘Saw a little ’un selling those yesterday. Selling like hot-cakes they were.’
    â€˜Yes, thank you,’ says Webb, passing the man his fare. ‘That will be all.’
    â€˜I’ll wait if yer like.’
    â€˜I am sure there’s no need,’ replies Webb, rather sourly. The cab-driver shrugs, tugs on the reins, and swings the vehicle around, whilst the two policemen approach the pay-box that guards the iron gates to the pleasure ground. The clerk inside deliberately busies himself with other matters.
    â€˜Will you let us through?’ asks Webb.
    â€˜We ain’t open until three,’ replies the clerk brusquely.
    â€˜My name is Webb. Mr. Boon is expecting us, I believe.’
    â€˜Ah,’ says the clerk, eyeing the policemen up and down, then tapping his nose in the approved ‘knowing’ fashion, ‘is he now? Well, why didn’t you say so?’
    The clerk takes up a set of keys, and steps out to the iron gates. ‘Here, come through. You’ll find him at the Circus, I reckon. Through the Fernery – you can’t miss it.’
    Webb and Bartleby follow the man’s directions. The walk through Cremorne in daylight is not an unpleasant one. For, despite its man-made vistas, it possesses a certain rustic charm in the large oaks and elms that dominate the landscaped paths. But there is also something of going behind-the-scenes: the fountains have been turned off; the marble limbs of the Greek gods that adorn the park’s arbours seem pale and wan in the daytime; it is, all in all, a little lifeless.
    At length, the two policemen reach the Circus, though the area is obscured in part by the primeval foliage of the Fernery. The Circus itself is a large circular amphitheatre of wooden construction, surrounded on all sides by raised benches, gaily decorated with flags and streamers, with a canvas tent for a roof, rising to some forty or fifty feet above the ground. In the dirt-covered ring at its centre a dozen horses prance in circles, forming complex patterns around a moustachioed gentleman in riding costume, who directs them with the occasional flick of a long whip. There is no audience but for a solitary, rather portly middle-aged man in a fashionable silk suit, watching from the side. He gets up when he sees the two policemen.
    â€˜What do you make of that?’ says the man, enthusiastically, before either Webb or Bartleby can introduce themselves. ‘Twelve horses. Fine specimens, thoroughbreds, but is it a decent draw? Now, I’ve told him, put a posture-master on each one, have them juggle, and we’re in business, eh? Now, am I right? I believe I am; one must always think of the public, eh? Always!’
    â€˜Yes, I suppose so, sir,’ replies