Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “A Thatcher’s, and mind you fill it to the brim.”

  The publican had already turned away, but quickly spun back, and leaning over the wide wooden bar, moved his face to within inches of Lund’s.

  “If ye think ye’ll be cheated here, little man, ye can always get drink at the Queen’s ‘ead down the road.”

  Lund pulled back and fluttered his hand in the air. “Your Thatcher’s will be fine.”

  The publican grunted and turned to the tap, drawing a frothy dark liquid into a chipped pint mug. He slid the mug along the bar, and it stopped directly in front of Lund.

  As Lund reached to grasp the handle, a hand shot past his and snatched the pint from the bar, spilling the top inch over Lund’s coat sleeve.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Lund’s voice rose as he spun to face the man who had snatched his drink. “Oh, it’s you. Where have you been?”

  “It’s not for you to question me, Mr. Lund.”

  Lund bristled, but made no reply.

  “Ah, nothing to say. Please remember it was you who sent word to meet here.”

  “I’ve not forgotten, but you need not be so rude as to take what does not belong to you.”

  The man regarded Lund for a moment, then threw back his head and gave a deep, cackling laugh. “You would have stood me to a pint in any event, Lund. I simply took the first one available.”

  Lund’s ears reddened and a quick reply formed on his lips, but he choked it back, taking a deep breath.

  “I’ll thank you to pay close attention to what I have to say,” he murmured, “as I shall only do so one time. I don’t fancy repeating these instructions in such a place where it can be overheard by anyone.”

  Lund turned to study the old drunkard on the other side of the post. The old man’s head lay on the bar, cushioned by his arm.

  “You needn’t worry about these chappies,” the man said, gesturing around the room. “Our conversation is the last thing they would be interested in.”

  Lund knew the Dealer was right. Initiates of York’s financial world called the man the Dealer because of his talent for unearthing information that led him and his business partners to lucrative transactions. It even was rumored that the Dealer occasionally handled situations on the gray side of the law, although Lund didn’t possess firsthand knowledge of such things.

  “An associate of mine and I have a need to find a secure, yet unobtrusive investment that would . . . how shall I put it . . . shield a large amount of capital.”

  Lund studied the Dealer closely for a reaction, but could detect none, so he continued. “This investment must be as solid as Gibraltar, be able to be liquidated should the need arise, but must on no account attract any attention to either of us.”

  The Dealer drank deeply from the mug, draining the last streaks of foam before catching the publican’s eye and nodding for another.

  “This capital that you must shield, what would its amount be?” The Dealer’s blue eyes twinkled brightly in the dim room, a slight smile creasing his lips. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

  Lund cleared his throat again and looked left and right before responding. “Two thousand pounds.”

  The Dealer arched his eyebrows and grinned broadly. “A tidy sum for a banker and his associate, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Lund?”

  “Y-y-you must realize there are many people who use our bank who would like to participate with me in such an investment,” the banker replied, his brows knitting together. “Why is that so difficult to fathom?”

  The Dealer cackled again. “It is not difficult to understand at all, Mr. Lund. But it is patently obvious that the two thousand pounds does not come through . . . shall we say . . . legitimate channels. If it did, then you would hardly be seeking my services.” He took a long swallow of beer, then held the mug up to Lund in a mock toast.

  The banker’s face colored to the same red hue as his ears, and his lips tightened to a thin line of flesh. Jonas had told him the Dealer could be difficult, but Lund had waved away his admonition, confident in his own negotiating abilities. Now, standing eye to eye with the Dealer, Lund did not feel so confident.

  “You should not concern yourself about the origin of my funds,” the banker began. “You should —”

  “I suggest that you clip that mouth of yours shut and listen to what I have to say to you, Mr. Lund.”

  The banker stared open-mouthed at the Dealer.

  “Let’s look at the situation we find ourselves in, shall we? First, you contact me to meet you in a public house, instead of your offices at the bank.”

  The Dealer’s gaze was locked on Lund’s. “Second, you must be fully aware of the kind of services that I offer, especially because you have access to similar types of investments through your bank.”

  The Dealer had begun to tick off the reasons on his fingers.

  “Third, a man of your stature does not simply find himself with two thousand quid to invest. He either inherits it, which I doubt you have done, or he acquires it in ways that are less than lawful.

  “Fourth, assuming you have come by the funds through the latter method, you are hardly in any position to dictate to me what risks I must take to make your money safe.”

  The Dealer held up his thumb in front of Lund’s face. “And fifth, if we are to do business with each other, then you shall put yourself and your money in my hands and cheerfully pay my commission. Otherwise, thank you for the ale and good luck with your funds.”

  Lund managed to get his mouth shut during the Dealer’s enumeration and his mind raced with thoughts of how he could extricate himself from this undesirable situation. But he knew he had said too much already. While the Dealer couldn’t prove anything unlawful had occurred, the fact that he knew so much about Lund and the money was disquieting. Lund decided quickly.

  “I shall not admit to any of the suggestions that you have posed, but I will tell you that I am inclined to put my trust, and the funds, in your hands.”

  The twinkle came back in the Dealer’s eyes. “What form does the investment take at present? Is it in cash? Bonds? Shares?”

  “Cash. All of it.”

  The Dealer’s tongue crept over his lower lip. “Then we should have no difficulty in locating a secure investment for you.”

  He clapped the little banker on the shoulder. “We’ll meet again next Friday. Here. I’ll have news for you then.” He quickly gulped the contents of his mug and was out the door before the banker could fashion a response.

  •••••••

  Sleep claimed Jane once more and her chin dropped to her chest, disturbing the delicate balance she maintained on the rickety chair and startling her awake. I must find a way to pass the time, she thought. Her greatest fear lay in the unconscious state of sleep, something that had eluded her since her abduction. Jane’s eyes flitted from the door to her hands clasped in her lap to the still-bright light shimmering through the thick window glass, then back to the heavy door of the cell. It was a cycle she repeated countless times during the day.

  Jane decided she must be in the hands of ruffians who would try to ransom her from the vicar. It was the only reason she could imagine for someone to abduct her. The kidnappers must be aware the vicar controlled her trust funds.

  Would they try to extort money from him? What other reason could there be? And whatever else the vicar had done to her, surely, she thought, he would come to her aid in this predicament. At least she prayed he would.

  She knew there had been two men in the house, although she had heard a door slam some time ago and now was unsure if one or both of them had left. And, she reasoned, there must not be any neighbors near where she was being kept because she had shouted and screamed many times, yet no one had appeared to assist her. In fact, the commotion she caused had angered the older kidnapper, who quickly came to the door, and banging on the wood, threatening to use his club on her if she didn’t silence herself.

  Then the younger, snowy-haired man had
entered her cell and cautioned her to be quiet or she might be harmed by the older man. Something in his tone of voice told Jane he knew what he was talking about, but his eyes conveyed another message. He may be her jailer, she thought, but he did not want to hurt her.

  The snap of the lock being popped open brought her fully alert, and the older man appeared in the doorway, framed in a halo of light. He held a mug in one hand an a tin plate in the other.

  “Supper’s on, miss. I expect you’ll want it at your usual dining table?” He laughed as he set the food and water down on the table, seemingly pleased with the joke he had made. He stood in front of Jane with his hands on his hips, still chuckling, when she quickly swung her foot up, striking him squarely between the legs.

  Fletcher’s eyes bulged wide and the breath rushed out of him in a single gasp, as he doubled over and grabbed his crotch, moaning in pain.

  Jane leaped out of the chair and ran past him, bouncing off the corridor wall opposite the door. At the top of the wooden stairs she found an empty room with two doors set in opposite walls. Either one could be the way to safety, she thought. She chose the one on the right and pulled up the latch, cracking the door open for a peek. A pasture defined by a broken-down stone wall spread out in front of her. Jane ran through the broken grass stalks and climbed through a break in the wall, then continued running through the next field over thick clumps of grass and clods of earth. As a copse of trees loomed ahead, she looked back over her shoulder to see who was following her. But she could see no one, as she stumbled forward into the shelter of the trees.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Round Freddy peered at the smudged name in the ledger, its nib strokes having been elongated horizontally by a seemingly-errant thumb. Ah, yes, that was it, he realized. Collingwood. The Collingwood Naturalist’s Association, listed as an entry on 26 June 1907 for a payment of £215. Quite a hefty sum, he thought, trying to imagine what kind of services a naturalist’s group would perform for Miss Waddington’s trust. Round Freddy penciled a note of the entry in his notebook and ran his thick finger down the next several entries. Arundale the greengrocer, £6.42 for vegetables and the like. William Judson, solicitor, £23.50 for services to the trust — not an unusual amount for a legal invoice, he thought. Wright the butcher, £11.41 on account for meats and fish.

  He found nothing much of interest in the rest of the column until the next to last entry. Mr. William Peckering of the Westview Merchant’s Association, £300 for services rendered. Round Freddy leaned back in his chair, causing the oak spindles to creak loudly in protest. What the devil could a man in the merchant’s association do for Miss Waddington or the vicar, he wondered. Round Freddy leaned over the ledger again and copied the association’s address into his notebook — 6 Bean Street. He ran his finger up the column to the Collingwood entry, and copied its address, 37 Fetter Road.

  Slamming the ledger cover shut with a thump, Round Freddy stood and hunched his shoulders up and back to relieve the tension, then called for Constable Andrews.

  “The motorcar, constable. We are going out into the town as the chief constable demands. I shall meet you in the rear yard in five minutes.”

  As Round Freddy levered his bulk into the small police vehicle and pulled the door shut, he banged his knee against the motor’s firewall with a crunch. “Damn vehicle! I don’t know why we changed from the horse carriages.”

  “Because the motors are much faster, and when maintained properly, are as reliable as any horse-drawn vehicle.” Andrews sheepishly smiled at the floor.

  Round Freddy cast a sideways glance at the young constable, but made no response.

  The two of them sat in the Austin, staring through the windshield for several more seconds. “Well, constable, what say we at least exit the rear yard and start onto our fair city’s streets.”

  “Where would you like me to take you, sergeant?”

  “Number 6 Bean Street would do very nicely, Andrews. Very nicely, indeed.”

  The Austin had been purchased by the York Police the year previously and had proven to be a true iron workhorse. The vehicle was maintained by a mechanic who lived one street over from the police station. The chief constable was so pleased with the Austin that he purchased four more with the larger 24 horsepower engines, making the police force completely mechanized. The constables only resorted to horse-drawn conveyances, leased from a livery on Marsham Street, on occasional instances now.

  Number 6 Bean Street stood in the middle of the block on the northwest side of a dreary street near the Wandesford’s Almshouse Hospital for the Indigent. The North Eastern Railway’s main line passed seven hundred feet to the west and the soot from the engines filtered down a fine black dust over everything when the wind blew out of the west. Number 6 itself was shuttered and locked, with no sign of use in recent times. A weathered old sign above the ground floor door bore traces of its former owner — J. Burton. Clockmaker.

  Round Freddy strode north to Number 7 and hammered on the door, only to have it opened immediately by a diminutive woman with dark, straggly hair that dipped in front of her eyes. The woman studied Round Freddy from under her hair, but said nothing.

  “Sergeant Hume of the York Police, ma’am. Would you know anything of your neighbor on the right?”

  The woman’s face lit up immediately. “The old clockmaker, Mr. Burton? Aye, he died five years ago next week.”

  Round Freddy forced a tolerant smile. “I am more concerned with Mr. Peckering of the West View Merchant’s Association who leased the premises.”

  “Eh? No such person, nor any such business named that has been next door.”

  “You’re sure of that, madam? I have information that indicates the West View Merchant’s Association had resided at that address.”

  “Then your information taint worth much,” the woman said without malice. “That property has been in the Burton family hands for a hundred years or more. Me husband, Ralph, the bricklayer, was a good friend to the clockmaker. Did some work on his back garden for him, Ralph did. Old Mr. Burton, God rest his soul, worked until the day before he died, when he caught a serious chill. When he died, his wife shut up the shop and lived upstairs like the two of them had done all those years. Last year, she moved away. Some say it was to live with her granddaughter over in Carlisle. But I don’t know that for a fact, I don’t.”

  “You have been most helpful, madam. I thank you for your assistance.”

  Round Freddy strolled back to the car, whistling tunelessly.

  “Andrews,” he called to the constable, “let’s have a look at the premises on Fetter Road.”

  Number 37 Fetter Road was a small dusty shop on a quiet, narrow street a quarter mile southeast of the Minster. The faded sign over the double wooden carriage doors read Christopher Dodsworth. Wheelwright. Wheels, axles, springs, carriage boxes and wagon parts of all descriptions lay scattered in piles throughout the workshop, in the center of which stood a tall, burly man with impossibly-wide shoulders. A wheel was clamped onto a work spindle and the man was hammering a steel rim into place on its outer circumference.

  Round Freddy waited for the hammering to stop. “Mr. Dodsworth, may I have a word with you? Sergeant Hume of the York Police.”

  The wheelwright squinted into the brightness and set his lips tight. “What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “We’re only seeking information, Mr. Dodsworth, and not about you, but about a former resident of these premises.” Round Freddy could see the big man’s muscles relax at the realization he was not the focus of the conversation.

  “Who might that be?”

  “Actually, it’s more a group than a person. The Collingwood Naturalist’s Association. They seem to have had these premises as their address.”

  “Like hell they have,” the wheelwright spit out. “I’ve had this place for the last nine years, and before that it was a blacksmith’s shop. The blacksmith must have been here twenty years before he gave up the ghost.”<
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  Round Freddy nodded, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “So you would say that you have never heard of the Collingwood Naturalist’s Association, then?”

  “That’s it exactly, sergeant. Never heard of the bleedin’ group.”

  “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mr. Dodsworth. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  Round Freddy turned quickly and almost crashed into Andrews, who had silently crept up behind him.

  “You heard all that?” Round Freddy asked as he got into the Austin.

  “Yes, sir. Uncanny how both of the addresses turned out to be phony.”

  Round Freddy smiled again. “Uncanny, indeed. I think we should pay another visit to the good vicar. But first, let’s find some lunch.”

  •••••••

  The Dealer swept his hand back through his long, silver hair, plucking at the duck’s tail at the nape of his neck as he walked. His long strides brought him quickly past a gaggle of pedestrians on Museum Street, near the Richardson Concert Rooms. He made a mental note to purchase tickets for the piano competition on Saturday afternoon to hear York’s virtuoso, John Pool, match his talents against other pianists from throughout the county. There also was the matter of the wager he had placed on Pool — fifty quid. While there was no legitimate, organized betting on the piano competition — after all, who in the world cared about betting on classical piano recitals, he thought — the Dealer had been able to find a willing conspirator with whom to wager.

  He took the steps to the Lendal Club two at a time, arriving at the massive oak door as the uniformed porter swung it open to reveal the cool interior of the marbled entry hall. The Lendal Club had been built on the site of the old Lendal Tower, which once had overlooked the River Ouse and guarded the southwest corner of York’s city wall. The club’s square brick exterior rose four stories high, it’s hundred foot length dominating the narrow bridge that carried Museum Street across the river to the new railway station built on the site of a Roman cemetery. It was said that when the construction crews prepared the land for the roadbeds and sidings of the twelve-track North Eastern Railway station, they unearthed masses of bones, pottery and metal artifacts. The Dealer mused that the Romans were very much like the Egyptians in burying their dead with implements that would serve them well in the nether world.