Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “Now that’s a sight, it is,” Fletcher laughed, then immediately grimaced in pain. He rubbed his crotch gingerly, then shook his head.

  “We have to find her, Snow.”

  “She’s taken a bicycle from the farm where I found her. She could be anywhere by now.”

  “We’ll start at the farm and follow her tracks as best we can.”

  “Ah . . . .” Snow hesitated. “There’s another thing.”

  Fletcher had reached the door and paused, waiting.

  “When I followed the girl to the house, the farmer’s wife attacked me. I had to tie her up to keep her quiet.”

  A grin crept onto Fletcher’s face. “Women certainly seem to be getting the best of you today, matey. Let’s see what I can do to help.”

  Fletcher’s gait over the rough ground was hardly faster than Snow’s stumbling walk. For each step Fletcher took, his rough trousers brushed against his still-swollen private parts, causing him to stop frequently and catch his breath. Snow, seeing Fletcher’s suffering, became more determined to reach the farmhouse door first, which he did, winded and sore.

  Snow pushed the door open with the shepherd’s staff and peered in. The scene was the same as when he had left.

  “It looks clear,” he said, but made no move to enter.

  Fletcher brushed past him and stopped at the table to tear a chunk of bread from a baked loaf. Taking large bites of the bread, he moved into the front room and stood looking at the woman, dribbling crumbs down the front of his shirt.

  “Ah, missus. There you are. It was good of you to wait for us.”

  He smiled at Snow, then tapped the side of his head.

  “This woman may be able to help us after all, Snow, me boy. Tell me what you think of this.”

  The pair moved into the kitchen and Fletcher spoke in a low tone, keeping his gaze toward the open doorway.

  “There’s still a payment to come once we finish with his niece.”

  “But she’s gotten away and we’ll not catch her now.”

  Fletcher clucked his tongue. “Right. But we yet can collect the rest of the money, even without the girl.”

  Snow’s smooth brow creased in thought, but he said nothing.

  “We have to give the vicar a reason to think the deed’s been done. We need a body for the good vicar.”

  The meaning of Fletcher’s argument flashed across Snow’s face like a quickly-moving storm.

  “Not me. No I won’t do that. I told you at the beginning I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Ye’ll need not do any of the hurting, me boy. I’ll take care of that. Ye’ll need to do some of the carrying and disposing, though.” Fletcher’s lone eye shone like a warning light on a dark night, but his gaze never wavered from Snow.

  Snow, looking at the floor, assented with a small nod.

  Back in the front room, Snow squatted in front of the woman and tried to put a smile on his face.

  “Missus, you must take a minute to listen to me.” He could see she was scared and tried to calm her. “We don’t want to hurt you, missus, so you must be still.”

  The woman’s eyes softened, then suddenly bulged, as Fletcher’s meaty hands encircled her neck and choked off her air. She rocked and kicked as Fletcher tightened his hold, but her efforts only succeeded in pushing out of her lungs what little oxygen remained. Within thirty seconds, the woman’s head slumped to the side. She was dead.

  Fletcher’s flushed face looked as if it was burning and the white of his eye flashed in the gloomy room.

  “There’s a cart at the side of the house. Bring it around to the door. We’ll load her on it and cover her with that sacking over there.” He pointed to a pile of deteriorating sacks.

  “And let’s be quick about it. We have to get her to the river before we can go to the vicar for more money.”

  Snow shivered as he looked at the dead woman. Then he hobbled through the doorway.

  •••••••

  The journey to the vicarage in Clifton was not unpleasant, Round Freddy thought, as he stretched his legs out as far as the firewall of the Austin would allow. The late spring sunshine had warmed the air, and despite the strong breeze blowing, the day had turned into a fine one. Round Freddy had directed constable Andrews to put the vehicle’s top down, so as to soak up as many of the sun’s weak rays as possible. As the constable drove the car down the dirt drive at the side of the church, Round Freddy quickly put his hand on Andrews’ arm.

  “Quickly, man; pull over behind that hedge.”

  Andrews yanked the wheel around, slewing the little vehicle in a tight turn that brought it perilously close to the head-high hedges.

  Peering around the thick branches and newly-greening leaves, Round Freddy watched as Lund and Reverend Elsworth exchanged words on the vicarage portico. Round Freddy couldn’t decipher what was being said, but the raised voices and staccato punch of the conversation clearly indicated a strong disagreement.

  As Lund got into his car, the reverend approached its off side, leaning into the open window. The engine fired to life and the reverend lunged back as the sleek black auto flung itself into reverse, then roared down the dirt drive toward the street. Preoccupied, Lund did not notice the small police vehicle hidden behind the hedge.

  “Clearly,” Round Freddy murmured, “this is not the time to disturb the reverend. It’s best if we see what develops next.”

  •••••••

  Jane did not know where she was or where she was headed. She only knew she had to get away from the farm house and the madmen who were after her. She had begun hyperventilating when the snowy-haired man had put the knife to her neck, but when she realized he really didn’t intend to hurt her, she decided to find a way to escape. Stomping his foot wasn’t an action she consciously considered; it simply happened and Jane was as surprised as he must have been when she did it.

  She passed several small farms set back in the fields from the dusty track, but was too terrified to stop and ask for help. Her fear made everyone suspect. Jane slowed her pace as she passed the last farm, watching the smoke curl lazily from a stone chimney. But as she debated about approaching the house, the fear of being caught by her former captors seized her again and she took off at a quickened pace, driving the bicycle’s pedals faster and faster.

  A mile down the road, the bicycle’s front tire bounced as it ran over a partially-buried stone in the dirt track, pushing her toward a hedge, but Jane recovered in time to avoid crashing into the thick foliage. She was breathing hard and looked back down the track to see if anyone was following her. She could see no one and decided it was safe to stop and rest.

  Jane sat on a grassy patch of ground and smoothed her skirt over her outstretched legs, listening to her heartbeat slowing to a more normal cadence. She looked at the countryside around her, trying to decide which direction would take her to safety. The day was dry, but a thick bank of clouds filled the sky and blocked out all signs of the sun. If she only had the sun, Jane thought, she could determine the direction in which she should ride. But without it, she decided it was best to continue in the direction she had been heading.

  Another half-hour of pedaling brought her to a junction with a well-traveled dirt road. To the left she saw only a few scattered farms and outbuildings, a scene that looked much like where she had been. But to the right, Jane could plainly see a cluster of buildings in the distance, probably a mile and a half away. She remounted the bicycle and began pedaling with renewed vigor.

  The town limit sign read Nunthorpe, which Jane knew to be a village about five miles southwest of York. She pedaled along the tiny village’s main street and stopped in front of the Sleeping Dog Public House. As Jane stepped inside, the low hum of conversation stopped and all of the room’s occupants turned to stare at her.

  Jane sat down in a straight-backed chair at a small round table and breathed a large sigh. I must look a fright, she thought, brushing her hand back through her tangled hair. Everyone is sta
ring at me.

  The publican, a large, raw-boned man, shuffled over to her. “Here now, we’ll not be having your type in here. This is a clean establishment.”

  Jane’s eyes widened at the implied accusation. “And what type would that be, sir?”

  The man blew a beery breath in her direction. “You knows well enough the type I mean. Go ply your trade somewhere else.”

  “I can assure you sir, that you are quite mistaken.”

  “Harold, you leave off insulting that young woman.” It was the publican’s wife, one hand on her hip and a broom in the other. “Can’t you see she’s had a hard time of it. Why in bleedin’ hell must you always pick on the pretty young ones?”

  A roar of laughter erupted from the small crowd of drinkers in the pub.

  The publican, red-faced, retreated behind the bar. “You deal with her, then.”

  “That I will Harold.”

  The woman ducked behind the bar and pulled on a long handle, drawing a half pint of lager into a mug, then strolled over to Jane’s table.

  “Drink this, dearie,” she said, setting the half pint in front of Jane. “And don’t you pay any mind to Harold over there growling at us.”

  Jane gulped a mouthful of lager and spilled some of it down her chin.

  “Easy, girl. There’s plenty there. My name’s Lizzie. Now tell me what’s happened to you?”

  Jane swallowed two more mouthfuls before beginning her story, starting from the day when her uncle committed her to the asylum. By the time she chronicled her ordeal, she had finished the half pint, as well as a second one that the publican had brought at his wife’s direction.

  “You’re in a fix, you are,” Lizzie said. “You need a safe place to hide until those men stop looking for you.”

  “How do we know that they will stop?”

  “We don’t, but men being men, they’ll get distracted by something else — either ale or a woman — and forget about you. Until then, you stay here. I have a room at the back upstairs. You’ll be safe. And you can work in the pub and the scullery to earn your keep.”

  “Why are you doing this for me?”

  Lizzie bit her lip. “My younger sister was in a situation a bit like yours. A bad man wouldn’t leave her alone, so she packed up and ran. I haven’t seen her in four years.”

  Jane’s eyes teared as she grasped Lizzie’s hands. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Let’s get you cleaned up and then onto a soft bed.”

  “At this point, the soft bed alone sounds fine.”

  •••••••

  Snow leaned against the cold stone wall of the farmhouse and tried to control his breathing by opening his mouth wide and sucking in great gulps of air. He had seen Fletcher do many distasteful things, but nothing like this. Dead, he thought. Fletcher had really killed her. When they were talking about it in the kitchen, Fletcher made it seem so sensible, like it was the only thing they could do. But now, Snow wasn’t so sure. He looked at the dogcart he had dragged to the front door and shuddered at the thought of touching the woman’s dead body.

  “Snow, where the bloody hell are you? Get in here.”

  Snow bumped his head lightly against the cottage wall, closing his eyes tightly. “Coming, Fletcher.”

  Inside, the woman lay on her back on the smooth floor, her eyes staring unseeing at the beamed ceiling and her tongue lolling out of her mouth as if she were licking crumbs. Those eyes held the same fear now as when she was tied to the chair, Snow thought.

  “Stop staring like a schoolgirl and give me a hand here,” Fletcher said. “Grab the legs.”

  Fletcher had lifted the woman’s torso so she resembled a rag doll folded in the center, with a head too heavy for its body. Snow grabbed the woman’s ankles and lifted, surprised at how light she was. He backed out of the room slowly, putting most of his weight, and the woman’s, on his good ankle.

  At the rear of the dogcart, they lifted the corpse into the box, but even though the woman was short, her body was too long for the cart and hung over the end.

  “We could cut her legs off and solve the problem, but that would ruin the purpose of dumping the body,” Fletcher said. He looked at Snow with a burning-bright eye, then laughed. “Let’s get her arse up at the back of the cart and fold her in half.”

  By the time they had the body completely contained in the cart and covered with an assortment of dirty, odorous sacks, dusk had fallen and a half moon had already risen.

  “We’ll take turns pulling the cart, so we both don’t get worn out,” Fletcher said.

  “But the river’s two miles from here, at least.”

  “More like three,” Fletcher countered, “but once we get out of these fields, we can use the lanes and back roads to take us to the river. I know just the spot where we can set our parcel free in the water.”

  The dogcart creaked as Fletcher pulled it over the uneven ground and occasionally stuck as one of the wheels dropped into a rut. At the gate to the next field, Fletcher pulled open the wooden bar and offered the cart’s handle to Snow.

  “Your turn, matey.”

  Snow heaved on the handle and got the cart moving, surprised at the relative ease with which it moved over the deepening grass. The ground in the field had been left fallow during the growing season, so a plow had not turned the earth and made it as uneven as in the previous field. But within minutes, Snow’s injured foot was on fire, sending shooting pains up his leg.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can pull the cart. She’s gotten a lot heavier.”

  Fletcher simply grunted.

  Snow kept silent for another hundred feet, then stopped.

  “I’m done in, Fletcher. I can’t do any more.”

  Fletcher edged over to Snow and stared up at him through the weak moonlight as if inspecting a chicken hanging on a peg. Satisfied, he nodded and took the handle.

  “Get what relief you can now, matey. You’re going to do more pulling once we’re on the roads. I can’t do this all by meself.”

  As they reached the gate at the back corner of the field, Snow opened the bar while Fletcher slipped through the opening and peered down the narrow dirt lane. The feeble half moon cast only enough light to dimly make out the shapes of bushes and rocks alongside the road and Fletcher studied each of them before giving a low whistle.

  “Bring the cart through and I’ll bar the gate.”

  “How far to the river now, do you think?”

  “The better part of two miles, I reckon. Probably more.”

  Two-and-a-half miles and three hours later, Fletcher turned off the dirt track and pulled the cart onto a nearly-imperceptible path through the underbrush. Beyond the thick screen of leaves Snow could hear the sound of water lapping along a shoreline.

  “It’s not far now, Snow. Just down here a bit.”

  Snow hurried forward, then groaned as he stubbed his injured foot on an upturned stone. Rubbing his swollen instep, he called to Fletcher.

  “No farther. Damn, I’m not going to move.”

  As Fletcher materialized beside him, a vice-like hand gripped the side of his neck.

  “You’ll damn well do as you’re told, matey. Now move on down to the water and help me unload the woman.”

  Rigor mortis had come and gone on the body during the transport to the river and the body slid easily from the cart and thumped onto the soft ground at the water’s edge. A sack caught under one arm and Fletcher yanked it out, sending the woman’s limp arm up in an arc as if she were trying to attract someone’s attention.

  Snow reached down and grabbed the body’s ankles.

  “Hold on there, matey. There’s one more thing to be done.”

  Fletcher reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small cloth bag with a brass clasp. He threaded the woman’s arm through the bag’s strap, then pulled it over her head, leaving the bag slung diagonally across the body.

  “Why not keep the bag? We could sell it.”

  Fletcher s
hook his head. “Snow, me boy, you have a lot to learn. This bag is how we’ll get a bloody great pile of money from the vicar. It’s his niece’s bag and when they find the body they’ll think its her. We’ll collect from the vicar then.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Round Freddy found Lund in his office, slumped in his chair, chin on his chest. The banker looked up as they entered the room, almost as if he had been expecting the visit.

  “I shall need a few more minutes of your time, Mr. Lund.”

  Lund smiled and chuckled under his breath. “I had an unshakable feeling that you would be back, sergeant. And now here you are.” He gestured for Round Freddy to take a seat.

  “I’ll come straightaway to the point. What did you and the vicar argue about yesterday afternoon?”

  Lund’s eyes widened in surprise. “How could you know . . . .”

  “Think about it for a moment, Mr. Lund. We have been asking you probing questions about your relationship with Reverend Elsworth. Miss Waddington is kidnapped from Bootham Park. Did you not think we would be watching the vicarage? Of course we saw your argument at the vicarage.”

  “I . . . I thought I might reason with the man. Make him see that I had to tell you the truth.”

  “But the vicar wasn’t interested in you telling the truth, was he?”

  The banker shook his head. “No, he was not. In fact, he threatened me. When I told him what had transpired, he said he would have Fletcher and his men deal with me.” Lund looked up at Round Freddy. “I was scared, sergeant. I returned here a fast as I could.”

  “Why don’t you take a moment to collect yourself, and tell me more about this man, Fletcher.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  Round Freddy arched his eyebrows. “Indeed! That is precisely what you have been saying to us all along. And then you dribble more bits of information that would have helped us earlier.”

  Lund hid his face in his hands, then dragged them down across his nose and mouth in a slow, drawing movement.

  “I can honestly tell you, sergeant, that I am tired of the deceptions I have perpetrated. The truth is that the vicar sought my advice about the services of a man who would be willing to perform acts that were, how shall I say, outside of the law.”