“You’re going to have a house guest for awhile, vicar. Now tell your housekeeper to prepare a room for me. And,” Fletcher raised a finger to his lips, “mum’s the word about our arrangement, eh? But I do need a place to hide out for a spell. You see, the police are looking for me now. How do you suppose they came to know my name?” Fletcher poked the gun toward the reverend as if he were spearing a fish.
The vicar took a step back. “I have no idea.”
“Hmmm. I imagine you do, but might be a wee bit reluctant to talk about it. Now let’s talk to that housekeeper of yours and then you and me can have a nice chat here in the privacy of your sitting room.”
•••••••
Lund approached the police station from the north, slowing often to look over his shoulder at the pedestrian traffic on the pavement behind him. He didn’t trust the Dealer, especially after his outrageous demand of half the proceeds of Lund’s investment funds. Well, Lund mused, perhaps it was inaccurate to call them investment funds when the source of the money actually was other people’s accounts — Miss Waddington’s to be precise.
Lund shook off the thought, yet still had the feeling someone on the street was watching him. He knew the Dealer was crafty enough to keep his movements under scrutiny and assumed he was being followed. Lund stopped at the entrance to Miss Isabel Wood’s confectioner’s shop and tea room, and gazed through the large window at the selection of cakes and biscuits arranged behind the glass. A swirl of wind blew down the street and Lund flinched when a large man in a brown suit and dirty derby brushed past him, bumping his elbow in the process. Lund held his breath, only releasing it a half-minute later when he realized the man had continued down the street.
Lund brushed his sleeve several times, then pulled the hem of his jacket down tightly to straight the fabric. He then hustled along the pavement and stepped through the police department’s oak doorway as a thin constable emerged and wished him a good day.
Inside the station house he asked for Round Freddy and sat on a scarred pine bench in a corner to wait. Ten minutes later a constable with a fringe of white hair ringing his otherwise bald head ushered him through the room, past desks of working policeman, to an office set into the back of the room.
“Mr. Lund, please come in and take a seat,” Round Freddy said, indicating a chair laden with newspapers, reports and wadded up papers. “Just put that rubbish on the floor. It will be fine there.”
Lund did as instructed and sat fidgeting in front of the policeman.
Round Freddy arched his eyebrows and cocked his head toward Lund. “Well, sir, what may I do for you? As you might imagine, I have quite a bit on my plate right now.”
“Yes, I realize you are extremely busy, detective, but I have something to talk about concerning the Miss Waddington case. That is, it sort of is related to the case, at least I think it is.”
“Perhaps you should come to the point instead of, as our American friends say, ‘beating around the bush.’”
“Ah, I hadn’t heard that,” Lund said, twisting his hands in his lap.
Round Freddy sat with his hands steepled on the desk as if he were praying for a resolution to the conversation.
“And this information about the Waddington case — if it does relate to the case — is delicate?”
Lund slapped the desktop, making a loud pop. “You have a knack for putting situations in the perfect light, detective. Delicate it certainly is, I must say. The question I have for you is this. If I were to give you information about the case and that information reflected badly on me, then what might happen?”
Round Freddy leaned back and a smile creased his face. “Is that what the difficulty is, Mr. Lund? A worry that you may be sucked up into the investigation?”
Lund looked down at the floor and nodded.
“You can set you mind at ease, sir. Anything else you can tell me about this case that further implicates you can be no worse than where you already stand with the embezzling, stealing funds and falsifying records charges. If you are able to help us in putting the rest of the puzzle pieces together, perhaps some of those existing charges can be, how shall I say, lightened.”
Lund searched Round Freddy’s face for any trace of insincerity, but could see nothing beyond the detective’s smile.
“Even if the behavior in question involved a great sum of money?”
“Especially if it involved a sum of money. In that way, the money inappropriately diverted might be returned to its original owner.”
Lund nodded again, but said nothing.
“Might I ask if the money to which we are referring is somehow connected to Miss Waddington.”
Lund nodded again in the affirmative.
“Then I think you should tell me what you know because it could very well help your own cause in this instance.”
Lund brightened and squirmed in the chair.
“You see, I had to find a safe place to put the money, so I asked discreet questions of an associate and was given the name of an individual who places funds in secure investments for a fee.”
“This money you refer to. Where did it come from?”
Lund lowered his head again. “From Miss Waddington’s trust fund. The Reverend Elsworth would set up the phony invoices and have me pay them. Then he would give a percentage of the money for my services. I know now the money was to keep my mouth shut.”
“Very good, Mr. Lund. You are learning about the criminal mind. And how much money are we discussing here?”
“I had two thousand pounds accumulated.”
Round Freddy sat back again and whistled silently. He steepled his fingers again. “Please continue.”
“As I said, I couldn’t very well leave two thousand pounds laying around my flat and I certainly couldn’t put it in a bank deposit in my name. How would I explain where I got two thousand pounds?”
“Indeed! So you found a broker to invest the money for you.”
Lund nodded vigorously. “Yes, I did and things went well at the beginning. Investments were going to be made through a company set up for the purpose of holding real estate and sheltering the cash. I would be a partner, but an unreported one on the papers establishing the company.”
“Would the managing partner be this individual to whom you were referred by your colleague?”
“The Dealer. That’s him. He’s the one who would buy the property and hold it through the company for me. He said I would make a pile of cash from the appreciation on the freeholds.”
“The Dealer, you say. Did he give you any other name?”
“That’s what everyone calls him. I doubt that he has any other name.”
“Well, I’m sure he does, but he may not be using it on a regular basis. Where did you two meet to transact your business?”
“The Hound and Hen public house. You can find it on Blake Street.”
“I know the place. A den of vipers waiting to prey on the unsuspecting.” Round Freddy came around to the front of the desk and leaned against it.”
“Are you willing to help us a bit more on this case, Mr. Lund? It could work greatly in your favor.”
“Help you how? I’ve told you all that I know.”
“First, you’ll have to furnish me with an accurate description of the Dealer.”
“I can do that.”
“And then, you can help us in this way.”
Lund sat statue-still as Round Freddy outlined what he had in mind. When the detective finished, he fixed Lund with a questioning gaze.
Lund thought for a moment and then decided.
“All right, I shall do it. As long as no physical harm can come to me by participating.”
“There is no danger of that. Just be sure that the information you give us is true and accurate. I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety on false information.”
Lund gulped down the bile in his throat. He knew he was stuck. He had to cooperate.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Reverend Elsw
orth opened the sitting room door and, after taking a long look at Fletcher standing a few feet away with the shotgun, called into the hallway for the housekeeper. When she appeared, the reverend noticed Fletcher shrink back against the wall.
“Mr. Fletcher will be spending some time with us. Please make up the large guest room for his use.”
“Very good, sir. Will his stay be long?” the housekeeper asked.
“I am unsure. I should think a few days at least. And tell the cook she should plan accordingly. Now run along.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
After the reverend shut the door and moved toward the sofa in front of the long windows, Fletcher shuffled forward and leaned against the door.
“Now that twern’t overly difficult, vicar. And here I was thinking you might not want to have me as your guest.” He snorted a laugh and wiped spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. “Let’s talk a bit more about how the police seem to be aware of me.”
“I can tell you I had nothing to do with the police getting your name. If they know who you are, and I cannot confirm that they do, then they certainly have learned it from a source other than me."
“Is that so? You mean to sit there and tell me you haven’t talked to the police?”
“That is not what I said. Of course I have spoken with the police. They have questioned me several times about my niece’s disappearance and death. I told them nothing. Not anything of our arrangement, and certainly not your name.”
A sly smile crept across Fletcher’s face and he rubbed his empty eye socket vigorously under the eye patch.
“For the time being I’ll have to trust you, vicar. But be aware that you shall regret it if you’re lying to me.”
“Really, Fletcher. I am a man of the cloth. Lying is not in my character.”
Fletcher’s explosive laugh filled the room.
“Not in your character? But cheating, stealing and plotting to kill are, eh?”
The reverend’s face reddened, but he said nothing in reply.
“Let’s talk about another subject dear to both our hearts. Money.”
The reverend’s eyes narrowed. “We are square as far as the money is concerned, Fletcher. I paid you off in the yard of York Minster, as you well know.”
“That you did, vicar. But I got to thinking about how I done all the dirty work whilst you reaped most of the benefits. And now the police are looking for a man called Fletcher. For all I knows, they might have a pretty accurate description of me too. The more I thought on the subject, the more I convinced meself that I was being shortchanged.”
The reverend shot to his feet. “Now see here, you cannot possibly want more money.”
Fletcher drove the butt stock of the shotgun into the vicar’s stomach, doubling him in half and driving him back onto the sofa. As the vicar gagged and fought for breath, Fletcher stepped back and spat on the carpet.
“Let that be the first installment on some of that regret we was talking about earlier.” Fletcher moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. “Looks as if it will be a pleasant day, vicar. After we’re done here, maybe we’ll take a stroll in your back garden.”
The reverend had pulled himself upright and was taking short wheezing breaths, still holding his stomach.
“From what I’ve heard, you’ve come into some extra money, vicar. Perhaps you were lucky and found it buried somewhere?” Fletcher studied the reverend’s distorted face and chuckled. “No, methinks that’s not where you found your pot of gold. But maybe it were somewhere closer to where money is usually located — like a bank.”
The reverend’s eyes widened. “Fletcher,” he gasped. “I must have a drink of water.”
“In a minute, vicar. But first we’re going to talk about how much money you have available to share with me.”
“I have nothing available to share. All the money I had is gone — invested.”
Fletcher’s eyebrows raised. “All of it? You invested everything you stole?”
The reverend nodded.
“And how much might that be?”
The reverend hesitated and Fletcher took a step forward with the shotgun.
“Five thousand pounds! But I don’t have it any more. As I said, it has been invested.”
“Well then we shall have to un-invest it for you.”
“That is impossible. The man with whom I placed the funds, my business partner, already has plans for it. He most likely has already made the purchases.”
“What purchases?”
“Freehold properties.”
Fletcher thought for a moment. Then he grasped the reverend’s elbow and pulled him to his feet.
“Let’s take that walk in the garden now, vicar, so you can tell me more about this partner of yours. Then I’ll go and convince him to take on old Fletcher as a partner too.”
•••••••
“One wonders how these buggars sleep at night,” Round Freddy said, moving behind his desk and sitting down heavily.
“How’s that, sir?” Andrews replied. “I don’t take your drift.”
Round Freddy gave the constable the kind of smile a parent gives a backward child. “This fellow, the Dealer, and whoever his shadowy partner might be. They seem to have no conscience at all in relieving honest citizens of their money.”
Round Freddy leaned back in the chair and his eyebrows shot up. “Did I say ‘honest citizens’ when I was referring to our good banker, Mr. Lund?” He laughed and shook his head. “I suppose we can hardly classify Mr. Lund as an honest citizen, seeing as he embezzled two thousand quid from a trust fund that he was sworn to protect.”
“Miss Waddington’s money?”
“Correct, constable. Money that she was even unaware amounted to a considerable sum. By my reckoning, something on the order of eight to ten thousand pounds is missing from the fund. Lund admits to shifting two thousand of it in small amounts into his own accounts. That leaves quite a bit of money still unaccounted for.”
The constable’s brow was furrowed, as if in thought. “If Lund didn’t take it, then who did?”
“The answer to that question may be the key that solves this case,” Round Freddy said, coming around the front of the desk. “I plan on taking a closer look at the reverend’s life to see if any changes have been made over the past year. Money usually means changes in how one lives.”
Andrews nodded, but Round Freddy could see that the constable was still well behind in figuring out his reasoning.
“Andrews, I need your assistance if we are to have a hope to catch this fellow, the Dealer. Now here is what I want you to do.”
Round Freddy drew closer to Andrews and explained his plan to catch the Dealer.
•••••••'
Jane felt like a bird confined in a large cage. She had the ability to move around, to fly a bit even, but not the freedom to go where she wanted. Not that she specifically desired to go anywhere. But the past few weeks had been particularly trying and she felt as if everyone else controlled her life. And she wasn’t far wrong on that score, she mused. Her uncle had incarcerated her in Bootham Park Lunatic Asylum, she had felt compelled to work in the Sleeping Dog public house in order to have a place to hide, and now the police had her hidden away in this house, pleasant as it was.
She looked out the second story window, across the back garden, to a wooden gate set into the high brick wall. A stack of decaying crates leaned up against the wall near the gate, partially shielding the gate from anyone’s view at the back door. Deciding quickly, Jane snatched a bonnet and a hooded cape from hooks on the wall and quietly stole down the back staircase.
At the bottom she froze, listening intently for voices from other parts of the house, but she heard nothing. She moved along the dusty corridor to the pantry and then into the kitchen. No one was around. She cracked the back door open and peek out. Satisfied that she was alone, she slipped out and quietly closed the door behind her.
At the back gate she
cast a long glance back at the house, holding her breath for fear that constable Phillips would come out of the door and detain her. But he didn’t. She smiled and drew the deadbolt on the heavy wood gate, and pulling it open a bit, slipped through and out into freedom.
•••••••
Lund didn’t like the fact that the Dealer refused to meet in a public house this time as he had in the past. Apparently, the thought of passing money in so public a place put him off. So the Dealer had chosen a more remote location, but one that sent shivers of worry up Lund’s spine.
Just south of the Scarborough Bridge that crossed over the River Ouse, Lund found Cinder Lane heading off to the west, leading to St. Barnabas Church near Jubilee Terrace. He trudged along Cinder Lane, walking parallel to the North Eastern Railway spurs that led to one of the line’s small train maintenance sheds. The lane was coated with a fine layer of soot from the engines that moved rolling stock back and forth along the spur line for repair.
When he arrived at St. Barnabas, Lund clambered over the head high fence that separated the railway lines from the rest of the world and made his way to the northeast corner of the maintenance shed. As he approached, he could hear the sound of hammers striking metal inside the shed, and the shouts of the workers. Shrinking back into the shadows of the shed, Lund bumped into something soft and yielding.
“Here now, Mr. Lund. You should not be getting too familiar with me.” The Dealer’s smile was visible even through the gloom of the evening.
Lund put his hand over his heart, as if to prevent it from flying from his chest. “Bigod, you frightened me.”
The Dealer tightened his hold on the woman that Lund had bumped into. She was buxom, probably in her mid-twenties, and apparently quite inebriated.
“What is she doing here?”
The Dealer smiled wider. “You didn’t think I was willing to wait in such a place as this without some amusement at hand, did ye?”
Lund could think of no reply. Instead, he said, “I have what you requested.”
The Dealer laughed and slapped his knee. “You slay me, Lund. It was not a request. It was a demand.” He extended his hand. “Give it here.”
Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series Page 12
