Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “Another attendant, Walter Winks, heard the commotion and ran to the northwest wing where he viewed the abduction from a shadowed doorway.”

  A dark look passed over Round Freddy’s face and Doctor Canham quickly continued.

  “You mustn’t blame poor Mr. Winks, sergeant. The man is seventy if he’s a day old, and certainly no match for those ruffians.”

  “What about Mr. Benson?” Round Freddy asked. “Did he survive?”

  “While he is in great pain, he will recover from his injuries.

  “Tell me what happened next.”

  “The men went directly to Miss Waddington’s room, bundled her up in a blanket, and took her out the way they had entered. From the odor in the room, we believe that chloroform or ether was used to subdue her.”

  Round Freddy glanced at Constable Andrews, who was scribbling notes onto a dog-eared notepad, and then turned his attention back to the doctor.

  “Tell me about Miss Waddington, Why was she here?”

  “Ah, an unusual case, sergeant. She was committed here by her uncle, the Reverend William Elsworth. You may know him as the vicar of St. Philip’s Church in Clifton. He was concerned that Miss Waddington intended to harm herself. We treated her as a suicidal case.”

  “And what did you discover about her?”

  “The past several years had been very unhappy for her, very traumatic. Her mother died in the centennial year, and her father met his maker three years after that. Even now, after seven years, the young woman still has not come to terms with their deaths. That fact, a recent failed romance, and her obvious distaste over the terms of her inheritance, have caused her great distress.”

  Round Freddy straightened in his chair, but did not interrupt.

  “Miss Waddington spent a fortnight with us at Bootham Park, and I conducted sessions with her on a number of days during her incarceration. I arrived at the opinion that the young woman was not a danger to herself, nor to anyone else, and wrote the orders to have her discharged.”

  “When was that discharge to occur?”

  “This very day.”

  "Did Miss Waddington tell you the name of her former suitor?"

  "No; she only called him 'William' and said he had gone off with the Royal Navy."

  Round Freddy stroked the side of his nose lightly. “Please elaborate on what else you know of Miss Waddington’s inheritance, if you would, doctor.”

  “Well, there is not a great deal to tell. When Miss Waddington’s father died, his will directed that his brother-in-law, the Reverend Elsworth, administer the inheritance for the young woman. It appears her father was over-protective and believed the girl would not be able to handle the necessary financial dealings in a proper manner."

  Round Freddy slid to the edge of his chair. “And do you know if the inheritance amounted to much?”

  “Miss Waddington told me her inheritance was the sum of nearly £10,000 when her father died.”

  The doctor bit his upper lip and blinked slowly. “I am told the trust account holds considerably less than that now, but am unaware of the remaining amount."

  “And has the good reverend been to visit his niece?”

  “He has not been here since he left her in our care, but two days ago I sent him a message giving him the good news about Miss Waddington’s release.”

  Round Freddy swiveled toward the constable, who wrote furiously in his notebook. “Thank you for your help, doctor. You have been most enlightening. We shall return if we require further clarification on any of the points you raised.”

  •••••••

  The vicarage door creaked open to reveal an elegantly-appointed entry hall, and to the right, a newly-decorated sitting room with a sparkling dining room just beyond. The housekeeper showed them into the sitting room where Round Freddy collapsed onto an overstuffed sofa. Constable Andrews stood near the doorway. They remained in those positions until the reverend appeared ten minutes later.

  Round Freddy stood and extracted a pocket watch from his waistcoat, eyed the dial with a walleye-glare, then looked directly into the vicar’s eyes.

  “While I trust you are quite busy in ministering to your flock, reverend, I’m sure you can appreciate that our time is valuable too.” Round Freddy snapped the watch’s cover shut with a loud click.

  The smile disappeared from Reverend Elsworth’s face. “How may I help you?”

  “I am Detective Sergeant Hume and this is Constable Andrews. Please tell me, where is your niece, Miss Waddington?”

  “Regrettably, the poor girl is a resident at Bootham Park, sergeant.”

  “What would you say if I told you that she was no longer a resident at Bootham Park; that she had been abducted from that place last night?”

  The reverend’s face remained immobile, but his eyes flickered from side to side before he answered. “I had no idea. . . .”

  “Of course not, vicar. Perhaps you could tell us something of your relationship with your niece.”

  Reverend Elsworth drew a deep breath. “My sister, Helen, was her mother. After Helen died, and such a tragic death it was, the girl lived a number of years with her father in York. When he died in 1903, his will named me to administer a trust fund for Jane. I have been doing so since his death these past seven years.”

  Round Freddy allowed the silence to deepen, watching as the reverend’s fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of the chair.

  “And do you get a stipend for performing such a service as the trustee of the fund?”

  The clergyman seemed surprised by the question, but recovered quickly.

  “A small stipend, sergeant. About fifty pounds a year is allocated to me for my work in handling the administrative details of the fund. The Royal York Banking Society holds the actual monies in trust for my niece.”

  “And you have no idea of where Miss Waddington might be at this moment, reverend?”

  The vicar raised his chin and pushed his shoulders back.

  “No sir, I do not.”

  •••••••

  Round Freddy stretched his bulky frame and leaned toward Constable Andrews, raising his voice to make himself heard over the whine of the open car’s two-cylinder engine.

  “What do you make of that, eh?”

  Andrews shrugged as he wrenched the steering wheel to the left to avoid a water-filled hole in the track.

  “He’s covering something up, isn’t he, sergeant?”

  Round Freddy fixed Andrews with a bemused look.

  “You actually have been minding what’s happening around you, lad. Yes, the man is hiding something, but we cannot tell what that might be. Enough for now. Let’s get back to the station.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Richard Raine puffed his chest out and leaned forward, planting red, meaty hands on the clutter littering Round Freddy’s desk. Raine’s blotchy face moved closer and closer until it was inches from the detective sergeant’s.

  “Well, where the devil are you on the abduction, then?”

  “Sir, we have interviewed the director of Bootham Park, as well as the two attendants on duty the night the young woman was snatched.”

  “And?”

  Round Freddy could see the veins on the side of the chief constable’s forehead bulging like thick, purple ropes.

  “And we have spoken with the Reverend William Elsworth, the young woman’s uncle, and also are searching for her former suitor, though that seems to be a dead end as he's been aboard a Royal Navy ship for the past month."

  Round Freddy stood his ground, inches from Raine’s scowling face.

  As chief constable of the York Police Force, Raine was responsible for keeping order and ensuring the safety of the public in the city of 60,000 inhabitants. But Round Freddy knew that Raine held most of his subordinates in contempt, and believed they existed only to fulfill his wishes.

  “You are not telling me anything about who accomplished this dastardly deed,” Raine bellowed, spittle flying from the corner o
f his mouth onto Round Freddy’s waistcoat. “Nor why.”

  Round Freddy intentionally blinked his eyes slowly, trying to control the anger he felt welling inside him.

  “As soon as I am aware of who perpetrated the crime, chief constable, you will be the first I shall tell. In the meantime, we do not have enough facts at our disposal to draw any conclusion.”

  The explosion he expected was not long in coming. Raine had taken the bait.

  “Then you had best get your arse out in the town and find out the facts so we can arrest the criminals,” Raine thundered. “Take whatever men you need to get the job done, but, by gawd, I want the bloody criminals caught, and caught quickly.”

  Raine pulled back from the desk and glared at Round Freddy, who stood stock still, showing only the countenance of a haberdashery dummy. The chief constable grunted, then left the office, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Round Freddy shook his head to dispel the image of the chief constable, replacing it with the image of St. Clare’s Church graveyard two weeks earlier. The small plot, holding the open grave of Inspector George Croft, had been flanked by a mound of freshly-dug earth, moist and dark and coarse. Croft had been Raine’s favorite, but with York Police Force's only inspector under six feet of Yorkshire soil, the chief constable was in a bind. He couldn’t endure being in the same room with Round Freddy and had spent the last three years trying to eliminate him from the duty roster. Nevertheless, with Croft dead, Raine had to trust the asylum abduction case, as well as many others, to his detective sergeant.

  Round Freddy pulled the door open and cocked his head to one side, motioning Andrews into the office.

  “You heard the commotion, I assume?”

  “It was difficult not to, sir.” Andrews eyes shone bright, a half smile on his lips. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it’s not right.”

  “I know, Andrews, but we all have our difficulties to weather. This particular one is more persistent than most.”

  Andrews cracked a full smile, “What now, then?”

  “I believe it is time to pay a visit to the Royal York Banking Society. That’s where the trust funds were held for Miss Waddington, according to Doctor Canham. Perhaps the good bankers over there can shed some light on why Miss Waddington was so distressed about her inheritance.”

  •••••••

  The Royal York Banking Society occupied three floors of a Georgian stone building at Parliament and Market Streets, prime real estate fronting the city’s 500-foot long market square. Elias Lund, the bank’s manager, greeted Round Freddy and Constable Andrews with a curt nod and a nervous disposition as he led the policemen to his private office at the rear of the ground floor. Lund’s eyes, magnified by wire-rim spectacles housing thick lenses, shifted haphazardly back and forth between the two policemen sitting somberly before him.

  “How may I help you, sergeant The bank is always ready to cooperate with the police.”

  “Very upstanding of the bank, Mr. Lund. Admirable, indeed.”

  Round Freddy fixed the man with a bland look and asked, “What can you tell me about the trust fund of Miss Jane Waddington?”

  “Not much, I am afraid. The trust fund, as you are sure to know, is a private holding and as such, the bank is in no way obligated to divulge any details about it.”

  Round Freddy snorted. The little man was actually showing some spine, he thought. He would see how firm it was. “Mr. Lund, I am sure you will be astonished to learn that the object of your protection, Miss Waddington, has been abducted and is now missing. We fear that some harm may have befallen her.”

  Lund’s eyes widened to searchlight size. “I . . . I . . . is the woman . . . What I mean to say is, have you found. . . .” His voice trailed off with the unfinished question.

  “The young woman was abducted from the Bootham Park Lunatic Asylum where she had been placed by her uncle, who, as you are well aware, administers her trust fund.”

  Round Freddy leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of Lund’s desk. “It is the records of the trust that I am interested in learning about, sir.”

  “But surely you cannot think that the Reverend Elsworth had anything to do with the abduction?”

  “We do not think anything before ferreting out the facts, Mr. Lund. You are about to provide us with some of those facts. The rest will sort itself out.”

  Lund stiffened again. “I am not certain that I am authorized to release such information without first consulting with the reverend.”

  Round Freddy’s lips formed a thin smile. “As you wish, Mr. Lund. I am confident that a magistrate will be pleased to order the bank closed until we are able to comb through the records and satisfy ourselves that the Royal York Banking Society was not involved in any way with this heinous abduction. I would imagine such an investigation would be . . . lengthy.”

  The little banker sagged visibly and lowered his gaze. “I shall have the records located and brought to you immediately.”

  The storeroom that Lund provided for Round Freddy to examine the trust ledgers was lit by two naked bulbs that threw feeble rays of light barely reaching the corners of the room. Round Freddy squinted at page seven of a red-covered ledger, running his finger down the list of transactions. The ledger showed payments to merchants and professionals throughout the city, as well as money transfers from one account to another and back again. The half-dozen ledgers began their accounting early in 1904 and continued in the same manner for the next six years.

  Round Freddy flipped the 1904 ledger aside and opened the book for 1910. On the twelfth page, he found the balance of the trust. He closed his eyes and calculated the potential income the original trust might have generated by the investment of its £10,000. Then he rechecked the balance noted on line 15 of the ledger. The entry read £1,953.

  Round Freddy whistled softly. At a time when a single individual could easily live well on £200 a year, the trust was expending funds at ten times the expected rate, excluding investment income.

  He instructed Andrews to summon the banker, and when Lund appeared, Round Freddy stood and hunched his shoulders to relieve the strain.

  “Mr. Lund, I shall need time to study the trust accounting and will take the ledgers with me, if you have no objection.”

  The banker opened his mouth to reply, but must have thought better of it and said nothing.

  “It’s settled then. Constable Andrews will give you a receipt for the ledgers.”

  Round Freddy turned to leave, then stopped abruptly.

  “And one more thing. There will be no mention of this visit to anyone. Please remember this is a criminal investigation.”

  •••••••

  Fletcher stood alongside the trunk of an enormous elm, watching the roadway for any signs of activity. There had been little traffic that morning, chiefly wagons heading into town, laden with goods destined for the farmer’s market. One or two motorcars had passed by on the way through Clifton, along with two hiking enthusiasts. Fletcher glanced down the road a last time, then stepped from behind the tree and trudged down the dirt lane.

  At the door, the housekeeper twisted her stained apron with weathered hands, insisting the vicar could not be disturbed at his breakfast.

  “Tell him it’s Fletcher, dearie. He’ll see me.”

  “Please step around back to the kitchen door, then.”

  Fletcher shrugged and plodded along the side of the house, walking directly through beds of tulips and crocuses, breaking stems and flower heads in passing. As he reached the back door it burst open and the vicar stepped out.

  “What is the meaning of this?” The strain in his voice was unmistakable. “How dare you invade my sanctuary.”

  “I ain’t invading nothing, vicar. I only come for what’s rightfully mine. After all, I done the job for you, now didn’t I?”

  “Keep your voice down man,” Elsworth said, taking Fletcher’s elbow and leading him along a path toward the carriage house. “You needn�
��t have come here.”

  “Then how else were I to get the rest of the money you owe? Did you think it was to come to me, magically-like?”

  “Your sarcasm is unnecessary. You’ll get your money.”

  “Bleedin’ right, I will. And I’ll have it now.”

  The vicar stiffened. “What if I told you that I did not have the cash in the house?”

  Fletcher’s single eye widened and stared hard at the vicar. His jaw worked back and forth like a bovine masticating. Finally, he spoke. “You would make a big mistake to say that, vicar. A massive mistake.”

  Elsworth leaned away from Fletcher, then quickly turned and walked back into the house. Five minutes later he was back, a brick-shaped paper-wrapped bundle in his hand.

  “Before we conclude our business, I would like to put another proposition to you.”

  “I’m all ears, vicar.”

  Reverend Elsworth cleared his throat, then spoke in a low voice. “You have done well and earned every farthing of your fee,” he said. “But I now find that additional action appears to be necessary in our dealings.”

  “What kind of additional action, eh?”

  The vicar cleared his throat again. “I believe that the individual you are holding should have to disappear.”

  “Disappear? Disappear? You mean like in a conjurer’s trick?”

  “Not precisely. What I mean is disappear . . . permanently.”

  Fletcher breathed deeply, his mind racing. The damn vicar was asking him to kill the girl.

  “How do you expect it to be done?”

  “It matters not to me. As long as she is gone permanently.”

  “And when?”

  “As soon as is practical.”

  Fletcher thought for a moment. “Aye, I’ll do it. But it’ll cost you. Triple what you paid before.”

  The vicar sputtered, flinging spittle onto his pressed lapels. “By Jove, Fletcher, you are unconscionable.”

  “Is that your way of agreeing, vicar?”

  The vicar glared at the shabby little man, but nodded his head.

  Fletcher removed the package from the vicar’s hand, then tore the wrapping, exposing the banknotes. He began to count.