Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “It’s all there, Fletcher. Good lord, man, you should not have to count it out in full view of everyone.”

  Fletcher looked around and laughed. “There’s no one about.”

  “Damn you, Fletcher. Damn you to hell.”

  As the vicar raised his voice, Fletcher’s eye caught a movement in an upper window of the house. The lace curtain had been pulled back slightly, then quickly closed.

  “And you would be the one to know about damning people, eh vicar?” Fletcher stuffed the wad of bills inside his coat and shambled down the path, disappearing around the corner.

  The vicar stood in the spring sunshine, sweat beaded on his forehead. He ran his hand across his brow and back through his gleaming hair before turning and striding back into the house.

  •••••••

  “Good morning, Rose. It appears to be a fine morning.”

  The mahogany chair scraped on the shiny plank floorboards as the vicar took his seat in the dining room and carefully arranged a linen napkin in his lap.

  “It is, it is indeed. One hopes it will continue for us.” The always-cheerful cook and housemaid, Mrs. Thornton, scurried to the sideboard to snatch up a silver-covered tray.

  “Kippered herring, vicar. Your favorite.”

  “If I didn’t know you better, Rose, I would say you were trying to curry favor with me.” Reverend Elsworth forced a smile, but the cook continued talking without missing a beat.

  “Vicar, Mr. Hardy stopped in the scullery early today and said, beggin’ his pardon, but the motor has developed a problem in the Wolseley. He thought he would be able to put it right within an hour or two and that you should not be delayed terribly much.”

  The vicar leaned back as she spooned oatmeal into a bowl, then slid eggs and sausage on his plate, next to the herring. Mrs. Thornton set a plate of toasted bread and jam on the table to his right.

  “If you’d be so kind as to tell Mr. Hardy I shall not need the motorcar until this afternoon, by which time I would imagine he will have corrected the problem.”

  Mrs. Thornton nodded and replaced the trays on the sideboard, then withdrew to the kitchen.

  Between bites of food, the vicar tried to relax, glancing around the spacious dining room. The vicarage of St. Philip’s Church in Clifton had been built in 1825, the year that several unsuccessful attempts were made to set up a university in York. At the time, the population of the city and its surrounding hamlets was nearly 17,000, a figure only two thousand fewer than its population at the time of the Reformation. But Clifton village, growing ever larger northwest of York and its awe-inspiring Minster, had need of spiritual comfort of its own. This need and the hard work of a core of believers resulted in the establishment of St. Philip’s and St. James’s Church in the former stone barn of a deceased farmer. After the congregation grew too large, a new church was built, and the old barn demolished to make way for the vicarage. For a reason lost to the years, the new church took only the name of St. Philip.

  Now, eighty-five years after its founding, St. Philip’s Church and its surrounding property had become part of the expanded city of York, governed by its rules and regulations, but also assisted by its prosperity. The vicarage, a handsome, two-storied house with steeply-sloping roofs and gables in the upper floor, was approached through a ground floor entry hall that led to a sitting room on the south and a study on the north. Opposite the entry door, a corridor led to the dining room, which connected to the sitting room by a massive set of pocket doors. Across the corridor stood a butler’s pantry, adjacent to the kitchen in the rear of the house.

  The first floor of the vicarage could be reached by a wide staircase from the entry hall or by a narrower set of stairs from the kitchen. Five rooms occupied this floor, one of largish size that the vicar maintained as his room, and the other four of diminishing size, such that the smallest was hardly able to accommodate more than an single iron bed and one small trunk. Situated midway along the first floor corridor was a washroom that included a cast iron tub, decorated with clawed feet.

  The full-sized attic was divided into several spaces, one of which was occupied by the cook. The basement was high and dry, allowing Hardy, the vicar’s driver, to keep a sleeping room alongside his workroom. The vicar provided Hardy with decent accommodations and extra privileges because the man was responsible for the vicar’s new 16-horsepower Wolseley touring car, a two-door, four-seater with the new Scuttle dashboard and a glass windscreen to protect the driver from flying debris.

  The vicar drew in a deep breath. This is the empire over which I preside, he thought, as he finished the last morsel of herring.

  After the concussion of the heavy iron doorknocker sounded through the house, Mrs. Thornton hurried into the dining room, holding a folded piece of paper in front of her.

  “Thank you, Rose. Please wait.”

  The vicar flipped open the sheet and quickly read its contents. A shadow of irritation passed over his face, which he quickly replaced with a look of nonchalance.

  “Rose, please see if Mr. Boyce down the road at Coram Cottage would be so kind as to provide me with transportation into York. I fear that I must attend to some pressing business in the city.”

  Within a half-hour, Mrs. Thornton returned with word of Boyce’s agreement, quickly followed by the man himself in a four passenger Sunbeam with the top folded back. Five minutes later, the vicar was comfortably ensconced in the passenger seat, bumping along Kelton Road with Mr. Boyce toward the city center.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Please pull over at the Monk’s Bar, if you would be so kind,” the vicar requested, smiling broadly. “I must make a visit at the chapel down the road.”

  Boyce edged the Sunbeam to the side of the road facing the Monk’s Bar, a massive stone gatehouse set into the perimeter wall that once encircled the entire city. From Monk’s Bar, Goodram Gate Road ran southwest into St. Sampson’s Square in what had developed into the most congested section of York.

  The Goodram Chapel occupied a tidy plot 150 feet from the Monk’s Bar. The chapel’s cool, dim interior soothed the vicar’s senses as he softly closed the heavy door. He didn’t move for a full minute, studying the plain lectern and stone statuary arranged at the front wall, then quietly walked down the only aisle in the narrow chapel. Stepping through a low doorway set into the far wall, he found himself in an anteroom furnished with a round deal table and two straight-backed chairs. A bald man occupying one of the chairs nodded, and as the vicar took the other seat, began speaking.

  “I am told that you are seeking assistance in the realm of secure investments; that you have a considerable amount you would consider placing in the right scheme.”

  The vicar tilted his head and nodded, folding his hands in front of him as if in prayer. “You have the correct information, Mr. . . Mr. . . .”

  “You may call me Goodwin.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, Mr. Goodwin, I am pleased to say that you are correct and that I, in fact, have a substantial sum that I would wish to place in. . . how shall I phrase it . . . safekeeping.”

  “I fully understand, vicar. I have served a large number of individuals such as yourself in similar circumstances in the past. You wish an investment that will be safe and secure, yet will prosper and grow with the years, is that not so?’

  “That is the situation, precisely.”

  “And of course, you also would want to retain a large degree of anonymity with regard to the investment. Am I correct in assuming that as a fact?”

  The vicar leaned forward and nodded again.

  “Then I am the man to help you with your situation,” Goodwin said, spreading his hands wide. “How much do you have to invest? A round figure is good enough to serve for our current discussion.”

  The vicar pursed his lips, hesitating. “Five thousand pounds.”

  Goodwin’s eyes widened and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “A considerable sum, vicar. In fact, an extremely large sum.”

&nb
sp; “I am aware of that, Mr. Goodwin. If it is too much for you to handle, perhaps I should seek guidance elsewhere.”

  Goodwin recovered quickly. “I meant no disrespect, vicar, nor did I seek to imply that I was unable to place such a sum into secure investments. I simply was complimenting you, sir, on amassing such an amount of money.”

  He waited for the vicar to reply, but when the silence lengthened, continued.

  “The safest investment I could make on your behalf would be to purchase freehold property. We would set up a company, of which I would be the nominal head, yet you would be the majority stockholder. The company would hold the deed to the property and take in any income. For my part, I would require only a small commission. Of course, the return on such an investment would be quite modest when compared to purchasing shares either on the exchange or through a private agent. But this course of action affords you the degree of anonymity that you desire, whereas a purchase of shares openly would not.”

  Goodwin paused. The vicar had given him his full attention.

  “I would recommend, for an investment of this size, that we use the funds to purchase an assortment of properties of differing types and sizes. By doing so, we will assure there is a diversity amongst your holdings. Purchasing one large property might call more attention to the investment than we would care to have cast on it.”

  “I am in full agreement with all you have said thus far,” the vicar said. “You have placed your finger smack on the jugular vein of the problem. What is the next step?”

  The old chair creaked as Goodwin leaned back. “I shall begin by forming the company I spoke of to hold the investments. As I said, you will be the majority stockholder, but only I shall appear in the filing documents as an officer. In that way, your participation will be shielded."

  He continued, “Then I shall begin immediately to identify freeholds that might be acceptable as investments. I do have two such properties in mind already, but want to speak with their owners and sound them out on the terms they would require. Both of these properties are large, one here in York and the other in Clifton.”

  “You know of my affiliation with St. Philip’s,” the vicar said. “Any investment in a Clifton freehold would have to be handled with the utmost care. I do not wish to be involved in any kind of scandal. I cannot.”

  Goodwin raised a hand. “You are quite right. But please remember that discretion is my business. It is how I earn my daily bread. The protection of your good name and shielding your involvement are of the utmost importance to me and will not be compromised.”

  The vicar stood and fixed Goodwin with a stare. “I am counting on your discretion, Mr. Goodwin. Please do not fail me.”

  “I will not, vicar. You will be pleased with the result of dealing through me. Shall we meet here again in a week’s time?”

  “Fair enough. I will be here at the same hour.” The vicar picked up his hat from the table and carefully arranged it on his head, then left the way he had arrived.

  •••••••

  Wallace Goodwin had loved money all of his life. It was his reason for existing, he often thought, not because of any status it allowed him in society, since the bluebloods of Edwardian society looked down their noses at bourgeois financial merchants like him. Nor was it the expediency of having pounds in his pockets to purchase whatever he chose, although being able to do so, he knew, was so much better than the alternative.

  No, it was the power that money conveyed, he thought; power to the one who held the money, or for that matter, the one who was owed the money. And being owed money was something at which Goodwin knew he was very skilled. He often thought that Shakespeare could have cast him in the role of Shylock in the “Merchant of Venice” and no one would have been able to decipher the difference.

  Goodwin stood at the side entrance of the chapel puffing on a pipe filled with foul-smelling tobacco, shielded from the street by thick stand of hedgerows. He could see the forms of bodies passing outside the heavy iron fence, but his thoughts drifted to other matters. The vicar was a sly one, he mused. Behind him, he heard the sound of a creaking door.

  The man standing in the doorway was the direct opposite of Goodwin. Where Goodwin was short, fat and bald, the other man was tall, slender and sported a full mane of silver hair.

  “You heard the conversation?” Goodwin asked.

  “I did. You must realize that the good vicar could in no way have accumulated that amount of money unless it was through nefarious means.” When the man spoke, his voice sounded as smooth as a lake’s surface after a rain.

  “What of the possibility that the vicar had money from his family?” Even Goodwin himself didn’t believe that could be the case, yet he broached the possibility nonetheless. He had been taught always to be thorough.

  “Why would a man who had money from his family not immediately find a secure investment in which to hold that money?”

  The silver-haired man paused momentarily, but appeared satisfied when Goodwin did not respond.

  “Perhaps if it was recently-acquired money, then we may be involved with a much different situation. But such information is easily ferreted out, as you are well aware.”

  Goodwin lowered his gaze and nodded. He was a master at prying the true story from behind a wall of fabrication.

  “I shall have the answer to that riddle right quick enough,” he said. “A day or two is all I shall need.”

  “And if the situation is as we expect, that the vicar has somehow had five thousand pounds bestowed on him by an unknown benefactor?”

  “Then we shall put the funds to good use. The Clifton property that we own is certainly one we could sell to the good vicar, at a nice profit, of course.”

  “Damn the nice profit,” the slender man spat out. “We shall inflate the value a thousand percent. Perhaps more. There’s no sense letting a sheep like the vicar walk by without helping ourselves to its fleece.”

  Goodwin smiled broadly, gripping the pipe stem tightly between his front teeth. “You always had a way with words, father. You actually should think of taking to the pulpit yourself, with that silver tongue.”

  The older man grinned and shook his head. “I’m quite content playing the game, son. Quite content, indeed.”

  •••••••

  Round Freddy knew he was a worrier. The way he saw it, the reason for his worrying was unimportant. His disposition led him to believe that by worrying about something — anything — he could catalyze his reasoning powers into action and apply them to the case he was investigating. As the ranking detective sergeant in the York Police, he had the choice of cases, and often chose those that were either unusual or especially difficult.

  He looked at the case materials laid out on his desk and shook his head. A sewing bobbin, three matches, a half-sheet of paper that had been wadded into a ball so many times that the pencil writing on it was illegible, a woman’s handkerchief with a “J” monogrammed in one corner, a torn handbill promoting a Temperance Society meeting, and a copper penny. Not a terribly remarkable accumulation of goods, he thought, except for the fact that the effects had been removed from the dead body of a man, dressed as a woman.

  How the disguised man had come to be dead was the puzzling part of the case. The body bore no visible wounds or unusual marks, nor were there any signs of a struggle.

  The deceased’s mode of dress certainly cast the tenor of the case into the unusual category, Round Freddy thought. But the lack of an obvious cause of death also made him wonder whether he should take the case on or not. His desk already overflowed with work. The First Presbyterian Church on Conley Street had been broken into and ransacked two weeks previously, two elderly women had been bilked out of their life savings by a smooth-talking Frenchman, the wealthy owner of the Cocoa Works had not been seen for months and his wife was attempting to collect on an insurance policy, and the weekly payroll had been stolen at gunpoint from the York Flour Mills by two hooded men. Added to that was this
latest case, the abduction of Miss Waddington from Bootham Park. Who in the world, he mused, would want to steal someone from an insane asylum?

  Round Freddy held the handkerchief up to the light and scrutinized the monogram. Fine workmanship, he thought. Surely the man must have had money to purchase fine linens.

  A loud rap on the doorframe broke his train of thought. It was Andrews, the young constable with big eyes and few questions.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, detective sergeant, but I have the report on the items taken from the First Presbyterian Church.” Andrews shifted uneasily in the doorway. “You said you wanted it straight away.”

  Round Freddy extended his hand and took the offered pages.

  “Anything interesting on the list?”

  “Sir?”

  “Are there any items on the list that jump out at you, constable? Anything that is out of the ordinary?”

  Andrews furrowed his brow and put his forefinger to his lips as if he were retaining a secret. “Now that you ask, sergeant, there was something on the list that caught me eye.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “The reverend’s double barrel pheasant gun.”

  “Just so,” Round Freddy replied. “What would a pheasant gun be doing in a house of worship?” He cleared his throat and dropped the handkerchief to the desk. “Perhaps we should ask.”

  •••••

  Elias Lund peered over his shoulder at the crowded pavement on Blake Street, then ducked unnoticed through the door of the Hound and Hen Public House, bumping the hip of a overweight tramp who smelled of stale ale and dead fish. The tramp gave Lund a beery smile and pushed through the doorway in the opposite direction, leaving a trail of odor and dirt behind him.

  Lund stepped to the bar, brushing his sleeve vigorously as he surveyed the room, then wedged himself between a wooden post and an inebriated old man. He looked around the barroom again, but could see nothing of the man he was to meet because of the crowd, most of whom appeared to be either smelly or unwashed or both, he thought. As Lund turned back to the bar, the publican appeared and cocked his head to one side, his eyebrows raised in expectation.