Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “Several, you say? How many might that be?”

  “Six, to be precise.”

  “I shall require that I personally examine each of them before I will give you a commitment to purchase them.”

  “Of course, vicar. The idea is to shelter your cash in worthwhile enterprises, yet in holdings that cannot be readily traced back to you.”

  “That has been my intent all along. Tell me about these properties.”

  “You’ll remember that I spoke of a holding in Clifton at our last meeting, so I shall tackle that one first. You are aware, I trust, of Scarborough Villas?”

  “Yes, a series of row houses on the southwest side of the village.”

  “Actually a double series of row houses, and ones that bring in substantial profits for the owner from the rents. The owner, an elderly gent, has had enough of the dismal weather in York and has decided to spend his remaining years in Southampton where it is decidedly warmer.”

  “And he is amenable to selling at a reasonable price?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub, eh,” Goodwin said, his eyes alight. “What one considers a high price today is a reasonable price tomorrow and a bargain two years from now. These houses are practically a license to print Sterling.”

  “How much is he asking?”

  “Twenty-five hundred for the lot of them.”

  “Damn, man, that’s half of what I have to invest.”

  “You’ll remember that I suggested an assortment of types and sizes of purchases. That is what I continue to suggest to you and this property fits the bill nicely for the larger purchase.”

  “As I said earlier, I shall have to inspect the premises.”

  Goodwin rubbed his chin. “I should be careful if I were you, vicar. You would like to maintain an invisible presence concerning these transactions, yet if you go prancing about the properties, and looking inside each and every one, then surely someone is bound to notice. Especially in Clifton, where you are a rather notable figure.”

  Reverend Elsworth frowned and deep, twin lines formed across the middle of his forehead. “You make a valid point, Mr. Goodwin. I shall make an inspection of the property from the exterior only, and do so surreptitiously. I also shall have to trust in your veracity concerning the property and its value.”

  Goodwin gave an elaborate nod, but said nothing.

  “And what of these smaller properties? Will there be the same restrictions on me?” the reverend asked.

  “I would hardly call them restrictions, vicar. You are the one who has set forth the rules in this matter. I simply am making suggestions that I think reflect your best interests.”

  Goodwin watched the vicar for a reaction, and on receiving none, continued.

  “The other five properties are single freeholds that are available for purchase. All have operating businesses in them and produce consistent rent payments. There’s a seed merchant on Leeman Road, a joiner on Lowther Street, a stone yard off Bootham Square, a coppersmith on Walmgate Road, and an auction house on Toft Green.”

  He pushed a square of paper with penciled notations on it across the table to the reverend. “All the addresses and details are there.”

  “And the prices for them?”

  “The total for the five comes out to just shy of five thousand quid.”

  “If the properties are as good as you say, then we likely will proceed. Have you given any thought to forming the corporation yet?”

  “I have indeed. In fact, I took the liberty of visiting a solicitor whom I use for confidential transactions, and he has drawn up these papers for you to endorse. That is, after you have reviewed them.” Goodwin extracted a small sheaf of papers from inside his jacket and laid them on the table.

  The reverend snatched the papers and began leafing through them.

  “And your commission for these transactions. Is that in these documents?”

  “No, it is not. I feel that it is best if such things are not in writing.”

  The reverend stopped leafing and smiled. “I heartily agree. So what shall your percentage be?”

  “Fifteen percent.”

  The reverend’s face turned pale. “Of the entire amount invested?”

  Goodwin nodded.

  “But that will amount to nearly 750 pounds. That’s outrageous!” The reverend’s face had gone from pale to purple.

  Goodwin sat nonplussed. “I think you should remember why you came to me in the first instance, vicar. The service I am willing to provide for you cannot be found elsewhere. You simply cannot walk into an establishment like the Royal York Banking Society or the Crescent Building Society and expect the good people there to assist you in the manner that I am willing to do.”

  At the mention of the two banking societies, the reverend turned pale again. Goodwin knew his jab had hit it’s mark.

  “But 15 percent; my God, man, that’s usury.”

  “I prefer to call it a modest commission to compensate me for all the risk that I am assuming.” Goodwin hesitated and then continued. “Reverend, if you’re thinking of backing out of our deal, I’m sure I can make the details of our arrangements known to your congregation on Sunday.”

  The reverend sat quietly for a full minute, staring intently at Goodwin. Suddenly, the reverend shot out of his chair and snatched the contract from the table. “Give me a pen,” he snapped.

  Goodwin produced a pen from an inner pocket, along with a small container of ink.

  The reverend quickly signed the document and dated it. “There, blast you. I’ve done it.”

  “You won’t be sorry, vicar. In a few weeks when we’ve completed all the transactions, your funds will be as safe as if they resided in the Bank of England’s vault itself.”

  The vicar stared at Goodwin, then turned and ducked through the low door.

  •••••••

  When Round Freddy stepped inside the station house he stopped short and stared hard at the scene before him. The room throbbed with activity, as if someone had stirred a hornet’s nest, but instead of bees, constables flew from place to place.

  Pulling aside a smooth-faced constable, he asked, “What’s got into the place, Nelson?”

  “It’s the body, detective sergeant. An old fisherman just came in and told us about it. In the river. A dead woman.”

  “A dead woman, you say. Any identification?”

  “None stated, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, but the chief constable’s sent me on an errand and I must be getting’ on with it.”

  “True enough, Nelson. Off you go.”

  As soon as Round Freddy stepped behind his own desk, the chief constable burst into the office.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing in the station, Hume? There’s a body in the river and an investigation to be done.”

  “I’ve only just arrived from checking on the Waddington abduction, sir. I shall head for the river immediately.”

  “You damn well will, Hume, or I’ll have your warrant card.” The chief constable stomped from the office, leaving a smell of cigar smoke and body odor in his wake.

  Round Freddy spoke briefly with the constable on station duty, and then quickly returned to the car.

  “To the River Ouse at the foot of Scarborough Bridge, Andrews. It appears that we have another case on our hands, one equally as nefarious as the Waddington mystery. A dead body, my boy. A dead woman’s body.”

  “You don’t think there’s any connection between the two cases, do you sir?”

  “I never try to think until I am presented with facts to think about,” Round Freddy said, grinning widely. “We shall know more shortly.”

  He could tell that Andrews was nervous from the way the lad’s foot shuddered on the motorcar’s accelerator, causing a stuttering motion in no way related to the cobblestones over which they rode.

  Andrews parked the Austin in the shadow of the Scarborough Bridge’s north pier and the two of them walked past gawkers and bystanders to the water’s edge. Round Freddy pointe
d to the corpse that had filled up with gases and floated like a ship’s life preserver.

  “The body has been in the water for some time,” he said to Andrews in a conspiratorial whisper. I would hazard a guess of at least a day or more. The decomposing tissue emits gases that makes the body fill up with air. So, of course, the corpse floats.”

  Andrews shifted his weight from side to side, but said nothing.

  As two beefy constables heaved the body onto the long reeds at the shoreline, Round Freddy stepped forward. But Constable Andrews, staring hard at the bloated body, coughed and bent forward, spraying his breakfast on the ground and across the tips of his scuffed boots.

  Round Freddy grimaced, first at Andrews, then at the distorted features of the woman’s body.

  She had never been pretty, even in life, he thought, but she was by no means ugly either. More plain than anything else, with dark freckles splashed across her face and neck and long red hair, now clumped into matted ropes of dull sienna that obscured much of her face.

  He pushed her hair aside. Round Freddy had never seen Jane Waddington and knew he could not identify her by looking at this corpse.

  “Shall I have Reverend Elsworth brought here to see if this is his niece, detective sergeant?” Andrews seemed to have recovered some of his composure.

  Round Freddy held up his hand, then reached down to the body. A small bag was slung across the body’s chest, from shoulder to hip, its pouch secured by a brass clasp. He unsnapped the clasp and slipped two fingers inside the wet material, extracting a small wad of papers and several coins.

  “Robbery obviously was not the motive,” he said as he pulled the sodden papers apart. “And here is what we are seeking.”

  He held up a crumpled, dripping calling card. It read: Miss Jane Waddington. Fenleigh House. York.

  Round Freddy stood and motioned the beefy two constables over to him. He spoke with them a minute, then looked at Andrews and smiled.

  “Right, constable, let’s be on our way. This puts an entirely different shine to the case, I daresay.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jane brushed a strand of hair out of her eye and behind her ear as she leaned against the kitchen doorway, surveying the room. The pub overflowed with people, many of them soundly inebriated, even though closing time remained two hours distant. This pub life is not for me, she thought, wondering if she would ever get back to her former life of tranquility. She straightened and nodded to a heavily-whiskered man gesturing wildly to attract her attention.

  “Yes, sir. What can I get you?”

  “Two pints of bitter, young lass. And we’ll continue to be friends, then.” The man squinted through a pince-nez, then leered as she left.

  But before Jane could reach the bar to deliver the order to Harold, a meaty hand swept around her waist and a red-faced drover pulled her onto his lap.

  “Here now, miss. Wot’s your hurry? Sit with me for a spell and let me tell you some tales.”

  Jane squirmed from his grasp and succeeded in standing before the ginger-haired drover clamped his hand on her forearm.

  His face tightened and he said in a loud voice, “I said we’re to talk a bit miss, and I mean to do it right now.” He pulled Jane back onto his lap and tightened his grip on her waist.

  Jane let her body go limp, and as the drover grabbed to keep her from falling, she raked her nails across his cheek, drawing trails of blood.”

  The drover roared in pain and stood up, dropping Jane onto the floor.

  “I’ll show you how to behave with a man,” he shouted, grabbing her by the hair and raising her off the wood planking.

  As he did, a wooden truncheon crashed across the side of his head, splitting his scalp from the eyebrow to the ear, and sending him crashing to the floor.

  Harold, with the truncheon still raised threateningly, pointed at the drover.

  “Don’t you ever touch any of the staff in my pub again or the next time I’ll slice your bollocks off for you.”

  The drover, blood streaming down the side of his head, started to stand, but sat back down when Harold waved the truncheon.

  “Out,” Harold yelled. “Out of my pub, now!”

  “But I’ve a half pint left to finish.”

  Harold picked up the mug and slowly poured the remaining contents over the drover’s head, then slammed it down on the table.

  “You’re finished now. Out.”

  As the drover limped toward the door, Harold took Jane by the elbow and helped her sit in the chair the drover had vacated.

  “Are you all right?”

  Jane nodded, her limbs still shaking.

  “Lizzie,” Harold called, “sherry for the girl. And be quick about it.”

  “He wouldn’t release me. He had a tight grip on me.”

  “He won’t do that again, girl. You can wager on that.”

  Lizzie held out a glass of sherry and Jane greedily gulped the contents, then coughed furiously as the fiery liquid burned the back of her throat.

  “Easy there, dearie; there’s plenty more and enough time to drink it in.”

  Lizzie plucked at Harold’s sleeve and pulled him to the side.

  “That was a good thing you did for her. I’m beginning to think you might actually have a soft spot, Harold.”

  Harold scowled and looked away. “Gawd, woman. Must you always make a pile out of nothing?”

  “Still, you did well. I’m proud of you.”

  Harold lowered his chin and mumbled. “Well the girl’s a hard worker. She deserves better treatment.”

  “I’ll show you good treatment later,” Lizzie said, swinging her hips as she moved to Jane’s side.

  “A few more days, lovie. You should have some kind of answer by then from your doctor friend.”

  Jane brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “I wish I could believe that. I really do.”

  •••••••

  The sound of the heavy door knocker had hardly drifted away when the housekeeper swung the vicarage door open. “Oh, it’s you gentlemen from the police. I expect you’ll want the reverend.”

  “Indeed we do,” Round Freddy said, fingering the brim of the hat in his hands. “May we come in?”

  “Please take a seat in the sitting room there.” The housekeeper indicated an arrangement of overstuffed, flower furniture in a room off the entry hall.

  Round Freddy stood as Reverend Elsworth entered the room.

  “What is it now, detective?”

  “I think that you might want to sit down, sir. I have distressing news.”

  The reverend stiffened, but did not move.

  “We found a body in the river. We believe it to be your niece.” Round Freddy pulled a damp bag from his pocket and handed it to the reverend. “This also was in the bag.” He held out the wrinkled and stained calling card.

  The reverend looked at the card, but did not touch it. “That’s her card. And this is her bag,” he said, turning the bag over and over in his hands.

  Round Freddy studied the reverend’s face, but couldn’t decide if it was shock or unconcern that registered there. He gently took the bag back from the reverend.

  “I’m sure you understand. This is a police investigation and these items are evidence. We shall be sure to return them to you as soon as possible.”

  The reverend nodded, then lowered his gaze to the floor.

  “Did she drown?”

  “It seems so, although the doctor has not finished with the body yet. We shall know more presently.”

  “Then that’s it,” the reverend said, slapping his thighs and standing abruptly. “She’s killed herself.“

  “We don’t know that is what transpired, sir. The only thing we know now is that she was found floating in the river. How she came to be there or how she met her end are still questions to be answered.”

  “I shall have to make arrangements for her burial.”

  “Yes, of course. We will have the body release
d to you as soon as the doctor is finished with his examination. I’ll have constable Andrews advise you personally.”

  The reverend nodded absently. “That would be fine.”

  Round Freddy glanced at Andrews and cocked his head toward the door. Neither of them said anything as they left the house.

  •••••••

  Fletcher stood in the deep shadows at the rear of St. Philip’s Church, watching as the last of three old women made her way toward the exit and into the churchyard. St. Philip’s was laid out in the traditional form of a cross, with a transept bisecting the main hall and nave near the church’s apex. Three aisles, one in the center and one on each side, led from the entryway to the celebratory podium at the front.

  To the left side of the transept stood a baptismal font; a choir area was on the right. Set into the outer wall adjacent to the choir stall was an oak door. Fletcher heard the protest of little-used hinges as the door opened, and when it shut with a thud, Fletcher could make out the Reverend Elsworth through the dim light. The vicar paused briefly before striding to the front of the church, where he rummaged through a cabinet set into a side wall.

  Fletcher shambled down the left aisle and came up behind the vicar without making a sound.

  “A fine afternoon it is, vicar.”

  The reverend spun around, his face ashen. “What are you doing here? My God, man, someone could see us together.”

  Fletcher chuckled and pinched the tip of his nose. “I shouldn’t worry about that, vicar. Folks is used to seeing all kinds of people come and go from the church. Another one shan’t make a difference.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Only what’s due me. I’m here for the rest of the payment.”

  “Fletcher,” the reverend began, raising a hand as if trying to calm a nervous horse, “this is neither the time nor the place.”

  Fletcher stepped closer and thrust his face next to the vicar’s.

  “I thought ye might say something of the kind. It may not be the place, but the time is right. You heard from the police, eh?”

  “I did.”

  Fletcher sighed heavily and his face grew grave. “Ye shouldn’t make this any harder than it is vicar. What did they say?”