Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series

by Alan M. Petrillo

  “What was that about?” Goodwin asked.

  “I’ve found that looking like a cornered rat attracts far greater attention from the police. Showing you have nothing to hide, or no fear, for that matter, has always worked for me.”

  Goodwin drank deeply and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You are a cold one, I’ll say that.”

  A smile broke over the Dealer’s face and just as quickly disappeared. “Lund’s arrived. Remember what we discussed.”

  “I shall play my part well, as always.”

  Lund fought his way through the room and arrived at the back table, brushing his sleeve as if it were on fire. “Dirty rascals. They should learn how to behave.”

  “Mr. Lund, so good of you to join us.” The Dealer, a bemused look on his face, indicated an empty stool.

  The banker sat down and looked from the Dealer to Goodwin, then back. “And who might this be?” he asked, pointing at Goodwin.

  The Dealer reached across the table and bent Lund’s index finger back, eliciting a howl from the banker and a chorus of laughter from nearby drinkers.

  “It’s exceptionally impolite to point, especially at someone you do not know,” the Dealer said, releasing Lund’s finger.

  Lund scowled at the table and rubbed his finger vigorously. “Damn but that hurt. Why did you do such a thing?”

  “Simply to gain your attention, Mr. Lund. I want to be sure that you are aware how serious we are.”

  “What are you talking about? Serious about what?” Lund’s voice had risen to a squeak.

  “All in good time.” The Dealer caught the attention of a barmaid and ordered three pints.

  “Now as to your first question, this is Mr. Goodwin, an associate of mine. He has a special talent for, shall we say, ferreting out information. Usually that information is of the kind that people wish to keep secret. As in your case.”

  “M-m-my case?”

  “Precisely. Your case or should I say the case of the missing funds from Miss Jane Waddington’s trust.”

  The banker’s face paled, but he said nothing.

  “No slick comment to make now, I see. Well, no matter. We shall explore the possibilities available to us to alleviate this delicate situation for you.”

  The Dealer paused, and seeing that Lund was panic-stricken, continued. “Your recent investment of funds with me sharpened my natural sense of curiosity. Imagine a banker with two thousand quid to invest who takes that money to someone other than his own bank. It does sound a bit queer, doesn’t it.”

  The Dealer paused again and Lund gave an almost-imperceptible nod.

  “That’s where Mr. Goodwin enters the picture. He was most helpful in tracking down the source of those funds. Of course we all now know the money actually belongs to the vicar’s niece.”

  Lund sat as still as a salt pillar, his gaze riveted on the Dealer, who continued.

  “Mr. Goodwin and me, we got to talking one evening and decided that perhaps you might be convinced to share some of that ill-found wealth with us. A small portion of it, at least.”

  Rivulets of sweat ran down the side of Lund’s face and he shook his head as if coming out of a trance. “What if I refused?”

  The Dealer leaned forward, all traces of good nature gone. “Then several events might take place. The first would be the notification of the bank’s board of directors about the irregularities. Second, the police would be sure to become involved. And third, there is the possibility of some possible harm befalling members of your family.”

  Lund’s lower lip trembled for a half minute before he stammered, “How much would a small portion amount to?”

  The Dealer looked at Goodwin and smiled. “You see, I told you Lund would be a reasonable man.” He stroked his chin, then clapped his hand down hard on Lund’s shoulder. “There’s no need to be fearful. We’ll be willing to settle for half.”

  “H-h-half of the entire investment?”

  “Aye, that’s right. A thousand pounds Sterling.” The Dealer leaned closer to Lund, his gaze locked on the banker’s. “You can’t afford not to cooperate with us Mr. Lund. And after all, it’s only money. You’ll get more.”

  Lund lowered his head and stared at the table. “All right. Whatever you say.”

  “Capital! Why we’re almost like partners.” The Dealer clapped Lund on the shoulder again, and then drained the last of his ale. “Incidentally, Mr. Lund, “the pints are on you.”

  •••••••

  Jane opened her eyes and looked around the brightly-lit room, squinting as she peered out an undraped window into the bright sunshine. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was and a small panic seized her as she bolted upright on the bed. Then her rapid heartbeat slowed when she remembered the policeman bringing her to the country house late the previous evening. Ashfield House, he had called it. He had said it was well away from the city; she hoped he was right.

  She slid off the bed and moved to the washstand where a pitcher of tepid water stood next to a basin with a large chip in its rim. She poured two inches of water into the basin and gently splashed the water over her face, rubbing it back and forth into the corners of her eyes. She wondered if there was someone in the house to protect her, another policeman perhaps. She decided to go downstairs and find out.

  The clatter of pots drew Jane’s attention toward the back of the house. She negotiated a dim hallway leading from the entry hall and found herself at the entrance to a dining room. Through a door in the far wall, she could see a woman fussing over something on a table.

  “Hello, there,” she called as she moved into the kitchen. “May I help you with anything?”

  A dark-haired woman with thick forearms and a stained apron looked startled at Jane’s appearance in the doorway, yet recovered quickly and continued with her work.

  “Your personal protection, miss.” the cook said, nodding toward the opposite wall where a thin constable sat, squirming in his wool uniform.

  As the constable stood, Jane had to stifle a smile because his uniform appeared to be dripping off his body, being at least two sizes too large.

  “Morning, miss. Constable Phillips is the name. I’m here to be sure that no harm comes to you.” He shifted from one foot to the other, seemingly unsure of what to do next.

  “How do you do, constable. I shall rest easier knowing that you are here.” She smiled as Phillips visibly relaxed. “Can you tell me if I am allowed to go outside? Sergeant Hume said the house is surrounded by a high wall. He mentioned some gardens where I might take a stroll. It’s such a beautiful morning.”

  “I – I’m not sure that’s a wise idea, miss. There are bad people looking for you,” Phillips stammered.

  “Let the girl walk in the garden, for goodness sakes.” The cook stood with her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “We’re the only ones that know she’s here, other than Sergeant Hume and me own governor,” she said. “It can’t hurt her to get a bit of air.”

  Phillips looked from the cook to Anne and back again. “All right,” he said, hanging his head. “But I’ll be out there with her.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way, constable,” Anne responded. Then she turned and headed for the front door.

  •••••••

  Goodwin turned when the door to Goodram Chapel’s anteroom creaked as it was opened. He heaved a sigh when he saw the Reverend Elsworth peer through the narrow doorway. Goodwin, sitting at a deal table, had his sizeable bulk tilted back in a wooden chair at an alarming angle. As the vicar came into the room, Goodwin pushed his weight forward and the chair slammed onto the stone floor with a bang.

  “Do you always make yourself so comfortable wherever you go?” the vicar asked, dropping his hat onto the table.

  A thin smile spread across Goodwin’s face. “I’ve always found that it’s easier to make the best of the situation I find myself in. There’s much less disappointment in life that way.”

  Reverend Elsworth
snorted. “Indeed! I myself am used to dealing with individuals who show respect for the people they do business with and in how they comport themselves.”

  Goodwin’s grin widened. “Reverend, you need not worry about how I comport myself. Your only concern should be for the cash you’ll entrust to me. You did bring it, did you not?”

  The vicar nodded and set a satchel on top of a small stack of papers.

  “In there.”

  Goodwin undid the straps holding the satchel shut and then opened the bag and peered inside. He whistled softly.

  “It always warms my heart to see stacks of cash.”

  “Yes, well let’s remember that cash is in exchange for the freeholds we discussed.”

  “Of course, the properties.” Goodwin said, setting the satchel on the floor. The vicar was still standing and Goodwin indicated the other chair. “Please sit down and review these papers. They are the ones we discussed to shelter the cash for you, yet allow you to have control of the investments through me and the company we established.”

  The vicar picked up the bundle and Goodwin continued.

  “The largest investment is in the Scarborough Villas freehold. The others are the properties we discussed earlier. The Walmgate Road coppersmith, the auction house, the Leeman Road seed merchant, and the buildings on Lowther Street and Bootham Square.”

  The vicar sat back in the chair and held the papers up to the light, saying nothing as he read, but occasionally grunting softly. When he finished reading the last page, he stacked the sheets neatly together and tapped the small bundle on the table several times before laying it flat.

  “I shall sign it now,” he said.

  “You can see that I have already endorsed the documents as managing partner for the various freehold properties,” Goodwin said, pushing a pen and small inkwell across the table.

  Within minutes, the vicar had signed the copies and Goodwin separated the papers into two stacks.

  “There’s an original set of documents for each of us,” he said, pushing one group of papers toward the vicar. “In that way, if one set is lost, the other partner has confirmation of the transaction.”

  “I intend on keeping these papers in a very safe place,” the vicar said.

  “As do I, reverend. You can be assured of that.”

  The vicar pushed back from the table and retrieved his hat. “I’ve put my trust in you, Mr. Goodwin. I expect it to be kept closely.”

  When the vicar had left, Goodwin smiled broadly and leaned back in the chair again. The Dealer would be pleased with the transaction, he thought. Very pleased.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lund fidgeted with the food on his plate, pushing the peas from one side to the other. As the waiter approached, he laid his fork and knife down.

  “The meal does not appeal to you this evening?” the waiter asked.

  “No, it is not the meal,” Lund responded, pushing the plate of nearly-uneaten food toward the center of the table. “I think I do not feel well.”

  The waiter leaned back from the waist, as if to get a better view of Lund. “Is there anything I can bring you?”

  Lund shook his head.

  “Then I shall clear the table. Perhaps you would like an aperitif to settle the stomach.”

  “Ah, a splendid suggestion. Please bring me a large brandy.”

  The waiter whisked the cutlery and crockery away and Lund returned to brooding. What measures should he take now, he wondered. He had suspected all along that his sly schemes with the Dealer were fraught with danger. Now the shylock was holding him hostage for an exorbitant sum of money as a commission.

  Lund looked around the front room of Pym’s at the scattering of other diners still in the room.

  There wasn’t much he could do about the situation, he mused. He couldn’t go to the police and tell them that he was being extorted. Or could he, he wondered. Perhaps there was a way of informing on the Dealer, and yet keeping his own indiscretions out of it. He would have to give that idea more thought. Putting large amounts of ill-gotten money to actual use had turned into more of a challenge than he had thought it would be.

  Lund slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. Squinting at the face, he was surprised to see that it read nearly 9 o’clock. As he replaced the watch, the waiter set a snifter of brandy in front of him, and left the dinner bill at the corner of the table.

  “I trust you will visit us again when you are feeling more robust,” the waiter said with a smile.

  Lund raised the brandy snifter and inhaled the potent fumes.

  “There’s a thought worth drinking to,” he said.

  •••••••

  The Dealer stepped into the Lendal Club’s marbled entry hall and handed his hat to the hall porter. Then he shrugged off his coat and let if fall into the porter’s outstretched arms.

  “I expect I shall be here for some time,” he said, pushing a tuppence into the man’s hand. He smiled as he thought that the porter would appreciate having the price of a pint when he finished working.

  The Dealer found Goodwin nursing a whiskey in the Great Room and ordered one for himself. Settling back into the creaking leather of an ancient stuffed armchair, he checked the room for eavesdroppers. Seeing none, he exhaled noisily. “I trust that you had a profitable day?”

  Goodwin smiled widely and leaned forward, the whiskey glass clenched in his left hand.

  “I tell you that vicar is made of money. Lot’s of it.” Goodwin kicked at a black satchel laying at the foot of his armchair. “It is all in there.”

  “The reverend actually brought the entire five thousand pounds in cash?” the Dealer asked. “He wasn’t suspicious?”

  Goodwin threw back his head and laughed, drawing the attention of two nearby members from their newspapers. Leaning closer across the gap between himself and the Dealer, Goodwin whispered conspiratorially, “The man is a pigeon ready for plucking. And I have his tail feathers right there in the bag.” He laughed aloud again, and then took a large swallow of whiskey.

  The Dealer studied Goodwin with a hard glare. “One element of this game is exceptionally important to us. The papers you gave the vicar — they are genuine — or as genuine as you could have them made?”

  Goodwin smiled widely. “I used the best paper man in York. The one they call Johnny Quill. The vicar will never know those documents are forgeries until he tries to sell the properties. And there is little chance he will do so any time soon. He wants to shelter his money. So it’s important that he hides it somewhere. We simply gave him a place to do so.”

  A houseman arrived with the Dealer’s whiskey. The Dealer raised his glass to Goodwin.

  “You have done well, son. As usual. And yet we still must get through the issue of getting the money from Lund. Once we have done so, we are well situated.”

  The two of them touched glasses and drank deeply.

  Goodwin stared at the Dealer for a long moment. “We are well situated right now, with the money in this bag.” He nudged the satchel with his boot. “We could finish it here and now.”

  The Dealer swallowed another gulp of whiskey. “Why should we leave Lund’s two thousand quid on the table? Think of it — seven thousand pounds. All in cash. What could go wrong with the little arsehole of a banker, I ask you? The man is a frightened mouse. He will do as I have instructed him.”

  Goodwin raised his glass again. “You always did know your clients,” he said, taking another swallow. “Indeed, what could possibly go wrong?”

  •••••••

  Fletcher dodged off the pathway behind a large elm and shifted the long blanket-wrapped parcel under his arm so it hung lengthwise along his body. He peered around the tree trunk at a passing horse and carriage, noting the near-sleeping driver nodding over the reins, his hat pulled low over his eyes. The man would never notice him, Fletcher concluded. But yet, it was best to be sure and stay out of sight until he finished his business with t
he vicar.

  At the head of the driveway, Fletcher checked the road again, and seeing no one, trudged down the dirt track, fondling the hard metal under the fabric. Once he reached the covered portico of the vicarage, he stepped to the side of the house and laid the bundle on the ground. Throwing back the edges of the blanket, Fletcher unrolled the covering and plucked the butt stock and action of a double barrel shotgun from its folds. He raised the butt to his shoulder and sighted down the plane where the barrels would be, then mouthed a “boom.” A smile broke out over his face. The shotgun was one of the spoils of the burglary he had done at the First Presbyterian Church, a truly great surprise to find in a house of God, he thought.

  Taking the barrels, Fletcher engaged the locking lugs and snapped the action closed, and then clipped the splinter fore stock into its spring-loaded recess. Hefting the gun in his hands, he looked toward the house. “Let’s see the old vicar deny me now,” he said aloud.

  The housekeeper was the same timid woman whom he had seen the last time he visited the vicarage.

  “But the reverend is not to be disturbed,” she said, eyeing the shotgun that Fletcher held at his side.

  “Well then just tell the vicar that I’ll be awaiting his arrival in the sitting room, once he’s not so busy.” Fletcher pushed past the woman and bolted the door behind him. “Now run along and tell him.”

  The housekeeper hurried down the hall toward the back of the house.

  Within minutes, Fletcher heard the sound of leather boots slapping on the polished oak floors. Reverend Elsworth, his face red as a newly-blossoming blood rose, stalked into the room. “What’s the meaning of this . . . ” he began, then came to a standstill when he saw the shotgun muzzles rise toward him.

  “And a good morning to you, vicar.”

  “Fletcher, are you mad?”

  “Nay, just looking for a friendly face.” Fletcher motioned with the gun. “Close the door.”

  After the vicar did so, Fletcher sat back in the chair, still training the gun on the reverend.