Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series Read online

  ASYLUM LANE

  FROM THE VICTORIAN

  CARRIAGE MYSTERY

  SERIES

  ALAN M. PETRILLO

  Published by August Words Publishing

  www.augustwords.org

  Copyright © 2014 by Alan M. Petrillo

  Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form, except for short passages for educational purposes, without express permission.

  ISBN: 978-1-942018-01-8

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction and entirely an intentional product of the author’s imagination in the pursuit of telling an original tale to reach a higher truth. As such, any names, characters, places, and incidents are fabricated or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and surely unintentional.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bootham Park Lunatic Asylum sprawled across ten acres of neglected lawn and gardens, surrounded by a stout, eight-foot high iron fence, topped with sharpened points on the uprights, which kept the asylum inmates inside while preventing anyone from wandering uninvited onto the grounds. Only three gates pierced the iron fence around the property. The south gate lay at the chapel entrance on the southeast corner, the main gate was on the northeast along Asylum Lane, and a service gate occupied the farthest northwest reach of Asylum Lane where the building stood closest to the fence.

  Four men stood across from the northwest gate in the shadows of the trees lining the front of the cricket ground, talking in low murmurs and occasionally stamping their feet to ward off the early morning chill. Across the lane, lights showed dimly along the two wings that were visible from the street, as well as in the more brightly-lit main reception area.

  The smallest of the men stepped to the edge of the pavement and studied the building across the road, scratching at the collection of scraggly whiskers on his chin.

  “When do we go over there?” Snow, the near-white-blond with the quavering voice, asked him.

  Harry Fletcher looked up into the dark sky, as if sniffing the air for a sign of trouble, then turned his gaze back toward the asylum. He ran his hand over the black eye patch covering his left eye and breathed deeply.

  “In a bit,” he said. “Patience, me boy.”

  Behind them Kendrew and Moses slapped at each other’s face, trying for a hit that would leave a red handprint on the other’s cheek. A flurry of open handed blows by Moses sent Kendrew reeling backward into the bushes, crashing through the underbrush. He let loose with a loud string of oaths.

  “Shut up you two bloody buggars,” Fletcher hissed. “You arseholes will give the caper away.”

  Grinning broadly, Moses extended a hand to Kendrew and pulled him to his feet.

  “Next time,” Kendrew said, pointing at Moses’s chest. “Just wait, matey.”

  The asylum had been constructed in the form of the letter H to allow a series of windows for light and ventilation to be set in the four wings emanating from the central reception area. Bootham Park was built in 1831 as York’s workhouse and functioned in that capacity until 1901 when the city councilors converted it to a containment area for the infirm of mind.

  “Boys, there’s absolutely nothing moving over there. No watchman or guards of any kind. Let’s go and get the girl,” Fletcher said.

  The foursome loped across the road in a ragged line, down the gravel drive and up to the portico at the end of the northwest wing.

  Fletcher stood to one side. “Put a bar to the door.”

  Kendrew pulled a short length of iron from under his coat and inserted its flat tip into the door jamb immediately above the latch. He leaned on the bar, pushing it as far into the joint as possible, then levered it back. The door popped open amid a shower of wood splinters and the sound of snapping wood.

  Fletcher stood listening in the dim light spilling from the opening. Turning to the three men behind him, he grinned.

  “Let’s be on our way. Snow and Moses, make sure that she’s kept quiet.”

  Moses and Snow sprinted ahead, but stopped halfway down the hallway in front of a locked door. Moses ran his hands over the door’s edges to test its solidity, then looked back at the others.

  “The bar won’t do for this one. But we can take it down if we hit it together.”

  The four men retreated ten feet and assembled in a wedge formation. On Fletcher’s word, they hurled themselves into the wooden door, ripping it from its frame and sending it crashing into the corridor beyond.

  At the instant the intruders assaulted the door, an attendant stood on the opposite side, twisting an iron key in the door’s lock. Startled from a near slumber by the splintering sound of the exterior door, John Benson had bestirred himself and shuffled down the hallway to investigate. As he turned the key, the door crashed down on top of him, pinning him to the floor.

  Fletcher and Kendrew ran across the door, then stopped past the other end to pull it off Benson. As the old man raised his hands, Kendrew smashed his head with the iron bar.

  Snow and Moses continued along the corridor to room 114. Stopping outside the door, Snow touched the card pinned to the doorframe, tracing the neatly-printed letters with his fingers. He looked blankly at Moses.

  “What’s it read?”

  Moses squinted at the card. “Jane Waddington,” he announced. “Tis the woman we want.” He cocked his head toward the interior. “Let’s take her.”

  Snow turned the latch, but the door didn’t budge. He pressed his shoulder against the heavy door, but it still stuck fast.

  Moses stood to the side, a bemused smile on his face. “Snow, you bloody moron, go back and tell Fletcher we need a key for the door.”

  A glint of recognition washed over Snow’s face, and he raced down the corridor, nearly bowling over Fletcher as he turned a corner.

  “The woman’s door is locked, Fletcher. We need a key.”

  Fletcher returned to the unconscious attendant and rifled the man’s pockets, fishing a key from the front left. He held it up for Snow to inspect. “Here’s our ticket, me boy. Come with me.”

  Fletcher entered the dimly-lit room and immediately saw a woman sleeping in the narrow bed against the wall. Snow reached past him and pulled back the blanket, exposing the woman in her white, full length nightgown. She shivered in the night chill.

  Fletcher pulled the top off of a tin can and removed a chloroform-soaked rag, wrinkling his nose as the sickly-sweet smell wafted into the room.

  “This should do nicely,” he said as he applied the rag softly to the sleeping woman’s nose. She continued to breathe regularly and slept without interruption.

  Within minutes, Snow and Fletcher bundled the unconscious woman into the blanket, and tied thin ropes around her chest and thighs to prevent her from falling out. Fletcher snatched a handful of clothes from pegs on the wall and threw them o
n top of the blanket. He then whistled lightly.

  Kendrew and Moses entered the small room and lifted the woman from the bed. They carried her down the corridor, struggling not to drop her, and at the doorway to the service entrance, Snow helped them through the opening. Fletcher, the last to leave the asylum, pulled the broken door shut behind him and then disappeared into the black night.

  •••••••

  The day dawned clear and chilly, a sure sign that spring had not yet arrived in full force. Round Freddy pulled on his mackintosh and lumbered down the steps of the flat to the ground floor. The bracing air stung his cheeks and he pulled his collar up close around his chin as he trudged toward the corner. A two-wheeled gig occupied the cab stand at the end of St. Helen’s Square, its driver dozing on the front seat, bundled against the chill. Round Freddy arrived as a Morris motorcar taxi pulled away and noisily sped down the street. He rapped on the carriage’s side as he hauled himself into the rear seat.

  “Wake up, driver; you have a fare. To the Central York Police Station on Church Street, if you please. And you can make it at a leisurely trot.”

  Only a few constables talking in low tones inhabited the station house at that early hour. One policeman, a disgusted look on his face, rubbed dirt and grime from his jacket sleeve, the occupational hazard of retrieving a drunk from the gutter and confining him to a holding cell in the cellar to sleep it off.

  Round Freddy bellowed a cheerier “good morning” than he felt to the constable on desk duty, clucking his tongue and nodding at the stack of papers the man had yet to sort through. One flight up on the first floor, he ducked into the back room where the constable on watch brewed coffee. He sighed when he saw a pot steaming on the iron grate.

  “There you are, Wallace. Do you mind if I help myself?”

  The big constable smiled. “As if that would somehow stop you, eh?”

  Round Freddy flipped his forefinger at Wallace. “Point taken, old man. Anything during the night?”

  “Only the usual robberies, drunks and whores.”

  “Which was it last night?”

  “All three. And there was something else. An odd occurrence at Bootham Park. I have two constables looking into it now.”

  “The lunatic asylum? What the devil’s happened there?”

  “No word yet. Some kind of break-in, I expect. I’ll have the constables report to you as soon as they arrive.”

  Round Freddy took a deep sip of the hot, strong liquid and smacked his lips.

  “Outstanding as usual, Wallace. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  An hour passed as Round Freddy worked his way through the evidence on the Presbyterian Church case, once refilling his cup with Wallace’s brew.

  A loud rap on the doorframe preceded the appearance of a youthful, ramrod-straight constable, accompanied by an older, gray-haired policeman. The older man nudged the younger in the ribs.

  “Go on, boy. Give him the news.”

  The young constable straightened himself even more. “Beggin’ your pardon, detective sergeant. Constables Pybus and Carter reporting on the incident at Bootham Park.”

  The older constable bit his lip and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

  “Good man. Report, if you please.”

  “Sir, there’s been a kidnapping at the asylum. A young lady has been abducted.”

  Round Freddy rose from the chair and leaned forward, hands splayed on the desktop. “What do you mean, abducted? From an insane asylum?”

  “Yes, sir. Some men forced their way in during the night by breaking through the northwest door. They broke down another door inside the place and assaulted one of the attendants.”

  “Were they after a particular individual, or was the young woman snatched as a hostage?”

  “The details are a bit sketchy, sergeant, but it appears the kidnappers were looking for someone specific. They went directly to this woman’s room and took her straightaway from the place.”

  “No one tried to stop them?”

  The young constable shrugged. “The night attendants are old men. Hardly a match for the kidnappers.”

  Round Freddy nodded and sat down heavily. “And the victim’s name?”

  “It’s a Miss Jane Waddington.”

  •••••••

  Jane coughed noisily, sitting bolt upright on the straw mattress. The metallic taste in her mouth brought a wave of nausea washing over her, which she fought back down by crossing her arms tightly over her stomach. As the nausea receded, she peered at her surroundings. She sat on a filthy mattress, filled with old straw and who knew what else. Jane stood quickly and brushed off the back of her nightdress, but regretted the action almost immediately as a wave of dizziness overcame her. She slumped to her knees on the stone floor, her chin lowered to her chest.

  My God, she thought, what has happened to me? She knew she wasn’t in Bootham Park any more. This place smelled much different than the antiseptic smell of the asylum; it had the odor of the country, of dirt and manure.

  Jane remembered dreaming that men had come into her room during the night at Bootham Park. She even pictured them carrying some kind of bundle, and there was that odd smell too. But then the dream suddenly had stopped.

  She took a deep breath and stood again, more slowly this time, and reached out to a small table to steady herself. A rickety chair stood alongside the table and she gingerly lowered herself onto it, praying it would support her weight. It did, but not without creaking protest.

  Jane looked around the room. Flagstone floored, with a single door set into the wall, the space looked to be about eight by ten feet in size. High in the wall opposite the door, she could see a small window of thick, milky glass that allowed some daylight into the dismal space. At the end of the narrow bed was a small pile of clothes. Her clothes.

  Tears welled in her eyes. How could she get out of here? Who would know where she was and come to help her?

  The sound of boots descending wooden stairs interrupted her thoughts and she stiffened in the old chair. Jane stared hard at the door, willing it to be locked. Just when she thought the boots had passed by, they stopped and she heard a key scrape in the lock. Slowly the latch moved up and the door swung open, banging lightly against the wall.

  “Are you awake?” A tall, slender man stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, watching her.

  “Yes.” Her voice cracked and she tasted the metallic taste again. “I would like a cup of water, if I may.”

  The man took a step nearer and regarded her closely. “You should be resting. You’ll feel better if you’re over there.” He indicated the mattress with a nod of his head.

  “I am perfectly fine where I am. But I do want some water and perhaps something to eat.”

  The man stared at her for what she thought was an interminable time before replying. “I’ll see to it.”

  He returned soon after with a mug of water and a handful of hard bread. He held the bread and water out for her to take, but she could not make her hands respond. He gave her a curious look and set the mug and bread on the table, shaking his close-cropped blond head.

  “Eat the bread,” he said. “It’s all we have right now.”

  When he left, Jane took a long draught of the water and broke the bread into smaller pieces, each of which she soaked in the water to soften before slipping them into her mouth. She was amazed at how hungry she was, even after finishing the hunk of stale bread.

  Feeling slightly better, Jane rose and made a careful inspection of the room. She ran her hands over the wooden walls, fingering the seams between the boards, looking for a chink in the wooden armor. After a complete circuit of the room, she had found none.

  The window, she thought. That must be the route out. Jane pulled the table to the wall, wedging it tightly against the smooth wood. She gently put her weight on the chair’s frame, then stepped onto the table. As her head came up even with the window, her spirits fell. The space occupied by the heavy g
lass was quite narrow; only eight or nine inches high, while its width was about fourteen. Even if she could somehow break out the heavy glass, she knew it would be impossible to squeeze through such a small opening.

  The only way out would be through the door. She decided she would have to wait for the next visit from her snowy-haired jailer.

  •••••••

  At the main doors to Bootham Park, Round Freddy sucked in his overhanging gut, only slightly diminishing its visible girth, then exhaled a blast of air as he simultaneously pushed open the heavy oak door. He knew the young constable accompanying him would only observe the blast of breath and the door opening, and draw the conclusion that Round Freddy had blown the door open. Inside, the tile floor of the entryway echoed with their boot steps as they approached a semicircular counter set against the side of a stairwell.

  “Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume of the York Police to see Doctor Canham.”

  The sleepy-eyed attendant leaned back from the counter and studied the two policemen briefly, then disappeared through a curtained doorway. Within minutes, Doctor Edward Canham, the director of Bootham Park, appeared and led them along green-hued corridors to an office in an outer wing of the building.

  “What can you tell us of the abduction last night of Miss Jane Waddington, doctor?”

  “I’m afraid I am unable to give you an eyewitness account of the crime,” the doctor replied, “but I can relate all that has been conveyed to me.”

  Round Freddy waved his hand in a rolling motion to encourage the doctor to continue.

  “None of our medical staff was on duty last night, nor is it on any night shift at Bootham Park. We commonly see the patients during the day and have only attendants on duty throughout the evening and night hours. At about two o’clock this morning, there was a clatter in the northwest wing at the side entrance facing Asylum Road. The attendant, John Benson, went to see what was causing the commotion when an interior door was bashed in, landing on top of him. One of the intruders then beat him senseless and removed his keys.”

  The doctor paused, and receiving a nod from Round Freddy, continued.