Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series Read online

  Lund reached into his coat and extracted a fat envelope from an inside pocket.

  “I hope you are satisfied.”

  “I am never satisfied,” the Dealer responded, pulling open the envelope and fanning the money in the dim light. “However, I can be mollified from time to time.” He laughed again and squeezed the woman tightly.

  “Get along there, Mr. Lund. Your task is done now.”

  Lund gritted his teeth and bit back a reply as he slunk into the shadows.

  •••••••

  Andrews followed Lund at a considerable distance and nearly panicked when he saw Lund disappear to the west off the southern bridge approach. But he soon picked up Lund ahead of him on Cinder Lane, seemingly unaware that anyone might be following him.

  At St. Barnabas Church Lund looked around as if he were going to commit a crime and then clumsily climbed the fence that separated the railway from Cinder Lane. Andrews watch him disappear into the gloom and then followed.

  After negotiating the fence, Andrews moved slowly until he heard voices coming from near the shed that loomed out of the darkness. He pulled back and moved sideways, finding cover behind a large piece of railway machinery that seemed to be abandoned near the side of the shed.

  Andrews listened to the exchange between the Dealer and Lund, and had to smile when the Dealer got the best of the little banker. After Lund left, Andrews watched as the Dealer planted a long kiss on the woman’s lips. It seemed as if he were supporting her more than she was herself. Before long, they moved off to the west toward the fence at Kingland Terrace, where they would be among new cottages in the Victoria Park neighborhood.

  He watched as the Dealer helped the woman over the fence and then followed. Softly, he followed them, intent on keeping them in sight, yet not being discovered. He knew he had to discover where the Dealer lived.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sunderland Avenue teemed with activity. Pedestrians jostled one another on the crowded pavements, while an assortment of horse-drawn carts and carriages jockeyed for position with gas-powered motorcars and an electric tram. The housekeeper passed T. Rowling’s butcher shop and turned north toward the Turkish Baths. Just beyond, in the next block, stood the main police station.

  She pushed hard on the station’s heavy oak door and then approached the high counter manned by an older policeman. She was wringing a handkerchief in her hands.

  The policeman looked down at her. “Yes?”

  “I . . . I am here to report a kidnapping.”

  “A kidnapping, you say? Just who has been taken?”

  “Actually, the reverend’s not been taken anywhere.”

  An exasperated look shot across the policeman’s face. “Then how can it be a kidnapping if no one has been taken?”

  “Well, he’s been taken, but not away. He is being held against his will in his own house. In the vicarage.”

  The policeman’s countenance changed. “You wait right there, miss. I shall have a detective speak with you straight away.”

  Two minutes later Round Freddy lumbered around the counter and took the housekeeper’s elbow. “This way miss. We can speak in private in my office.”

  As soon as she sat in a straight-backed wooden chair tears began to flow down her cheeks.

  “Here, now miss,” Round Freddy began. “It will be easier to get to the heart of the tale if you don’t cry.” He leaned across the desk and gave her a handkerchief, which she used to daub at the corners of her eyes.

  “You told the policeman outside that a reverend has been kidnapped. Who has been taken?”

  “Reverend Elsworth, the vicar of St. Philip Church in Clifton.”

  Round Freddy’s eyes widened. “When did this happen?”

  “The day before yesterday. The man with one eye came to the house with a shotgun and demanded to speak to the reverend. When I told him the reverend was busy, he barged into the vicarage and began issuing orders. The vicar instructed me to make up one of the guest rooms for the man because he was to stay with us. But it’s that gun that has me worried.” She began to cry again, and stuffed the handkerchief up against her mouth.

  “Is there anyone else in the house with this man and the reverend?”

  “Just the cook. I was able to sneak out through the front when him and the reverend went for one of their walks in the back garden.”

  “No other accomplices of whom you are aware.”

  The housekeeper shook her head.

  “And you say this man has a shotgun. Can you describe it?”

  “A long bright metal thing with two big holes in the end of it and wood where you hold it.”

  “That would be a double gun. Probably a twelve bore,” Round Freddy said. “Please excuse me for a moment.” At the office door he stopped and turned back to her. “And did you happen to hear the man’s name?”

  “Aye, that I did. His name is Fletcher. You can’t miss him with that black eye patch.”

  Round Freddy put his index finger across his lips. “No more for the moment, miss. Please relax as best you can until I return. I shall only be a few minutes.”

  Outside in the main squad room, Round Freddy was surrounded by policemen. The desk constable had been busy spreading the news. Round Freddy turned to a sergeant with a belly that strained the front of his uniform.

  “Sergeant, I want every constable to drop what he’s working on and assemble for a special case. We have a kidnapping under way at this moment — actually more of a hostage taking. A man with a double gun is holding the vicar of St. Philip in Clifton. There also is a cook in the house. I intend on getting them out of there. And I want the kidnapper taken alive.”

  “Yes, sir. What do you want in the way of weapons?”

  “Truncheons for every constable. Four constables armed with revolvers. Also one for you and another for me. Now let’s be quick about organizing this.”

  The sergeant saluted and moved toward a staircase to the cellar, where the weapons were kept, followed by a small crowd of constables.

  Round Freddy watched them swarm through the room. Fletcher, he thought, I’ve got you now.

  •••••••

  Fletcher nudged Reverend Elsworth with the muzzle of the shotgun and followed the vicar into the corridor that ran down the center of the house, passing the kitchen, pantry and dining room before exiting into the main hall. As he passed the kitchen, Fletcher could hear the cook through the open door, humming as she worked. He hid the shotgun along his left leg and moved quickly past the door, almost bumping into the reverend in front of him.

  Reverend Elsworth stopped and turned to him. “Are you in a great rush, Fletcher? You needn’t crowd me. I shall move along.”

  Fletcher squinted his good eye at the reverend, trying to determine if the man was making sport of him. “Jest be sure ye do keep moving, vicar. That study off the entrance hall will do nicely. The one with the nice heavy doors and that big lock.”

  Fletcher produced a long length of rope from inside his coat and spent a laborious amount of time wrapping the reverend in a chair and fastening the rope with three knots. After locking the study door, Fletcher hid the shotgun under the sofa in the sitting room and then prowled the ground floor rooms, looking for the housekeeper. He peeked into the kitchen, but the cook was still alone.

  Taking the stairs to the first floor two at a time, Fletcher bustled from room to room, throwing open doors and becoming more frustrated with each empty room. A search of the attic also proved fruitless.

  Back in the kitchen, he planted himself in front of the rotund cook and pushed his faced close to hers.

  “Do ye know where the housekeeper is?”

  The cook shrugged.

  “Look here, woman. I want an answer.” Fletcher raised up on the balls of his feet. “Where is she?”

  “She not here.” The cook gestured toward the window.

  Fletcher looked out the window and then back to the cook. “You mean to say she went out the win
dow? Do you take me for an idiot?”

  The cook stepped back at the sound of Fletcher’s raised voice. “No, no. Not window. Door. She goes outside.”

  “Where did she go?”

  The cook shrugged.

  “When? When did she leave?”

  The cook shrugged again. “Only after you and reverend go into garden.”

  “Damn.” Fletcher put his fist to his mouth and bit his knuckle in frustration. He looked at the heavy woman and decided she was too dense to do anything that would ruin his plans. He would leave her alone to finish cooking.

  “When I come back, we’ll want food.”

  The cook smiled brightly. “Food. Lots of food.”

  Fletcher shook his head and stepped over to a table on the outside wall. Spotting a small knife alongside a bunch of carrots, he swept it into his coat pocket in one smooth motion. Then he returned to the sitting room where he broke down the shotgun and wrapped the two halves in an old coat. At the front of the vicarage he checked the surrounding grounds for signs of trouble, but all was clear.

  With the housekeeper missing, he knew he had to find the vicar’s money man, Goodwin, and plenty fast. Things would come unraveled unless he did.

  •••••••

  Jane strolled aimlessly along the dirt lane, which was bounded by shallow ditches and shielded by high hedges on both sides. Occasionally a break in the hedges would be barred by a weathered gate leading into pastureland beyond. She had traveled the road about a mile and was about to turn back toward Ashfield House when she heard the steady clopping of a horse’s hooves. She stopped and waited, and before long an old field wagon, creaking under the weight of a load of manure, came into view around a turn in the road.

  Atop the wagon, astride a narrow board seat in the front, sat two bearded men in baggy, dirty clothes. Jane stepped to the side of the lane as the wagon drew abreast of her, but instead of passing by, the driver pulled back on the reins, stopping the heavily-breathing horse.

  The man next to the driver looked down at her and showed a gap-toothed smile. “Hello miss. Good day to you.” He looked around. “You alone?”

  Jane edged away from the wagon toward the ditch and the gate she had just passed.

  “Good day to you, too. I am out for a walk.”

  “Well there’s no need for walkin’ when you can ride,” the driver said. “Jest climb up here with us and we’ll bring you where you wants to go.” He held out a dirty hand to help her up.

  Jane stepped back and shook her head. “No thank you, I prefer to walk.”

  She turned and began walking toward Ashfield House, but only took a few steps when she heard the thud of someone jumping to the ground. Quick as a flash, the driver was standing in front of her, grinning as widely as the other man, only with fewer teeth.

  “Now it ain’t polite to refuse a ride, now is it, Clive?” He leered at Jane and then squinted up at the other man.

  “Why we should get right acquainted with each other.” He grabbed her by the shoulder and tried to pull her into him, but she pushed off of his chest, spun and ran across the lane. The driver caught her in front of the horse and grabbed her in a bear hug. The smell of manure on him was nearly overpowering. Jane struggled to free herself, flipping her elbows at his head, but he only dodged her blows and laughed.

  Finally finding her voice, Jane tipped back her head and screamed as loudly as she could, only to have the driver’s dirty hand clapped over her mouth. In the next instant, as she stamped her boot heel back into the driver’s knee, collapsing him, the horse reared because of the commotion in front of him and tried to run.

  Jane danced out of the way as the horse brushed past her. The man on the wagon was desperately trying to retrieve the reins, which had fallen forward and were out of his reach. As the horse gained speed, the wagon lumbered forward and struck the driver, who was still writhing on the ground, holding his damaged knee. By the time the man in the wagon was able to stop the horse, the front wheel had passed completely over the driver.

  Jane didn’t wait to see whether he was mortally injured or not. She gathered her skirts in her fists and sprinted down the lane toward Ashfield House, not stopping until the curses of the man on the wagon had faded in the distance. Breathless, she looked back along the lane and could just make out the specks of two individuals next to the horse and wagon. Summoning up her last reserves of energy, she began running again and didn’t stop until she reached the gate to the garden of Ashfield House.

  •••••••

  Round Freddy stuck his hand in his coat pocket and fingered the vulcanite grips of the Webley and Scott WS Army model revolver. The six-inch barrel caused an interesting-looking bulge in the front of his coat, but he couldn’t worry about that now. The superintendent had gotten rid of all the police force’s old revolvers four years ago in 1906 and purchased an entire new lot of the WS Army models. The WS still came chambered for the same .455 caliber cartridges as the previous model, which meant the WS packed as much of a punch as ever. If you were on the receiving end of a Webley .455, Round Freddy thought, you were in a world of trouble.

  The police cars pulled up in front of St. Philip’s vicarage in a precise line, as if the superintendent were going to appear and grade them on their neatness. Round Freddy motioned the fat sergeant over to him.

  “Take two of the constables with the Webleys, along with another half dozen constables, and secure the garden and the rear entrance. I don’t want you to enter the vicarage from that direction, sergeant, do you understand? Just secure the back.”

  “Yes sir. Anything else?”

  “The man we’re looking for wears a black eye patch and may be armed with a double barrel shotgun. If he somehow makes it out the rear into the garden, I want him detained. You have permission to shoot him, but you don’t have permission to kill him. I want to talk to the man, so try not to hurt him too badly if the occasion arises.”

  The sergeant stood straighter and a smile broke the corners of his mouth. “Yes sir. I assume that means we might also use the truncheons, eh?”

  Round Freddy looked away to prevent the sergeant from seeing him smile. “Of course. If need be.”

  While the sergeant deployed his men at the back of the vicarage, Round Freddy assembled the other two armed constables plus another half dozen men at the front. He looked over the expectant faces and exhaled a deep breath before speaking.

  “Men, you are aware this is a dangerous situation. I want the two constables with the Webleys up front with me. The rest of you men bring up the rear and secure the entryway.”

  He looked at them again and received murmurs of acknowledgment and saw the nodding of heads.

  “If the man with the eye patch so much as points that shotgun in your direction, you have permission to shoot him. I prefer that he not be dead, but be sure that you protect yourself and your mates first. I’d rather have a dead criminal than a wounded constable. Now let’s get on with it.”

  A burly constable with a belly that threatened to overflow his belt stepped up to the door and tried the latch. Shaking his head to the rest of the men, he stepped back and aimed a vicious kick just below the door latch. The heavy wood door shuddered, but held firm. The constable kicked a second time and then a third. The final kick sent the door slamming back against the wall as the constables crowded through the doorway and into the entry hall.

  Round Freddy was at their head and pointed his Webley down the corridor toward the rear of the house. Another constable covered the open sitting room and the third the closed door to the study. The rest of the men stood ready behind them.

  “Fletcher,” Round Freddy shouted. “Come out and surrender. There is no need for bloodshed.”

  He held up his left hand for quiet, but received no response to his call.

  “Fletcher, do you hear me? Come out now!”

  The whining sound coming from the study caused the three armed policemen to swivel toward the doorway as a single unit. />
  “What was that, sir?”

  “I don’t know. Billy. Try the door.”

  “Locked, sir.”

  “Kick it in, then.”

  The burly constable stepped to the study door and put a well-aimed kick just above the latch, blasting the door open. Two armed constables charged into the room, their Webleys pointed directly at the vicar, tied to a chair in the center of the room.

  Round Freddy came around his men and pushed the muzzle of the nearest Webley toward the floor. “Constables, check the rest of the rooms. Reverend, are you all right? Where is Fletcher?”

  “He is long gone. Hours ago. Now get me out of here.” The reverend’s eyes blazed like hot coals in the night.

  Round Freddy turned to his men. “Gentlemen, please disperse throughout the house and check everything. Be careful at the back of the house. You’re likely to find the cook in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Once you clear the house, report back to sergeant Wills in the entry hall. And close the study door on your way out.”

  When the constables had left, Round Freddy turned to Reverend Elsworth. “Now you and I are going to have a small chat,” he said.

  The reverend’s eyes bulged wider. “Untie me you idiot. Do you know who I am? Do you know what power I have? Let me loose, I say!”

  Round Freddy pulled a straight backed chair in front of the trussed vicar and sat down heavily.

  “I don’t think I can do that quite yet, reverend. You see, you still have to tell me about how you hired Fletcher, what you paid him to do, and how much money you embezzled from your niece.”

  The reverend’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out.

  “Speechless, eh? Well, we do have all day and night, as they say. Would you like something to eat or drink? I believe the cook is still in the building.”

  The reverend’s eyes widened again, and then he hung his head until his chin touched his chest.

  “I know,” Round Freddy said. “Admitting one’s wrongs is good for the soul.” He leaned closer to the vicar. “I’m listening.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN