Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series Read online

  The Lendal Club served as a haven for traders, entrepreneurs and sharpies who didn’t fit the mold of the average businessman in the staid city of York. Those straight-laced denizens trod the hallowed rooms of the Minster Club, the Dealer knew, an unprepossessing granite building standing in Duncombe Place, a stone’s throw from the great Minster itself.

  Relieved of his hat by the hall porter, the Dealer noticed Goodwin seated at a window in the Great Room, reading the York Gazette.

  “Any news of import?”

  Goodwin peered over the top of the newspaper, then resumed reading.

  “The Algerian scheme appears to have fallen through,” he said, snapping the paper shut and dropping it at his feet. “The damn Frogs caused a row over the financing arrangements and now the Gazette says they shall put it off indefinitely.”

  “Then it’s fortunate that you found the vicar for us to represent.”

  “Aye, and what news have you?”

  The Dealer caught the attention of a passing waiter. “Two fingers of Teacher’s, if you please.” He stretched his long legs to the side of Goodwin’s chair and yawned. “Do you remember that nervous little banker at the Royal York Banking Society?”

  “Lund? The man with the voice that runs up and down the scale as he talks?”

  “That’s the one,” the Dealer said. “He sent word that he desired a meeting to speak of an intimate matter. This we did at the Hound and Hen. It appears that our Mr. Lund has been up to nefarious ends and has a pressing need to shelter cash.”

  Goodwin sat forward and steepled his fingers. “How much?”

  “Ah, a good round figure. Two thousand.”

  Goodwin whistled silently. “Has it struck you that a great deal of money has been offered to us in the past two days, all money that must be safely tucked out of sight?”

  “It has not escaped my notice. In fact, I’d like you to put that bloodhound nose of yours to good use. You should ask some of our associates, on the quiet of course, if there is any link between Mr. Lund and the good Reverend Elsworth. If we are able to discern a link between them, we also may be able to trace a path to the source of their sudden wealth. Perhaps we might find a way to tap such a reservoir for ourselves.”

  Goodwin smiled broadly. “First, lunch.”

  “Agreed, my boy.” The Dealer raised the Teacher’s in a toast.

  •••••••

  Snow whistled a series of discordant notes as he stepped into the house, his mind on the pretty girl in the cellar’s room. Fletcher would have fed her by now. It would be Snow’s turn at breakfast. A low growling noise emanated from the next room, and Snow tilted his head like a hound picking up his master’s call. He pushed aside the blanket hung across the doorway and stopped dead still, staring. Fletcher lay on the floor with his trousers around his ankles, cradling his bright red, swollen genitals in his hands and groaning between moaning curses.

  “Bloody hell, what happened?”

  Fletcher’s contorted face reddened and he let loose with another stream of cursing. When he finished, he gulped a deep breath. “She’s gone. The little shit is gone and she’s crippled me.”

  Snow winced at the sight of Fletcher’s swollen testicles. “What do you want me to do?”

  Fletcher groaned again. “Fetch a bucket of cold water. And mind that it’s as cold as you can get it.”

  Snow went through the back room to the scullery where he found a shallow iron bucket. He filled it at the pump behind the house, making sure he brought up the coldest water from the lower depths of the well. As he scuttled back into the room, some of the contents sloshed over on Fletcher’s leg.

  “Damn, Snow. I want it in the bucket, not on me.”

  Snow watched open-mouthed as Fletcher gingerly raised himself to a squatting position and ever so slowly lowered his swollen testicles into the cold water. A mixture of a groan and a sigh escaped Fletcher’s lips as he straddled the bucket.

  “Now get your arse outside and find that girl.”

  “Did you see which way she ran?”

  “Snow, in my condition, does it look like I had the bloody inclination to walk to the door and see where she went? Do you?”

  Fletcher’s raised voice told Snow all he needed to know. “I’ll find her.”

  “And when you do, Snow, there’s no need to be gentle. But make sure you bring her back.”

  Snow nodded and stepped through the doorway. He stood behind the house for a minute, unsure of which way to go. Pastureland was everywhere, except to the west, where the copse of trees lay. There, he thought, that’s where I’d run. He crossed the two fields as quickly as he could manage and burst through the underbrush lining the rocky border between the far pasture and the woods. His long legs made great strides through the woodland, eating up the width of the woods in a speedy fashion.

  Once through the trees, he quickened his pace through the next field and only slowed to vault a low stone wall. As he pulled out of a crouch from landing on the other side, a gleam of reflected sunlight caught his peripheral vision. It was a bicycle, standing against the wall on the back side of a gate. Snow pulled the cycle from its resting place and swung his leg over the bar. In the distance he could see a small farm, consisting of a cottage, a barn and outbuildings. It would be a place to begin searching.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lund halted at the edge of the building and stretched his neck to peer around the corner. A pair of old women gossiped at the entrance to a butcher shop three doors down the street, while a middle-aged man attempted to crank-start a reluctant automobile. Farther down the road, a wizened man with a white beard swept trash into small piles on the pavement. Satisfied that no unwanted attention would be paid to him, Lund swung quickly around the corner and forced his short legs into a fast pace, passing the chattering woman and the automobile driver, before he ducked into a run-down lodging house.

  The entry hallway was dark, and Lund tripped on the turned-up edge of a threadbare carpet, only just catching himself from falling on his face. As he straightened his jacket and pulled the bottom of his waistcoat down, a tall, heavy woman stepped through a curtained doorway.

  She thrust her chin at Lund. “What do ye want ‘ere?”

  Lund tried to peer beyond the woman at a movement behind the curtain, but she shifted her position to block his view.

  “What’s your business, little man?”

  Lund bristled. “Are you the proprietress of the house?”

  “I asked ye what you want. I’m not here to answer questions.”

  “I . . . I am looking for a man called Fletcher. I was told he sometimes lodged here.”

  The woman looked Lund up and down, then snickered. “What’s a dandy like you want with the likes of Fletcher?”

  “That would be my business, madame, and none of yours.”

  The woman’s eyebrows shot up and she emitted a loud, raucous laugh. “So ye have a spot of spunk in ye, eh?” She stepped closer to Lund and looked him over once again. “E’s not ‘ere.”

  Lund shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable at how close the woman stood. He pulled at his tight collar. “When do you expect him to return?”

  “I never ‘spects nothing out o’ that one, I can tell thee that.”

  She made no effort to move away from Lund, and seemed to delight in the discomfort she was causing him.

  Lund cleared his throat and took a step back. “Perhaps I should wait outside for him?” He indicated the door with his forefinger.

  “Ye could do that, little man,” the woman said, stepping close to Lund again. “But Fletcher’s often away for days at a time. It may be a long wait.”

  Lund looked at the big smile creasing the woman’s face and realized she was plainly enjoying herself at his expense. He summoned his self-control and took a deep breath.

  “Please tell Mr. Fletcher that Elias Lund called on him and would like to meet with him as soon as possible. He will know where to find me.”
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br />   “Aye, I’m certain he will.”

  “Then you shall give him the message?”

  The smile dropped off the woman’s face and she took another step closer to Lund. “Ye have what ye came for. Now leave.”

  He was out the door before she had finished speaking.

  •••••••

  Jane checked the field behind her once more, then loped through the woods in the opposite direction, her stride hampered by her long skirt and petticoats. The copse was filled with old-growth trees standing on an area of rocky ground, creased by two streams that sandwiched a fertile pastureland. She moved over the rough ground as fast as she could, once stumbling on a moss-covered rock, then again tripping on a decaying branch. Within fifteen minutes, she was out of breath and out of the woods. Before her lay an unbroken stretch of pastures, each bordered by waist-high stone walls. In the middle distance, she saw a line of smoke curling from a chimney. Someone was at home in the farmhouse, she thought. They would be able to help her there. Pulling her skirt up to her knees, Jane took a deep breath and ran across the pasture.

  The farm was farther away than she had anticipated and Jane stopped three times to catch her breath before she climbed the final wall separating her from the cottage. A pair of cows looked disinterested as she passed, lowing only because the afternoon was waning and their udders were full. They turned and followed Jane as she trudged a narrow path into the barnyard, scattering a handful of scrawny-looking chickens. The rear door of the cottage stood open, apparently to allow the breeze to swirl through the interior. Jane rapped three times on the door frame.

  “Hello? Is anyone there? I am in need of help.”

  She waited a few seconds, then repeated her appeal, but there still was no answer. Jane stepped through the doorway into a cluttered kitchen. Someone must be in the place, she thought. A pot bubbled on the stove and the smell of baking bread filled the room. Jane skirted the scarred pine table in the center of the room and walked slowly through a narrow passageway toward the front of the house.

  “Hello . . . .”

  She gasped as a hand clamped over her mouth and a steely arm swept around her stomach, pulling her back against a lean body. She tried to scream, but the hand covered her mouth too tightly and she could only push out muffled sounds. She tried to kick at the legs of the man who held her, but stopped short when she saw the knife come up in front of her face.

  “Don’t do it or I’ll have to cut you.”

  The point of the blade was aimed directly at her eye. She stopped struggling and the grip on her face loosened.

  “I’m going to take me hand away. I don’t want you to make a sound. Do you understand?”

  Jane nodded and the man removed his hand from her mouth. She used the opportunity to look around the room and was horrified by what she saw. In the back corner of the large room sat a woman tied to a stout chair, gagged by a cloth wound around her mouth. Her terror-stricken eyes bulged above cheeks streaked by tears.

  •••••••

  Goodwin ran his hand over his bald pate and exhaled a forceful breath. He squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest as much as he could, yet his chest had a difficult time competing for attention with his ample mid-section, which overflowed his wide belt so as to hide it almost completely. He walked into the room slowly, making sure he had the attention of all the clerks. Goodwin knew he was important, and believed it necessary that the clerks knew it too.

  A tall, thin man rose and indicated a chair for Goodwin to use. The leather creaked as Goodwin lowered his bulk onto it.

  “Very good of you to honor us with your presence, Mr. Goodwin. My name is Wray. Leonard Wray. I am the managing director of the Crescent Building Society. How may I be of service to you.”

  “I have been engaged by a client to determine if a certain investment is suitable for his needs,” Goodwin began. “You see, he is the trustee of a blind trust and must scrupulously adhere to the requirements for investment as set forth by the trust itself.”

  Goodwin paused for a moment, then satisfied that the managing director had swallowed that portion of his tale, continued.

  “We are considering an investment that involves a considerable amount of land holdings in the village of Clifton. Those holdings represent the raw land itself, as well as a number of structures — houses, barns, outbuildings, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, well, Clifton is quite a desirable area, as it is situated north of the river. It gets favorable winds and is out of the hustle and bustle of York proper, is it not?”

  “Indeed, it is, Mr. Wray. You have put your finger on the very reason why it appears to be such an attractive group of holdings for investment.”

  “But I fail to see what service we might provide for you, Mr. Goodwin. Unless you are seeking our services as lending agents.”

  “That is one of my reasons for visiting you, sir. We indeed are considering using the Crescent Building Society as a lending agent. And I don’t mind telling you that the sums involved are quite substantial. Quite substantial, indeed.”

  Goodwin leaned back in the chair and looked around the room. The low murmur of conversation in the room had stopped, and while the clerks appeared busy at their work, he could see many pairs of eyes darting looks between their desks and him. Goodwin smiled and continued.

  “The second reason is that we have heard some unsettling rumors about a potential purchase of land in Clifton by the congregation of St. Philip’s Church. Do you happen to know the vicar there, a Reverend Elsworth?”

  Wray’s furrowed brow stretched taut, then his face brightened.

  “Why of course I am familiar with the good Vicar Elsworth. In fact, if I may say in confidence, he is one of our clients. A very large one at that.” Wray had raised a finger to his lips as if to shush himself for spilling a secret.

  “The information that I possess about the church’s land speculation is not specific in relation to the large holdings that we are seeking for our client,” Goodwin said. “However, when one enters into a transaction of this magnitude, it is always wise to be prudent.”

  “Quite so. Quite so.”

  “Has the vicar approached the Crescent Building Society about financing such a land purchase in Clifton?”

  “Actually, the vicar was in our offices recently to discuss a business matter and he did mention something of that nature.”

  “Are you at liberty to advise me what he said.”

  Wray pursed his lips. “I can tell you in confidence that he is rather stretched in his payments to our society, so I suggested he take the transaction to another financial institution.”

  “Were you able to make any specific recommendation to the vicar?”

  “Why, of course we did. That is one of the reasons we are held in such good esteem by our clients.”

  “And you recommended whom?”

  “Why the Royal York Banking Society at Parliament and Market Streets. It’s director is Elias Lund.”

  Goodwin smiled and rose, then bowed slightly to Wray.

  “Thank you, good sir. You have been most helpful. I am sure I will return the favor to you one day.”

  •••••••

  Snow eased his hand away from the girl, but kept the knife close to her neck in case she decided to try and run again. He watched as she looked wild-eyed at the farmer’s wife tied in the corner.

  The bicycle had allowed him to get ahead of Jane and arrive at the cottage first, but he had been surprised by the woman in the kitchen. She must have recognized the bicycle he had stolen because she berated him loudly, then swiped at him with her broom. Snow had grabbed the broom away and wrestled her back into the house where, with a hard slap across her face, he knocked her to the floor. At the time, tying her to the chair had seemed the best course to take, but now, with two women on his hands and no idea of what to do, Snow wasn’t so sure.

  As his concentration wavered, Snow relaxed his grip and lowered the tip of the knife. Almos
t immediately, Jane crashed her heel down on his right instep, snapping the arch bone and buckling him to the floor. As Jane skittered out of his grasp toward the door, Snow pushed off the floor after her, but collapsed before he could reach her. He hurled his knife after her, but only succeeded in piercing the caned back of an old chair.

  Snow heard the kitchen door slam shut and then the sound of the scrape of metal against stone. The bicycle, he thought. She took the bicycle. There was no way he could catch her now. He reached down and rubbed his broken instep, causing alternating waves of pain and relief to wash over him and tears to form in his eyes.

  “What are you looking at woman?” Snow saw that the woman was plainly terrified by the unexpected intrusion. “When is your husband due to come back? Is it at dark? Is it?”

  The woman nodded affirmatively, her eyes fixed on Snow’s.

  “Well then, there’s still time.” Snow pulled his good leg under his body and levered himself up, shifting his weight and standing awkwardly to the left. He reached out and steadied himself against a small table, then saw a shepherd’s staff in the far corner of the room.

  “I’ll borrow this staff for awhile, missus, to help me get across your fields. You sit quiet now.” He stared at the woman for a few moments, and then hobbled through the kitchen and out into the yard.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It took Snow an hour to drag his broken foot across the fields to the house where he and Fletcher had hidden Jane. As he pushed open the door, Fletcher was hitching up his pants and fastening on a thick leather belt.

  “Where the bloody hell is she?”

  “I had her Fletcher, I did, but she stomped me foot and got away.”

  Fletcher’s eyes followed Snow’s gaze to his now-swollen foot, which had spread the boot’s loosened laces bowstring tight.