Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series Page 7

  The banker sighed before continuing. “I had used Fletcher in the past to collect money owed to the bank by debtors who had gone into hiding to avoid paying. Fletcher is the type of man who can mingle with that lower class element and fit in nicely.”

  “Please describe the man for us.”

  “Short and stocky, with a shock of dark hair and a scruffly little beard. But the one thing that you’ll notice about him is that he only has one eye. He wears a black patch over the other.”

  “That is most helpful. Please continue with your narration.”

  “There is not much more for me to tell you. When the vicar approached me about the matter, he was reluctant to discuss the purpose for which he needed men who could handle elements of danger, as he put it. I pressed him for more details and he finally admitted the men were needed to make a kidnapping.”

  A shudder ran down the banker’s small frame, as he drew a deep breath.

  “It was his niece in Bootham Park that he had designs on. He wanted the men to snatch her from the asylum.”

  “And what did he intend to have them do with her?”

  “The vicar never discussed the plan any further with me. He only wanted the name of someone who could do the job, so I gave him Fletcher’s name and told the vicar where to find him. That was the last I heard of the matter from the vicar.”

  “And now you shall tell us where we can find Mr. Fletcher.”

  •••••••

  Fletcher and Snow took the rest of the night to negotiate the quiet back roads, always heading in a northerly direction toward York. Daylight found the pair sitting at the side of stone stile.

  Fletcher rubbed his back from side to side against the rough stone, then arched his neck and looked up into the cloud-filled morning sky.

  “At least the rain’s held off,” he said, looking down at Snow’s foot. He motioned with his chin. “How is it?”

  “Like there’s a fire in me boot. I plan to soak it for a week if I ever get back home.” Snow stared hard at Fletcher’s crotch. “How’s yours?”

  “Sore. And still swollen. I feels them with each step I takes.” Then he chuckled and slowly shook his head. “It might seem bleak to you now, lad, but you’ll cheer up greatly when we split the money from the vicar. They are sure to find the body in the next day or two, so he’ll have the word by then.”

  “So he knows the girl is dead. Then what?”

  “Snow, me boy, think on it for a moment. He wants the girl out of the way. We can’t claim the money he owes for the job until he knows she’s dead. Once the woman’s body is found, we can collect from the vicar. By the time he learns its not his niece, we’ll be long gone with the cash.”

  Snow rubbed his foot and nodded. “Just so he doesn’t pull the double cross on us.”

  Fletcher clucked his tongue. “Never you worry on that score, lad. I’ll see to it that he keeps his part of the bargain. Come on,” he said, rising. “Let’s get you home.”

  Snow stood unsteadily, putting most of his weight on his uninjured foot, then shuffled after Fletcher.

  Within a half-mile, the pair entered the outskirts of the city and squeezed through a break in the fence around the North Eastern Railway Goods and Mineral Yard. The River Ouse took a long, curving loop to the northeast at that point, then turned back to the southeast along the Clifton Long Reach. The railway yard paralleled the river, filling in acres of unwanted land with miles and miles of track. As they passed the coaling depot, Snow elbowed Fletcher in the ribs.

  “Over on the right. Trouble coming.”

  Fletcher spotted the watchman headed in their direction and halted, putting his hands in his pockets. “Do the same as me, Snow. Hands out of sight.”

  The watchman pulled a truncheon from his belt and held it in front of him, angled out from his body. He stopped two yards from the pair.

  “What are you two derelicts doing in my yard?”

  Fletcher cocked his head and studied the man, then leaned forward pushing his hand forward, still inside the coat, as if he had a weapon.

  “Only passing through. We’ll be gone on the other side of the engine shed.” Fletcher indicated the far side of the yard with his chin.

  The watchman eyed Fletcher warily, then looked Snow up and down. After glancing over his shoulder at the engine shed, he looked back and jerked his head to the side.

  “The both of you be quick. You’re lucky I’m in a good humor this morning.”

  Snow moved past the man first, followed by Fletcher who stopped two feet from the watchman and fixed him with a single-eyed stare. After the watchman blinked and looked away, Fletcher smiled and hurried to catch up with Snow.

  By mid-morning, they reached the alleyway off of Dudley Street where Snow and his mother lived. Snow limped into the front room and collapsed into a shabby, threadbare chair he had stolen from a dispensing chemist’s office. Fletcher disappeared into the back room and returned a few minutes later with two large crockery mugs, both missing handles, full to the brim with water.

  “The best available,” Fletcher said, then gulped down the tepid liquid, smacking his lips when he finished.

  Snow took a deep draught of the water, but began coughing before he had half of it down his throat.

  “Easy, me boy. Don’t die on me now after all we’ve been through. I have an errand to run tomorrow or the day after and you should be very pleased with the result of it.”

  Fletcher winked at Snow, then skittered out the door.

  •••••••

  Round Freddy stared down Haver Lane at the fronts of the run-down houses that lined both sides of the narrow street. Trash and garbage littered the gutters, giving off a high stink because of the added condiment of dirty, stagnant water pooled against the kerbstones. A knot of small children picked at the corners of a trash pile, poking into the mess with sticks in an attempt to force out some type of a small animal. No doubt a rat, Round Freddy thought, and likely a large one at that.

  Haver Lane ran between Hungate and Aldwark, two ancient streets that encompassed two almshouses, several rowdy public houses, a brothel, the Hungate Saw Mill and the Blue Coat Flour Mills. The nearby saw and flour mills offered the chance of a minimal weekly wage for many of the unfortunate residents of Haver Lane. But after the workers toiled ten hours a day in the mills, the landlords of the tenements took the lion’s share of their wages as rent for the privilege of occupying buildings that were literally falling down around them.

  “What was that address again, Andrews?”

  “Number eighteen. On the left in the middle of the block.”

  The dark green paint on number eighteen Haver Lane had long since cracked and peeled off the siding, leaving only scattered traces of its former color. Likewise, the numerals painted on the door appeared like ghosts floating in the wood.

  Round Freddy pulled the latch and swept the door open, sending it crashing against the wall and spewing a cloud of dust into the dim hallway. He looked down at the truncheon in Andrews’ hand and grunted his approval, then lumbered up the staircase with the constable close behind. On the third level, doors were set at opposite sides of the short hallway. Round Freddy rapped his knuckles on the nearest one, and on receiving no answer, rapped again, only louder.

  “Still nothing. Let’s have a look.”

  He pulled the latch up gently, then pushed his weight against the door, easily swinging it open. The smell in the room stung his nostrils and he immediately could see it was the wrong room. A narrow cot sat against the far wall with an emaciated old woman lying face up on it. She was fast asleep. A chamber pot at the foot of the cot was full to the brim.

  “Next room is what we’re after,” Round Freddy said, pulling the door shut behind him. “Keep that truncheon handy.”

  When there was no response to his rapping on the second door, Round Freddy put his shoulder to the wood and pushed at the same time as he pulled the latch up. Round Freddy burst into the room with Andrews at his
heels, the two of them with hands out and ready for action. But no one was in the room.

  “Have a look through the drawers of that chest over there.”

  As Andrews pulled open drawers and examined their meager contents, Round Freddy went to the window and peered out.

  “Good view of the street from here. If he had been in here, he could have seen us coming.”

  “But we would have run into him on our way up,” Andrews said.

  “Not if he didn’t come in our direction,” Round Freddy extended his index finger toward the ceiling. “He could have gone up, then over the roofs. Let’s have a look.”

  The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a flat roof badly in need of repair. One large hole had been haphazardly patched with planks laid across it and held down by a keg full of stones. It certainly could not be watertight, Round Freddy thought.

  “There’s his escape route,” Round Freddy said, pointing. “Across to the next building and the one beyond, then down the stairs and out onto the street when it’s safe. Damn.”

  As Round Freddy exited the building onto Haver Lane, he bumped into a small boy with coal black hands and dirt streaked over his face. Round Freddy grabbed the boy by the shoulders to stop him from falling. The child looked to be about seven years old.

  “Easy there, lad. Easy. What’s your name?”

  The boy eyed him suspiciously. “William Hall.”

  “Do you live here at number eighteen?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Which room is yours?”

  “The first in the front on the ground floor. It’s me mum’s.”

  “Then you must know Mr. Fletcher, eh?”

  The boy shrugged his shoulders.

  “How about this then? Does a man with a black eye patch live here?”

  The boy’s head bobbed vigorously. “He’s scary.”

  “How would you like to make yourself a tuppence, William Hall?”

  The suspicion returned to the boy’s face. “How?”

  “It’s actually very simple. The next time you see the man with the black eye patch come into the building, I want you to run over to the police station on Petergate near the Presbytery and tell the constable at the desk that the eye patch is home. It’s not that far and you look like you’re a fast runner. Do you think you can do that?”

  The boy hesitated, then shrugged.

  Round Freddy decided to try another tack. “You think that the man with the eye patch is scary, don’t you?”

  “Well, we do too. And we would like to talk to him about not being so scary any more. So if you do this for us, we’ll be able to make him less scary.”

  The boy brightened at the thought and smiled. “Sure. But I want thruppence.”

  Round Freddy bit back a smile of his own. “Done.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jane piled the plates and crockery on top of each another, then heaved the stack up against her stomach, slopping gravy onto the already-stained apron. The back doorway to the kitchen at the rear of the pub led into a dimly-lit room where she slid the heavy pile onto a scarred, wooden table. As she had only the clothes on her back and no money, she knew that scullery duty was the only way she could repay Lizzie for sheltering her.

  Jane had slept most of Saturday, pulling the threadbare blanket over her head and trying to forget the frightening events of the previous few days, especially her harrowing escape from the two thugs. Lizzie had coaxed her into eating a bowl of soup late in the day, and once Jane had finished it, she lay back against the feather mattress and fell asleep again.

  Yesterday the pub had been quiet, with only the regulars filling the low room that faced the dusty street trafficked by farm vehicles, horse-drawn carts and the occasional motor vehicle. But today the usual crush of laborers, farmers, shopkeepers and layabouts filled the pub’s great room from the time the doors opened and they showed no signs of quitting the place.

  Jane leaned against the rough plank wall and pushed a handful of stray hair back behind her ear as Lizzie emerged from outside with a load of wood in her arms.

  “Gawd girl, you look worn out and it’s not even supper yet,” she said, dropping the wood into an overflowing wood box. “Scullery maid duty doesn’t suit you?”

  “It’s not that, Lizzie. The work is so much more physical than what I am used to.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Before my father died, I was a secretarial clerk to a veterinary surgeon on Bootham Row in York. After Dad died and left me a trust fund, I no longer needed to work, yet I continued with Dr. Snarry on a limited basis, usually working two or three days a week. But three months ago, his practice slowed considerably and he had no more work for me.”

  “Different work than lifting stacks of crockery and cleaning the crud off them, eh?”

  Jane nodded, distracted. “I have been thinking. I am deeply grateful to you and Harold for sheltering me, but think that I should make an effort to get back to York.”

  Lizzie cocked her head, yet said nothing.

  “Once I get back, I can send you a payment for anything that I owe you for your trouble.”

  “Luv, there’s been no trouble from you,” Lizzie said, drawing closer to Jane and lowering her voice. “But you must remember what drove you here in the first place. Those murderous bastards might yet be looking to do you harm.”

  Jane drew a deep breath. “That’s all I have been thinking about. I cannot get them out of my mind and they haunt my dreams at night. But I must face the issue of returning home at some point.”

  “I’ve an idea. You could send a message to someone you trust that you’re safe and wish to return home. A relative or friend who could alert the proper authorities to ensure your safety.”

  Jane’s eyes brightened. “Yes, of course. A message. But I have no relatives save my uncle, who put me in that horrid asylum in the first place.”

  “No friends then, either?”

  Jane shook her head. “No, I am afraid I live a quiet life.”

  “What about the veterinary you worked for? Do you trust him?”

  Jane hesitated, considering. “No, I do not. He is a very moody man and his personality changes drastically when he drinks. One never knows the kind of mind he will be in.”

  The two of them fell silent. Jane moved to the stove where a large pot of water was steaming. “Could you help me pour this into the sink?”

  Lizzie grasped the other pot handle and the two of them carried the heavy load to the slop sink and filled the tub.

  “Well there must be someone who would listen to you.”

  “There is one person, although I do not actually know him very well. Doctor Canham at Bootham Park.”

  “The doctor at the asylum? He’s who you want to trust?”

  “Well, he didn’t believe me when I first was brought to Bootham Park. But after I spoke with him several times, he seemed to take a strong interest in my case. It was because of his own personal investigation that I was to be released. But I was abducted before they could let me out of there.”

  “It’s settled then. Doctor Canham it is. I’ll get paper and ink for you to write the message.” She patted Jane on the shoulder and smiled. “This problem will pass you by, luv. Mark my words. And what a story you’ll have to tell to your grandchildren.”

  “But how shall we get the message to Doctor Canham?” Jane asked. “And should I tell him where I am staying?”

  “If you trust the man, dearie, there’s no reason not to tell him. We can get one of the men out front to deliver the message. One of them will surely do it for the promise of a pint of ale. I’ll choose one who can’t read, so your secret will remain safe.”

  Jane reached out and hugged Lizzie tightly. “Thank you so much. You’ve been so good to me.”

  Lizzie smiled and returned the hug. “I hope someone out there is doing the same for my sister.”

  •••••••

  Goodwin stopped at the wooden gate set into
the head-high stone wall and looked back along Aldwark Road. A stream of heavy wagons drawn by two-horse teams made an unbroken line down the block and into the alleyway alongside the Inland Brewery. On the pavement, men dressed in dark worker’s clothes hurried toward the brewery, apparently intent on getting inside the building before the starting whistle sounded. Goodwin looked the other way toward the chemist’s shop at the intersection with Goodram Gate Road. There was no one nearby. He lifted the latch up and slipped through the opening, closing the gate as noiselessly as he could.

  He stood still for a few moments, staring down the narrow pathway that led behind the chemist’s and to the tiny rear garden of the Goodram Chapel. The plot of land at the back of the chapel was so small, there was no room to bury it’s deceased parishioners on site. Instead, they were interred on the other side of the city in St. Stephen’s Church.

  Satisfied that he was alone, Goodwin hurried down the path and turned the handle on the chapel’s rear door. It turned easily and he quickly moved inside, gaining access to the chapel in the same manner as he had for his first meeting with the vicar. The chapel was dim, with deep shadows in the small nooks that served as the transept of the building. Goodwin crossed to the low door in the side wall and entered the anteroom. He breathed a sigh of relief; the vicar did not arrive early. Goodwin arranged his bulky bottom in a straight-backed chair and folded his hands to wait.

  Five minutes later he heard the sound of the heavy front door close with a muffled thud. Footsteps echoed on the chapel’s flagstones, hesitating outside the anteroom door. Then the door swung open and the Reverend Elsworth ducked through the opening.

  “Good morning, vicar. Please take a chair.” Goodwin indicated the empty seat across from him.

  The vicar sat and crossed his legs at the knees, fixing Goodwin with an expectant look. “And how have you managed this week on my behalf?”

  Goodwin puffed out his chest before replying. “Quite nicely, I must say. I have several properties in mind that would make secure locations in which to house your funds.”