Asylum Lane: from the Victorian Carriage mystery series Page 9

  The reverend hesitated. “They brought round Jane’s bag and one of her calling cards. She was pulled from the river, drowned.”

  “Is that what they said?” Fletcher asked.

  “No, you fool. It must be obvious, even to you. She got away from you and drowned in the river.”

  Fletcher bumped his chest against the vicar until the reverend was pressed up against the cabinet.

  “Ye listen to me ye sanctimonious arsehole,” Fletcher hissed. “I took care of the girl as ye directed, and it weren’t the water which killed her. It were me. So ye’d better be thinking hard about getting together the rest of the cash that ye owe for the deed being completed.”

  The vicar squirmed away. “All right, man. All right.” He brushed his jacket with long strokes as he spoke. “There is no need to get physical here. We can settle this like . . . gentlemen, can we not? You’ll appreciate that I don’t carry great amounts of cash on my person.”

  Fletcher eyed the vicar closely. “When can we settle it and where?”

  “Give me a day to get the cash. Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Is that the best ye can manage?”

  “The bank is likely closed by now,” the reverend said, snapping open his pocket watch. “Yes, probably shutting its doors as we speak. I shall stop in the morning and get the cash, then meet you. Let’s say the Goodram Chapel on Goodram Gate Road at two.”

  “Nay, ye’ll not choose the location this time. Ye’ll meet me in the forecourt of the York Minster at noon. That should allow ye plenty of time to get from the bank to the Minster.” He edged closer to the vicar. “Ye do plan on being there to meet me, don’t ye? And alone.”

  The reverend leaned back away from Fletcher, and steepled his hands in front of him as if in prayer.

  “I’ve come this far in this devilish business. I shall see it through to the end.”

  “Just be sure ye do,” Fletcher intoned, “or ye might find yourself swimming in the River Ouse too.”

  •••••••

  Lund twisted in his seat, watching Round Freddy pick his nails and then run his fingers down the ledger’s columns. The detective had the book propped up on his knee, precariously balanced, as he nonchalantly went about his personal hygiene. Without warning, Round Freddy snatched the ledger from his lap and flung it onto the center of Lund’s desk. The heavy book landed with a loud thud and sent papers fluttering to the floor.

  “Perhaps you could explain the second entry for June fourteenth?”

  Lund took a deep breath and read the entry, then his shoulders sagged. “It’s a payment to a corporation for services rendered,” he stammered.

  “Ah, yes. The Alliance Stock Society. Is that not the organization that was closed down two years ago for fraudulently extracting investments from the good citizens of York?”

  The banker said nothing.

  “And the third entry for July twenty-seventh?”

  Lund ran his finger down the column and closed his eyes at sight of the entry. He did not answer.

  “Let me see,” Round Freddy began. “Is that not the £450 payment to the North Eastern Temperance Protective Society? That is the very group we have shown to have no offices and no staff, nor does it do work of any nature whatsoever.”

  Lund sat back in his chair, his eyes flickering toward the closed door.

  “Perhaps you should explain your role in this matter, Mr. Lund. If you assist us in the investigation, it will be to your credit when you stand before the magistrate. We will be pleased to tell him that you had no part in the abduction and possible murder of Miss Waddington.”

  The banker blanched. “M . . m . . murder? I had nothing to do with murder, only the false payments.”

  “Well then, perhaps you should start at the beginning.”

  •••••••

  Doctor Canham straightened in his chair and slowly hunched his shoulders up, rolled them back, then relaxed. He repeated the exercise four times, and with each repetition, exhaled a long breath. The stack of paperwork on the right side of his desk had dwindled from over a foot high to only two inches, but the effort took its toll on his back and neck. He pulled the next case file from the stack, but was interrupted by a light tapping on his door.

  “Come.”

  The door swung open to reveal his office attendant, Mrs. Sheppard, standing in front of an ill-dressed elderly man, white hair peaked high on his head and cap in his hand.

  “Doctor, this . . . man . . . would like a word with you. He says he has something to give only to your hands and refuses to tell me what it involves.” Mrs. Sheppard edged further into the room, putting more distance between her and the rumpled courier.

  Doctor Canham came around the desk, studying the man as he did. “Thank you Mrs. Sheppard. Please allow the fellow to enter.”

  The doctor watched the woman hold her breath as the old man passed, then quickly retreat through the doorway. He was used to unusual patients being thrust at him by weary officials or harried family members, but could not remember one walking in on him unannounced.

  “How may I help you?”

  “Ye’d be Doctor Canham, the governor o’ Bootham Park Asylum?” The man’s front teeth were missing and most of the rest of them blackened. The odor emanating from him was beginning to permeate the room.

  “That I am. Again I ask, how may I be of service to you? Do you need medical assistance?”

  “Nay, it’s not for me that I’ve come. It’s the message.” The old man extended a crumpled paper in his hand.

  Doctor Canham unfolded the paper and read the precise handwriting it contained. He peered over his round spectacles at the courier.

  “Did you look at the contents of this message?”

  “I did that, sir.”

  “Did no one ever tell you that messages are meant to be private?”

  “It makes no difference, sir. I can’ts read anyhow.”

  Doctor Canham stifled a smile and dug in the pocket of his waistcoat for a coin. “Take this for your trouble. Can you find your way out?”

  “Aye, sir, I can, and thank ye kindly.”

  When the man had gone, the doctor went to the window and threw it fully open, allowing a breeze in that fluttered the papers on his desk and began to clear the odor hanging in the air.

  He opened the paper again and reread the message.

  DEAR DOCTOR CANHAM:

  IT IS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE THAT YOU HOLD THIS COMMUNICATION IN THE STRICTEST OF CONFIDENCE, FOR MY VERY LIFE SHOULD DEPEND ON YOUR ACTIONS. YOU WILL KNOW THAT I WAS ABDUCTED FROM BOOTHAM PARK, BUT YOU CANNOT KNOW THAT THE HOUDLUMS WHO PERPETRATED THE ABDUCTION ALSO ATTEMPTED TO MURDER ME. IT WAS ONLY THROUGH GREAT GOOD FORTUNE THAT I WAS ABLE TO ESCAPE AND HAVE FOUND REFUGE AT THE SLEEPING DOG IN NUNTHORPE. YOU BELIEVED IN ME ENOUGH AT ONE TIME TO AUTHENTICATE MY ASSERTIONS AND FOUND ME TO BE TELLING THE TRUTH. I PRAY THAT YOU WILL HELP ME AGAIN. PLEASE ALERT THE AUTHORITIES OF MY WHEREABOUTS, FOR I CONTINUE TO BE FEARFUL OF THOSE WHO ABDUCTED ME. PERHAPS THE POLICE CAN ARRANGE SAFE PASSAGE FOR ME. WITH MY DEEPEST THANKS.

  JANE WADDINGTON

  Tucking the paper into his jacket pocket, Doctor Canham jammed on his hat and within two minutes stepped into the courtyard, heading toward his automobile.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Doctor Canhan had thought that his Sunbeam automobile was an extravagance when he purchased it six months previously, but had become so comfortable in the vehicle that he knew he could never go back to using a horse and carriage regularly. The 16-horsepower vehicle commanded more than enough power to get him around town, and he delighted in taking the Sunbeam on country roads and getting as much speed as he could out of her.

  The doctor wound his way through St. Sampson’s Square, then turned onto Church Street and pulled to the kerb in front of the Central York Police Station. Inside, a burly police corporal behind a high counter confronted him.

  “Your business, sir?”

  “I must speak with the officer in charge o
f the abduction at the asylum. I believe it is Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume.”

  “And you must speak with him because. . . ?”

  “I must speak directly with him, constable. I have information for his ears only.”

  The corporal nodded and disappeared through a doorway. He returned a few minutes later and gestured the doctor to follow. As the doctor moved deeper into the police station, constables glanced his way, then apparently uninterested in him, returned to their conversations and their work. Presently, he found himself ushered into an office filled with papers, casebooks and dead cigarette and cigar butts.

  Round Freddy looked up from the desk, his eyebrows raised. “Please take a chair, doctor. I surely did not expect to have a visit from you today.”

  “It is only because of an urgent message that I received, sergeant.” The doctor held out the crumpled paper.

  Round Freddy read the contents quickly, then peered over the top of the paper at the doctor. He lowered his gaze and read the message a second time, noting the date on the letter was after when the body in the river was found. He dropped the paper on his desk and leaned back in his chair.

  “You believe the message to be genuine, then?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because no one else but Miss Waddington knew that I personally investigated the claims she made against her uncle. I found clear evidence that she was telling the truth, which is why I was going to release her from Bootham Park.”

  Round Freddy stroked his chin, then quickly stood up. “Doctor, thank you very much for bringing this message to me. I trust you will keep your word to Miss Waddington and not say anything of this matter to anyone else.”

  The doctor stood too. “Yes, surely I will keep my word. But what will you do now?”

  Round Freddy smiled broadly. “Why bring the girl back here safely, of course.”

  •••••••

  Reverend Elsworth peered around the corner into the kitchen. The cook was bent over a table, fussing with the filling for a mince pie. He drew back and quickly covered the distance to his study, where he shut and locked the door. Sliding open the drawer of a desk built into a wall of bookcases, the reverend pulled out the papers and envelopes that filled the space and put them aside. Then he reached into the back of the drawer, searching with his fingers until he heard a soft click. Pulling up on the false bottom, his eyes grew larger, as they always did when he looked at his secret stash. In the bottom of the drawer lay six thousand pounds sterling in crisp notes.

  As he carefully arranged bundles of bills in the bottom of a satchel, a dark look crossed the vicar’s face. Damn that Goodwin, he thought. Seven hundred and fifty pounds! The man was a thief in good clothes. The reverend drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. At least the bulk of his cash would be made safe, he mused. He could be sure of that.

  •••••••

  Round Freddy leaned back against the Austin’s leather seat and exhaled a long breath as he studied the outside of the Sleeping Dog public house. The pub had only been open an hour and he could already see that a crowd had formed inside the main room. The low hum of voices and clinking glassware seeped out of the open doorway. He huffed out another breath and pulled himself from the vehicle, glancing at Andrews as the constable came around the front of the car.

  “I want you to keep a sharp eye open in there,” Round Freddy said, jerking his head in the direction of the pub. “We’re dealing with criminals who have no compunction about killing innocent women, so they hardly would blink an eye at the thought of killing a copper.”

  “Aye, sergeant. Should I bring my truncheon?”

  “I believe that would be a wise decision.”

  As Round Freddy strode into the dimly-lit pub, followed by Andrews, the level of conversation in the room dipped noticeably, then stopped all together.

  “Publican, a moment of your time,” he said, bellying up to the polished bar.

  Harold gave Round Freddy a fish-eyed look. “Anything to drink?”

  “Not at the moment. I’ve come to speak to Miss Waddington.” He turned toward the center of the room and as his eyes swept back and forth, the onlookers returned their attention to their ale and conversations.

  “And who might ye be?”

  The look on Harold’s face told Round Freddy the man had a natural talent for obstinate behavior. He decided on a pleasant approach and smiled.

  “Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume of the York Police Force.” Round Freddy leaned closer to Harold and lowered his voice. “I’m relatively sure we don’t want to advertise the fact of who she is to the entire room, do we now?”

  “Nay, that’s not necessary. I’ll get me wife.” Harold disappeared through a doorway and in less than a minute returned with Lizzy.

  “Detective, I’m sure you and the constable must be thirsty after your trip out here. Perhaps we can get you a glass of ale?”

  “Thank you, missus, but I think it’s best if I see Miss Waddington first. There’s plenty of time for the ale later.”

  “Very well. Come around the back and through here.”

  Round Freddy stepped into the kitchen as Jane walked through the doorway from the scullery, carrying a stack of clean, chipped plates. He stepped forward and took the stack from Jane and set them on a wooden bench.

  “Miss Waddington, I presume?”

  Jane’s hands were at her throat, clutching at her collar, as she backed away. “Who are you?”

  “Pardon me, miss. I am Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume from the York Police Force. I’m here to fetch you home safely.”

  Jane covered her face with her hands and began sobbing.

  “Now, miss, there’s no need for that. You’re safe with us. No harm can come to you now.”

  Lizzy stepped to Jane’s side and moved the plates so she could sit down.

  “I never expected that someone would actually come for me. I thought I would have to go on hiding forever.” Another sob shivered along her body.

  Round Freddy ran his hand across his chin, pulling at the flesh.

  “There’s nothing to worry about; nothing at all. I don’t imagine that you have packed your things yet. You’ll want to do that so we can be on our way.”

  Jane looked up at him and shook her head. “I have nothing to pack. I arrived here only with a bicycle that I took from a farmhouse. Perhaps we can bring it back to them.”

  “I can arrange for that to be done, miss. But the more important task for me is to get you safely back to York and into hiding there until these murderers are caught.”

  “Murderers? Who was killed?”

  “Ah, of course. You could not have known. We found a woman’s body floating in the river. The woman had your bag slung across her. We originally thought that woman was you.”

  Jane slumped back against the wall. “How awful. And all because of me.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, my dear. Whatever drove these ruffians to killing had nothing to do with you.”

  “But that might have been me.”

  “Yes, I daresay that is a strong possibility. But enough of that. You’re safe with us now and I intend to keep you that way — safe.”

  Round Freddy turned to Lizzy. “Might you find a coat for Miss Waddington to borrow. The sun’s going down and the ride back to York is likely to be a bit chilly.”

  “Aye, I can indeed.” She disappeared through the doorway.

  “Now, miss. I’d like to ask you some questions about your kidnappers. Do you feel up to answering them? Constable Andrews here will make notes of your responses.”

  Jane nodded.

  “Right then. Let’s start with their number. How many took you from Bootham Park.”

  “I actually can’t say, sergeant. I went to sleep that night in Bootham Park and awoke in the morning in a small dark cell in a basement.”

  “Do you know where it was located?”

  “I only know it was some
miles from here in rural country,” she said. “When I escaped from there, I ran across fields and through some woods before coming to a farmhouse, where . . . oh, my god!”

  “What is it?”

  “The woman who was tied up in the farmhouse. Do you suppose she’s the one they killed?”

  “We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves, miss. Let’s worry about the details that we know and not leap to conclusions that we can’t prove. But we shall check everything that you tell us. Apparently, when you last saw this woman, she was alive?”

  “She was. They had her tied hand and foot to a wooden chair and had a gag wrapped around her mouth so she couldn’t speak.”

  “And who is ‘they’?”

  The snowy-haired young one and the older man with the black eye patch.”

  Round Freddy stiffened. “Please describe the older man.”

  “Short and stocky, with a stubble of beard on his face. He was always grinning like he knew some kind of secret. But the eye patch made him distinctive.”

  “Over which eye?”

  “The left.”

  “And the other man?”

  “He was much younger, hardly more than a boy, and with snow-white hair, closely cropped. He didn’t want to harm me.”

  “And how did you discover that fact?”

  “I didn’t really. It was more in the manner that he treated me, like when he brought food and water.”

  “How did you escape from your confinement?”

  Jane blushed a deep red. “Must I say?”

  “I cannot imagine that it will be held against you in any way.”

  She began to say something, then stopped. “It is shameful. I should not say.”

  “Miss Waddington, these are dangerous men. We should know all we can about them.”

  “All right, sergeant. I kicked him between his legs when he brought me food. Then I ran up the stairs and out across the fields.”

  “Is that when you found the bicycle and used it to flee safely?”

  “Actually, I went to the farmhouse where I saw the woman tied up and someone grabbed me from behind. He had a knife and pointed it at my face. But something distracted him and I stomped on his foot. I saw him as he dropped the knife. It was the snowy-haired man. I ran from there as fast as I could and took the bicycle. That’s how I got to Nunthorpe.”