Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

He took the steps to the Lendal Club two at a time, arriving at the massive oak door as the uniformed porter swung it open to reveal the cool interior of the marbled entry hall. The Lendal Club had been built on the site of the old Lendal Tower, which once had overlooked the River Ouse and guarded the southwest corner of York’s city wall. The club’s square brick exterior rose four stories high, it’s hundred foot length dominating the narrow bridge that carried Museum Street across the river to the new railway station built on the site of a Roman cemetery. It was said that when the construction crews prepared the land for the roadbeds and sidings of the twelve-track North Eastern Railway station, they unearthed masses of bones, pottery and metal artifacts. The Dealer mused that the Romans were very much like the Egyptians in burying their dead with implements that would serve them well in the nether world.

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.

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?”