Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

“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.”

“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.”