Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

By the time they had the body completely contained in the cart and covered with an assortment of dirty, odorous sacks, dusk had fallen and a half moon had already risen.

“We’ll take turns pulling the cart, so we both don’t get worn out,” Fletcher said.

“But the river’s two miles from here, at least.”

“More like three,” Fletcher countered, “but once we get out of these fields, we can use the lanes and back roads to take us to the river. I know just the spot where we can set our parcel free in the water.”

The dogcart creaked as Fletcher pulled it over the uneven ground and occasionally stuck as one of the wheels dropped into a rut. At the gate to the next field, Fletcher pulled open the wooden bar and offered the cart’s handle to Snow.

“Your turn, matey.”

Snow heaved on the handle and got the cart moving, surprised at the relative ease with which it moved over the deepening grass. The ground in the field had been left fallow during the growing season, so a plow had not turned the earth and made it as uneven as in the previous field. But within minutes, Snow’s injured foot was on fire, sending shooting pains up his leg.

“I don’t know how much longer I can pull the cart. She’s gotten a lot heavier.”

Fletcher simply grunted.

Snow kept silent for another hundred feet, then stopped.

“I’m done in, Fletcher. I can’t do any more.”

Fletcher edged over to Snow and stared up at him through the weak moonlight as if inspecting a chicken hanging on a peg. Satisfied, he nodded and took the handle.

“Get what relief you can now, matey. You’re going to do more pulling once we’re on the roads. I can’t do this all by meself.”

As they reached the gate at the back corner of the field, Snow opened the bar while Fletcher slipped through the opening and peered down the narrow dirt lane. The feeble half moon cast only enough light to dimly make out the shapes of bushes and rocks alongside the road and Fletcher studied each of them before giving a low whistle.

“Bring the cart through and I’ll bar the gate.”

“How far to the river now, do you think?”

“The better part of two miles, I reckon. Probably more.”

Two-and-a-half miles and three hours later, Fletcher turned off the dirt track and pulled the cart onto a nearly-imperceptible path through the underbrush. Beyond the thick screen of leaves Snow could hear the sound of water lapping along a shoreline.

“It’s not far now, Snow. Just down here a bit.”

Snow hurried forward, then groaned as he stubbed his injured foot on an upturned stone. Rubbing his swollen instep, he called to Fletcher.

“No farther. Damn, I’m not going to move.”

As Fletcher materialized beside him, a vice-like hand gripped the side of his neck.

“You’ll damn well do as you’re told, matey. Now move on down to the water and help me unload the woman.”

Rigor mortis had come and gone on the body during the transport to the river and the body slid easily from the cart and thumped onto the soft ground at the water’s edge. A sack caught under one arm and Fletcher yanked it out, sending the woman’s limp arm up in an arc as if she were trying to attract someone’s attention.

Snow reached down and grabbed the body’s ankles.

“Hold on there, matey. There’s one more thing to be done.”

Fletcher reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small cloth bag with a brass clasp. He threaded the woman’s arm through the bag’s strap, then pulled it over her head, leaving the bag slung diagonally across the body.

“Why not keep the bag? We could sell it.”

Fletcher shook his head. “Snow, me boy, you have a lot to learn. This bag is how we’ll get a bloody great pile of money from the vicar. It’s his niece’s bag and when they find the body they’ll think its her. We’ll collect from the vicar then.”

Round Freddy found Lund in his office, slumped in his chair, chin on his chest. The banker looked up as they entered the room, almost as if he had been expecting the visit.

“I shall need a few more minutes of your time, Mr. Lund.”

Lund smiled and chuckled under his breath. “I had an unshakable feeling that you would be back, sergeant. And now here you are.” He gestured for Round Freddy to take a seat.

“I’ll come straightaway to the point. What did you and the vicar argue about yesterday afternoon?”

Lund’s eyes widened in surprise. “How could you know . . . .”

“Think about it for a moment, Mr. Lund. We have been asking you probing questions about your relationship with Reverend Elsworth. Miss Waddington is kidnapped from Bootham Park. Did you not think we would be watching the vicarage? Of course we saw your argument at the vicarage.”

“I . . . I thought I might reason with the man. Make him see that I had to tell you the truth.”

“But the vicar wasn’t interested in you telling the truth, was he?”

The banker shook his head. “No, he was not. In fact, he threatened me. When I told him what had transpired, he said he would have Fletcher and his men deal with me.” Lund looked up at Round Freddy. “I was scared, sergeant. I returned here a fast as I could.”

“Why don’t you take a moment to collect yourself, and tell me more about this man, Fletcher.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

Round Freddy arched his eyebrows. “Indeed! That is precisely what you have been saying to us all along. And then you dribble more bits of information that would have helped us earlier.”

Lund hid his face in his hands, then dragged them down across his nose and mouth in a slow, drawing movement.

“I can honestly tell you, sergeant, that I am tired of the deceptions I have perpetrated. The truth is that the vicar sought my advice about the services of a man who would be willing to perform acts that were, how shall I say, outside of the law.”

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?”