Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

“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.”

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.