Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

“To the River Ouse at the foot of Scarborough Bridge, Andrews. It appears that we have another case on our hands, one equally as nefarious as the Waddington mystery. A dead body, my boy. A dead woman’s body.”

“You don’t think there’s any connection between the two cases, do you sir?”

“I never try to think until I am presented with facts to think about,” Round Freddy said, grinning widely. “We shall know more shortly.”

He could tell that Andrews was nervous from the way the lad’s foot shuddered on the motorcar’s accelerator, causing a stuttering motion in no way related to the cobblestones over which they rode.

Andrews parked the Austin in the shadow of the Scarborough Bridge’s north pier and the two of them walked past gawkers and bystanders to the water’s edge. Round Freddy pointed to the corpse that had filled up with gases and floated like a ship’s life preserver.

“The body has been in the water for some time,” he said to Andrews in a conspiratorial whisper. I would hazard a guess of at least a day or more. The decomposing tissue emits gases that makes the body fill up with air. So, of course, the corpse floats.”

Andrews shifted his weight from side to side, but said nothing.

As two beefy constables heaved the body onto the long reeds at the shoreline, Round Freddy stepped forward. But Constable Andrews, staring hard at the bloated body, coughed and bent forward, spraying his breakfast on the ground and across the tips of his scuffed boots.

Round Freddy grimaced, first at Andrews, then at the distorted features of the woman’s body.

She had never been pretty, even in life, he thought, but she was by no means ugly either. More plain than anything else, with dark freckles splashed across her face and neck and long red hair, now clumped into matted ropes of dull sienna that obscured much of her face.

He pushed her hair aside. Round Freddy had never seen Jane Waddington and knew he could not identify her by looking at this corpse.

“Shall I have Reverend Elsworth brought here to see if this is his niece, detective sergeant?” Andrews seemed to have recovered some of his composure.

Round Freddy held up his hand, then reached down to the body. A small bag was slung across the body’s chest, from shoulder to hip, its pouch secured by a brass clasp. He unsnapped the clasp and slipped two fingers inside the wet material, extracting a small wad of papers and several coins.

“Robbery obviously was not the motive,” he said as he pulled the sodden papers apart. “And here is what we are seeking.”

He held up a crumpled, dripping calling card. It read: Miss Jane Waddington. Fenleigh House. York.

Round Freddy stood and motioned the beefy two constables over to him. He spoke with them a minute, then looked at Andrews and smiled.

“Right, constable, let’s be on our way. This puts an entirely different shine to the case, I daresay.”

Jane brushed a strand of hair out of her eye and behind her ear as she leaned against the kitchen doorway, surveying the room. The pub overflowed with people, many of them soundly inebriated, even though closing time remained two hours distant. This pub life is not for me, she thought, wondering if she would ever get back to her former life of tranquility. She straightened and nodded to a heavily-whiskered man gesturing wildly to attract her attention.

“Yes, sir. What can I get you?”

“Two pints of bitter, young lass. And we’ll continue to be friends, then.” The man squinted through a pince-nez, then leered as she left.

But before Jane could reach the bar to deliver the order to Harold, a meaty hand swept around her waist and a red-faced drover pulled her onto his lap.

“Here now, miss. Wot’s your hurry? Sit with me for a spell and let me tell you some tales.”

Jane squirmed from his grasp and succeeded in standing before the ginger-haired drover clamped his hand on her forearm.

His face tightened and he said in a loud voice, “I said we’re to talk a bit miss, and I mean to do it right now.” He pulled Jane back onto his lap and tightened his grip on her waist.

Jane let her body go limp, and as the drover grabbed to keep her from falling, she raked her nails across his cheek, drawing trails of blood.”

The drover roared in pain and stood up, dropping Jane onto the floor.

“I’ll show you how to behave with a man,” he shouted, grabbing her by the hair and raising her off the wood planking.

As he did, a wooden truncheon crashed across the side of his head, splitting his scalp from the eyebrow to the ear, and sending him crashing to the floor.

Harold, with the truncheon still raised threateningly, pointed at the drover.

“Don’t you ever touch any of the staff in my pub again or the next time I’ll slice your bollocks off for you.”

The drover, blood streaming down the side of his head, started to stand, but sat back down when Harold waved the truncheon.

“Out,” Harold yelled. “Out of my pub, now!”

“But I’ve a half pint left to finish.”

Harold picked up the mug and slowly poured the remaining contents over the drover’s head, then slammed it down on the table.

“You’re finished now. Out.”

As the drover limped toward the door, Harold took Jane by the elbow and helped her sit in the chair the drover had vacated.

“Are you all right?”

Jane nodded, her limbs still shaking.

“Lizzie,” Harold called, “sherry for the girl. And be quick about it.”

“He wouldn’t release me. He had a tight grip on me.”

“He won’t do that again, girl. You can wager on that.”

Lizzie held out a glass of sherry and Jane greedily gulped the contents, then coughed furiously as the fiery liquid burned the back of her throat.

“Easy there, dearie; there’s plenty more and enough time to drink it in.”

Lizzie plucked at Harold’s sleeve and pulled him to the side.

“That was a good thing you did for her. I’m beginning to think you might actually have a soft spot, Harold.”

Harold scowled and looked away. “Gawd, woman. Must you always make a pile out of nothing?”

“Still, you did well. I’m proud of you.”

Harold lowered his chin and mumbled. “Well the girl’s a hard worker. She deserves better treatment.”

“I’ll show you good treatment later,” Lizzie said, swinging her hips as she moved to Jane’s side.

“A few more days, lovie. You should have some kind of answer by then from your doctor friend.”

Jane brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.

“I wish I could believe that. I really do.”

The sound of the heavy door knocker had hardly drifted away when the housekeeper swung the vicarage door open. “Oh, it’s you gentlemen from the police. I expect you’ll want the reverend.”

“Indeed we do,” Round Freddy said, fingering the brim of the hat in his hands. “May we come in?”

“Please take a seat in the sitting room there.” The housekeeper indicated an arrangement of overstuffed, flower furniture in a room off the entry hall.

Round Freddy stood as Reverend Elsworth entered the room.

“What is it now, detective?”

“I think that you might want to sit down, sir. I have distressing news.”

The reverend stiffened, but did not move.

“We found a body in the river. We believe it to be your niece.” Round Freddy pulled a damp bag from his pocket and handed it to the reverend. “This also was in the bag.” He held out the wrinkled and stained calling card.

The reverend looked at the card, but did not touch it. “That’s her card. And this is her bag,” he said, turning the bag over and over in his hands.