Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

Round Freddy studied the reverend’s face, but couldn’t decide if it was shock or unconcern that registered there. He gently took the bag back from the reverend.

“I’m sure you understand. This is a police investigation and these items are evidence. We shall be sure to return them to you as soon as possible.”

The reverend nodded, then lowered his gaze to the floor.

“Did she drown?”

“It seems so, although the doctor has not finished with the body yet. We shall know more presently.”

“Then that’s it,” the reverend said, slapping his thighs and standing abruptly. “She’s killed herself.“

“We don’t know that is what transpired, sir. The only thing we know now is that she was found floating in the river. How she came to be there or how she met her end are still questions to be answered.”

“I shall have to make arrangements for her burial.”

“Yes, of course. We will have the body released to you as soon as the doctor is finished with his examination. I’ll have constable Andrews advise you personally.”

The reverend nodded absently. “That would be fine.”

Round Freddy glanced at Andrews and cocked his head toward the door. Neither of them said anything as they left the house.

Fletcher stood in the deep shadows at the rear of St. Philip’s Church, watching as the last of three old women made her way toward the exit and into the churchyard. St. Philip’s was laid out in the traditional form of a cross, with a transept bisecting the main hall and nave near the church’s apex. Three aisles, one in the center and one on each side, led from the entryway to the celebratory podium at the front.

To the left side of the transept stood a baptismal font; a choir area was on the right. Set into the outer wall adjacent to the choir stall was an oak door. Fletcher heard the protest of little-used hinges as the door opened, and when it shut with a thud, Fletcher could make out the Reverend Elsworth through the dim light. The vicar paused briefly before striding to the front of the church, where he rummaged through a cabinet set into a side wall.

Fletcher shambled down the left aisle and came up behind the vicar without making a sound.

“A fine afternoon it is, vicar.”

The reverend spun around, his face ashen. “What are you doing here? My God, man, someone could see us together.”

Fletcher chuckled and pinched the tip of his nose. “I shouldn’t worry about that, vicar. Folks is used to seeing all kinds of people come and go from the church. Another one shan’t make a difference.”

“What do you want?”

“Only what’s due me. I’m here for the rest of the payment.”

“Fletcher,” the reverend began, raising a hand as if trying to calm a nervous horse, “this is neither the time nor the place.”

Fletcher stepped closer and thrust his face next to the vicar’s.

“I thought ye might say something of the kind. It may not be the place, but the time is right. You heard from the police, eh?”

“I did.”

Fletcher sighed heavily and his face grew grave. “Ye shouldn’t make this any harder than it is vicar. What did they say?”

The reverend hesitated. “They brought round Jane’s bag and one of her calling cards. She was pulled from the river, drowned.”

“Is that what they said?” Fletcher asked.

“No, you fool. It must be obvious, even to you. She got away from you and drowned in the river.”

Fletcher bumped his chest against the vicar until the reverend was pressed up against the cabinet.

“Ye listen to me ye sanctimonious arsehole,” Fletcher hissed. “I took care of the girl as ye directed, and it weren’t the water which killed her. It were me. So ye’d better be thinking hard about getting together the rest of the cash that ye owe for the deed being completed.”

The vicar squirmed away. “All right, man. All right.” He brushed his jacket with long strokes as he spoke. “There is no need to get physical here. We can settle this like . . . gentlemen, can we not? You’ll appreciate that I don’t carry great amounts of cash on my person.”

Fletcher eyed the vicar closely. “When can we settle it and where?”

“Give me a day to get the cash. Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Is that the best ye can manage?”

“The bank is likely closed by now,” the reverend said, snapping open his pocket watch. “Yes, probably shutting its doors as we speak. I shall stop in the morning and get the cash, then meet you. Let’s say the Goodram Chapel on Goodram Gate Road at two.”

“Nay, ye’ll not choose the location this time. Ye’ll meet me in the forecourt of the York Minster at noon. That should allow ye plenty of time to get from the bank to the Minster.” He edged closer to the vicar. “Ye do plan on being there to meet me, don’t ye? And alone.”

The reverend leaned back away from Fletcher, and steepled his hands in front of him as if in prayer.

“I’ve come this far in this devilish business. I shall see it through to the end.”

“Just be sure ye do,” Fletcher intoned, “or ye might find yourself swimming in the River Ouse too.”

Lund twisted in his seat, watching Round Freddy pick his nails and then run his fingers down the ledger’s columns. The detective had the book propped up on his knee, precariously balanced, as he nonchalantly went about his personal hygiene. Without warning, Round Freddy snatched the ledger from his lap and flung it onto the center of Lund’s desk. The heavy book landed with a loud thud and sent papers fluttering to the floor.

“Perhaps you could explain the second entry for June fourteenth?”

Lund took a deep breath and read the entry, then his shoulders sagged. “It’s a payment to a corporation for services rendered,” he stammered.

“Ah, yes. The Alliance Stock Society. Is that not the organization that was closed down two years ago for fraudulently extracting investments from the good citizens of York?”

The banker said nothing.

“And the third entry for July twenty-seventh?”

Lund ran his finger down the column and closed his eyes at sight of the entry. He did not answer.

“Let me see,” Round Freddy began. “Is that not the £450 payment to the North Eastern Temperance Protective Society? That is the very group we have shown to have no offices and no staff, nor does it do work of any nature whatsoever.”

Lund sat back in his chair, his eyes flickering toward the closed door.

“Perhaps you should explain your role in this matter, Mr. Lund. If you assist us in the investigation, it will be to your credit when you stand before the magistrate. We will be pleased to tell him that you had no part in the abduction and possible murder of Miss Waddington.”

The banker blanched. “M . . m . . murder? I had nothing to do with murder, only the false payments.”

“Well then, perhaps you should start at the beginning.”

Doctor Canham straightened in his chair and slowly hunched his shoulders up, rolled them back, then relaxed. He repeated the exercise four times, and with each repetition, exhaled a long breath. The stack of paperwork on the right side of his desk had dwindled from over a foot high to only two inches, but the effort took its toll on his back and neck. He pulled the next case file from the stack, but was interrupted by a light tapping on his door.

“Come.”

The door swung open to reveal his office attendant, Mrs. Sheppard, standing in front of an ill-dressed elderly man, white hair peaked high on his head and cap in his hand.

“Doctor, this . . . man . . . would like a word with you. He says he has something to give only to your hands and refuses to tell me what it involves.” Mrs. Sheppard edged further into the room, putting more distance between her and the rumpled courier.