Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

Round Freddy bellowed a cheerier “good morning” than he felt to the constable on desk duty, clucking his tongue and nodding at the stack of papers the man had yet to sort through. One flight up on the first floor, he ducked into the back room where the constable on watch brewed coffee. He sighed when he saw a pot steaming on the iron grate.

“There you are, Wallace. Do you mind if I help myself?”

The big constable smiled. “As if that would somehow stop you, eh?”

Round Freddy flipped his forefinger at Wallace. “Point taken, old man. Anything during the night?”

“Only the usual robberies, drunks and whores.”

“Which was it last night?”

“All three. And there was something else. An odd occurrence at Bootham Park. I have two constables looking into it now.”

“The lunatic asylum? What the devil’s happened there?”

“No word yet. Some kind of break-in, I expect. I’ll have the constables report to you as soon as they arrive.”

Round Freddy took a deep sip of the hot, strong liquid and smacked his lips.

“Outstanding as usual, Wallace. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

An hour passed as Round Freddy worked his way through the evidence on the Presbyterian Church case, once refilling his cup with Wallace’s brew.

A loud rap on the doorframe preceded the appearance of a youthful, ramrod-straight constable, accompanied by an older, gray-haired policeman. The older man nudged the younger in the ribs.

“Go on, boy. Give him the news.”

The young constable straightened himself even more. “Beggin’ your pardon, detective sergeant. Constables Pybus and Carter reporting on the incident at Bootham Park.”

The older constable bit his lip and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Good man. Report, if you please.”

“Sir, there’s been a kidnapping at the asylum. A young lady has been abducted.”

Round Freddy rose from the chair and leaned forward, hands splayed on the desktop. “What do you mean, abducted? From an insane asylum?”

“Yes, sir. Some men forced their way in during the night by breaking through the northwest door. They broke down another door inside the place and assaulted one of the attendants.”

“Were they after a particular individual, or was the young woman snatched as a hostage?”

“The details are a bit sketchy, sergeant, but it appears the kidnappers were looking for someone specific. They went directly to this woman’s room and took her straightaway from the place.”

“No one tried to stop them?”

The young constable shrugged. “The night attendants are old men. Hardly a match for the kidnappers.”

Round Freddy nodded and sat down heavily. “And the victim’s name?”

“It’s a Miss Jane Waddington.”

Jane coughed noisily, sitting bolt upright on the straw mattress. The metallic taste in her mouth brought a wave of nausea washing over her, which she fought back down by crossing her arms tightly over her stomach. As the nausea receded, she peered at her surroundings. She sat on a filthy mattress, filled with old straw and who knew what else. Jane stood quickly and brushed off the back of her nightdress, but regretted the action almost immediately as a wave of dizziness overcame her. She slumped to her knees on the stone floor, her chin lowered to her chest.

My God, she thought, what has happened to me? She knew she wasn’t in Bootham Park any more. This place smelled much different than the antiseptic smell of the asylum; it had the odor of the country, of dirt and manure.

Jane remembered dreaming that men had come into her room during the night at Bootham Park. She even pictured them carrying some kind of bundle, and there was that odd smell too. But then the dream suddenly had stopped.

She took a deep breath and stood again, more slowly this time, and reached out to a small table to steady herself. A rickety chair stood alongside the table and she gingerly lowered herself onto it, praying it would support her weight. It did, but not without creaking protest.

Jane looked around the room. Flagstone floored, with a single door set into the wall, the space looked to be about eight by ten feet in size. High in the wall opposite the door, she could see a small window of thick, milky glass that allowed some daylight into the dismal space. At the end of the narrow bed was a small pile of clothes. Her clothes.

Tears welled in her eyes. How could she get out of here? Who would know where she was and come to help her?

The sound of boots descending wooden stairs interrupted her thoughts and she stiffened in the old chair. Jane stared hard at the door, willing it to be locked. Just when she thought the boots had passed by, they stopped and she heard a key scrape in the lock. Slowly the latch moved up and the door swung open, banging lightly against the wall.

“Are you awake?” A tall, slender man stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, watching her.

“Yes.” Her voice cracked and she tasted the metallic taste again. “I would like a cup of water, if I may.”

The man took a step nearer and regarded her closely. “You should be resting. You’ll feel better if you’re over there.” He indicated the mattress with a nod of his head.

“I am perfectly fine where I am. But I do want some water and perhaps something to eat.”

The man stared at her for what she thought was an interminable time before replying. “I’ll see to it.”

He returned soon after with a mug of water and a handful of hard bread. He held the bread and water out for her to take, but she could not make her hands respond. He gave her a curious look and set the mug and bread on the table, shaking his close-cropped blond head.

“Eat the bread,” he said. “It’s all we have right now.”

When he left, Jane took a long draught of the water and broke the bread into smaller pieces, each of which she soaked in the water to soften before slipping them into her mouth. She was amazed at how hungry she was, even after finishing the hunk of stale bread.

Feeling slightly better, Jane rose and made a careful inspection of the room. She ran her hands over the wooden walls, fingering the seams between the boards, looking for a chink in the wooden armor. After a complete circuit of the room, she had found none.

The window, she thought. That must be the route out. Jane pulled the table to the wall, wedging it tightly against the smooth wood. She gently put her weight on the chair’s frame, then stepped onto the table. As her head came up even with the window, her spirits fell. The space occupied by the heavy glass was quite narrow; only eight or nine inches high, while its width was about fourteen. Even if she could somehow break out the heavy glass, she knew it would be impossible to squeeze through such a small opening.

The only way out would be through the door. She decided she would have to wait for the next visit from her snowy-haired jailer.

At the main doors to Bootham Park, Round Freddy sucked in his overhanging gut, only slightly diminishing its visible girth, then exhaled a blast of air as he simultaneously pushed open the heavy oak door. He knew the young constable accompanying him would only observe the blast of breath and the door opening, and draw the conclusion that Round Freddy had blown the door open. Inside, the tile floor of the entryway echoed with their boot steps as they approached a semicircular counter set against the side of a stairwell.

“Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume of the York Police to see Doctor Canham.”

The sleepy-eyed attendant leaned back from the counter and studied the two policemen briefly, then disappeared through a curtained doorway. Within minutes, Doctor Edward Canham, the director of Bootham Park, appeared and led them along green-hued corridors to an office in an outer wing of the building.