Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

Doctor Canham came around the desk, studying the man as he did. “Thank you Mrs. Sheppard. Please allow the fellow to enter.”

The doctor watched the woman hold her breath as the old man passed, then quickly retreat through the doorway. He was used to unusual patients being thrust at him by weary officials or harried family members, but could not remember one walking in on him unannounced.

“How may I help you?”

“Ye’d be Doctor Canham, the governor o’ Bootham Park Asylum?” The man’s front teeth were missing and most of the rest of them blackened. The odor emanating from him was beginning to permeate the room.

“That I am. Again I ask, how may I be of service to you? Do you need medical assistance?”

“Nay, it’s not for me that I’ve come. It’s the message.” The old man extended a crumpled paper in his hand.

Doctor Canham unfolded the paper and read the precise handwriting it contained. He peered over his round spectacles at the courier.

“Did you look at the contents of this message?”

“I did that, sir.”

“Did no one ever tell you that messages are meant to be private?”

“It makes no difference, sir. I can’ts read anyhow.”

Doctor Canham stifled a smile and dug in the pocket of his waistcoat for a coin. “Take this for your trouble. Can you find your way out?”

“Aye, sir, I can, and thank ye kindly.”

When the man had gone, the doctor went to the window and threw it fully open, allowing a breeze in that fluttered the papers on his desk and began to clear the odor hanging in the air.

He opened the paper again and reread the message.

DEAR DOCTOR CANHAM:

IT IS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE THAT YOU HOLD THIS COMMUNICATION IN THE STRICTEST OF CONFIDENCE, FOR MY VERY LIFE SHOULD DEPEND ON YOUR ACTIONS. YOU WILL KNOW THAT I WAS ABDUCTED FROM BOOTHAM PARK, BUT YOU CANNOT KNOW THAT THE HOUDLUMS WHO PERPETRATED THE ABDUCTION ALSO ATTEMPTED TO MURDER ME. IT WAS ONLY THROUGH GREAT GOOD FORTUNE THAT I WAS ABLE TO ESCAPE AND HAVE FOUND REFUGE AT THE SLEEPING DOG IN NUNTHORPE. YOU BELIEVED IN ME ENOUGH AT ONE TIME TO AUTHENTICATE MY ASSERTIONS AND FOUND ME TO BE TELLING THE TRUTH. I PRAY THAT YOU WILL HELP ME AGAIN. PLEASE ALERT THE AUTHORITIES OF MY WHEREABOUTS, FOR I CONTINUE TO BE FEARFUL OF THOSE WHO ABDUCTED ME. PERHAPS THE POLICE CAN ARRANGE SAFE PASSAGE FOR ME. WITH MY DEEPEST THANKS.

JANE WADDINGTON

Tucking the paper into his jacket pocket, Doctor Canham jammed on his hat and within two minutes stepped into the courtyard, heading toward his automobile.

Doctor Canhan had thought that his Sunbeam automobile was an extravagance when he purchased it six months previously, but had become so comfortable in the vehicle that he knew he could never go back to using a horse and carriage regularly. The 16-horsepower vehicle commanded more than enough power to get him around town, and he delighted in taking the Sunbeam on country roads and getting as much speed as he could out of her.

The doctor wound his way through St. Sampson’s Square, then turned onto Church Street and pulled to the kerb in front of the Central York Police Station. Inside, a burly police corporal behind a high counter confronted him.

“Your business, sir?”

“I must speak with the officer in charge of the abduction at the asylum. I believe it is Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume.”

“And you must speak with him because. . . ?”

“I must speak directly with him, constable. I have information for his ears only.”

The corporal nodded and disappeared through a doorway. He returned a few minutes later and gestured the doctor to follow. As the doctor moved deeper into the police station, constables glanced his way, then apparently uninterested in him, returned to their conversations and their work. Presently, he found himself ushered into an office filled with papers, casebooks and dead cigarette and cigar butts.

Round Freddy looked up from the desk, his eyebrows raised. “Please take a chair, doctor. I surely did not expect to have a visit from you today.”

“It is only because of an urgent message that I received, sergeant.” The doctor held out the crumpled paper.

Round Freddy read the contents quickly, then peered over the top of the paper at the doctor. He lowered his gaze and read the message a second time, noting the date on the letter was after when the body in the river was found. He dropped the paper on his desk and leaned back in his chair.

“You believe the message to be genuine, then?”

“Absolutely.”

“And why is that?”

“Because no one else but Miss Waddington knew that I personally investigated the claims she made against her uncle. I found clear evidence that she was telling the truth, which is why I was going to release her from Bootham Park.”

Round Freddy stroked his chin, then quickly stood up. “Doctor, thank you very much for bringing this message to me. I trust you will keep your word to Miss Waddington and not say anything of this matter to anyone else.”

The doctor stood too. “Yes, surely I will keep my word. But what will you do now?”

Round Freddy smiled broadly. “Why bring the girl back here safely, of course.”

Reverend Elsworth peered around the corner into the kitchen. The cook was bent over a table, fussing with the filling for a mince pie. He drew back and quickly covered the distance to his study, where he shut and locked the door. Sliding open the drawer of a desk built into a wall of bookcases, the reverend pulled out the papers and envelopes that filled the space and put them aside. Then he reached into the back of the drawer, searching with his fingers until he heard a soft click. Pulling up on the false bottom, his eyes grew larger, as they always did when he looked at his secret stash. In the bottom of the drawer lay six thousand pounds sterling in crisp notes.

As he carefully arranged bundles of bills in the bottom of a satchel, a dark look crossed the vicar’s face. Damn that Goodwin, he thought. Seven hundred and fifty pounds! The man was a thief in good clothes. The reverend drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. At least the bulk of his cash would be made safe, he mused. He could be sure of that.

Round Freddy leaned back against the Austin’s leather seat and exhaled a long breath as he studied the outside of the Sleeping Dog public house. The pub had only been open an hour and he could already see that a crowd had formed inside the main room. The low hum of voices and clinking glassware seeped out of the open doorway. He huffed out another breath and pulled himself from the vehicle, glancing at Andrews as the constable came around the front of the car.

“I want you to keep a sharp eye open in there,” Round Freddy said, jerking his head in the direction of the pub. “We’re dealing with criminals who have no compunction about killing innocent women, so they hardly would blink an eye at the thought of killing a copper.”

“Aye, sergeant. Should I bring my truncheon?”

“I believe that would be a wise decision.”

As Round Freddy strode into the dimly-lit pub, followed by Andrews, the level of conversation in the room dipped noticeably, then stopped all together.

“Publican, a moment of your time,” he said, bellying up to the polished bar.

Harold gave Round Freddy a fish-eyed look. “Anything to drink?”

“Not at the moment. I’ve come to speak to Miss Waddington.” He turned toward the center of the room and as his eyes swept back and forth, the onlookers returned their attention to their ale and conversations.

“And who might ye be?”

The look on Harold’s face told Round Freddy the man had a natural talent for obstinate behavior. He decided on a pleasant approach and smiled.