Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

“Andrews, where the devil are you. Fletcher’s getting away.”

Exasperated, Round Freddy leaned out of the window, looking down at the roof of the porch directly below him. Fletcher must have jumped to the roof and then to the ground. As Round Freddy stretched farther out the window, a pair of legs in blue uniform trousers splayed on the ground came into view.

“Andrews! Can you hear me?”

No response.

Round Freddy hurried back down the three flights of stairs as fast as his bulk would carry him. As he turned the corner into the rear yard, he saw Andrews sitting on the ground, holding his head.

“Are you all right, man? What happened.”

Andrews shut his eyes tightly as if he were trying to remember the answer to a difficult riddle.

“Can you speak? Are you injured?

“Me head and shoulder hurt.”

Round Freddy looked up at the roof of the porch where broken shingles dangled at the edge.

“Fletcher escaped through his window to that roof,” Round Freddy said, pointing. “He must have leaped from there directly on top of you. I expect you were knocked unconscious.”

Andrews tried to stand, but fell back into a sitting position quickly.

“Woo, me head’s spinning now.”

“You sit there and don’t move. I shall go for help.”

“No, sir. Give me a minute to get me bearings. I’ll be fine.”

Round Freddy stared hard at the constable.

“Very well, then. We shall wait a few minutes for you to recover. But there’s one thing I shall insist on.”

“What’s that, detective?”

“I’ll do the driving.”

“But you’ve never driven before, sir.”

“How difficult can it be, Andrews? After all, you’ve mastered it.”

Fletcher rubbed his eye socket through the black patch, digging his fingertips into the peeling flesh at its edges and mumbling as he plodded down the filthy alley. Ahead of him, rats skittered along the base of the building walls among litter and trash, rushing from one side of the alley to the other in front of his boots. As a rodent approached from the side, Fletcher kicked at it, sending the rat hurtling against the brick wall with a liquid thud.

“At least t’others will have a supper tonight,” he said aloud, glancing back the way he had come.

The wooden door to Snow’s house had been repaired with heavy planking laid both horizontally and vertically to reinforce the decaying condition of the original planks. Fletcher cursed when it refused to yield by pulling on its latch, and he kicked its base three times, shaking dust from in between the old boards. In less than a minute Fletcher heard the sound of a bolt being thrown back and the door creaked open on a wizened old woman, squinting into the outside light from the dim room.

“Snow. Is ‘e ‘ere?”

The old woman did not reply but simply stood aside as Fletcher entered and then passed through the small front room to the rear of the house. Snow sat at a dilapidated table, munching a slab of dark bread lathered with a red jam.

“Snow, me boy, how’s your foot feeling?”

Snow smiled widely, exposing two blackened teeth along with a mass of partially-chewed bread. His voice quavered like the sound of a ghostly apparition, the result of a bout with scarlet fever during his toddling years.

“A tad better. I’m hardly limping.” Snow stood and walked the length of the narrow room, as if to prove his contention. “And how are your . . . jewels?”

Fletcher looked over his shoulder toward the front room before replying.

“Aye, lad, have your bit of fun. I’ve come for the bundle I left with you.”

Snow crammed the remains of the bread in his mouth, then took a long swig of water from a crockery mug. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dripping crumbs down the front of his shirt.

“I’ll get it for you.”

Fletcher eyed him up and down, but couldn’t suppress a smile. When Snow returned from the back room, he held out a long bundle, wrapped in a stained, threadbare blanket.

“What’s in it?” he asked.

Fletcher stared at him. “Ye mean ye didn’t look inside?”

“Nay. You told me to hide it well and leave it alone. I did.”

Fletcher shook his head and chuckled. The kid was more of a simpleton than he first surmised.

Behind the wheel of the Austin, Round Freddy decided that he had made a potentially deadly mistake. As he came abreast of the intersection with Groves Lane, he wrenched the steering wheel hard to the left to avoid two dray horses pulling a heavy goods wagon. The wagon driver’s curses followed him down the street. Round Freddy glanced over at Andrews and was stunned to see a tight smile on the constable’s face.

“Something particularly amusing, Andrews?” Round Freddy asked as he narrowly avoided a collision with a stationery lamp pole.

Andrews bit his lip and the smile disappeared. “No, sir.”

“Damned machinery. Nothing like driving a horse rig,” Round Freddy mumbled. “The horse seems to know his way around, but this metal contraption has to be told everything.” He winced as the right fender scraped the wheel of a tinker’s cart at the side of the road, sending tools and grinding wheels crashing into the street.

He looked at Andrews again. “It’s a lucky thing for you that you’re injured. I expect you won’t be able to remember any of this.”

Andrews had the tight smile on his face again. “No, sir. I’m sure I won’t.”

Ten minutes and four brushes with wagons and post boxes later, Round Freddy braked to a halt in front of the station.

“Do you require any assistance, Andrews?”

“Only a wee bit of support to get into the station, sir.”

Round Freddy studied him for a long moment, then grasped Andrews’ arm at the elbow.

“You can be sure this is the last time you’ll see me doing this.”

“One can only hope, sir.”

In his office, Jane leaped to her feet as Round Freddy came through the door.

“Have you caught the man?”

“Regrettably, no. He gave us the slip. But please don’t worry. We shall get him. In the meantime, we shall get you to a place where you’ll be safe. I imagine you’re tired of this place by now. Sergeant Wallace has made all the necessary arrangements.”

“And where do you intend on taking me?”

“Southwest across the river, past the railway station, there’s a country house called Ashfield. It’s the retirement home of a former sergeant on the force. He and his wife have agreed to shelter you until we can bring this case to a conclusion.”

“How long do you expect that to be?”

Round Freddy shrugged. “I wish I could give you a clear estimate on that point, miss, but I cannot. I would expect a week would not be out of the ordinary. Perhaps more.”

“Will I be allowed to go outside?”

“Indeed, you will. Ashfield House is in a rural setting and is well protected by a high wall. The house sits well back from the road amid some fields, has a protective wall around it, and there are plenty of gardens where you should be able to amuse yourself if you choose.”

“It seems as if I have no alternative.”

“No, my dear, you do not. At least not at the moment. Your safety is my chief concern.”

The Dealer sat at a scarred pine table in the back corner of the Hound and Hen public house, his gaze flickering over the tall constable who stood in the doorway backlit by the noonday sun. The Dealer motioned with his chin toward the door, and Goodwin slowly looked over his shoulder.

“Looking for someone, I would guess,” Goodwin said, turning back toward his pint. “It can’t have anything to do with us. We’ve left a clean trail.”