Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

The Dealer watched the constable thread his way through the crowded public room, his head swiveling slowly from side to side and his face expressionless. As the constable reached the back of the room, the Dealer looked him straight in the eye and let a smile curl one side of his mouth. The constable nodded and moved back through the room and out the door.

“What was that about?” Goodwin asked.

“I’ve found that looking like a cornered rat attracts far greater attention from the police. Showing you have nothing to hide, or no fear, for that matter, has always worked for me.”

Goodwin drank deeply and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You are a cold one, I’ll say that.”

A smile broke over the Dealer’s face and just as quickly disappeared. “Lund’s arrived. Remember what we discussed.”

“I shall play my part well, as always.”

Lund fought his way through the room and arrived at the back table, brushing his sleeve as if it were on fire. “Dirty rascals. They should learn how to behave.”

“Mr. Lund, so good of you to join us.” The Dealer, a bemused look on his face, indicated an empty stool.

The banker sat down and looked from the Dealer to Goodwin, then back. “And who might this be?” he asked, pointing at Goodwin.

The Dealer reached across the table and bent Lund’s index finger back, eliciting a howl from the banker and a chorus of laughter from nearby drinkers.

“It’s exceptionally impolite to point, especially at someone you do not know,” the Dealer said, releasing Lund’s finger.

Lund scowled at the table and rubbed his finger vigorously. “Damn but that hurt. Why did you do such a thing?”

“Simply to gain your attention, Mr. Lund. I want to be sure that you are aware how serious we are.”

“What are you talking about? Serious about what?” Lund’s voice had risen to a squeak.

“All in good time.” The Dealer caught the attention of a barmaid and ordered three pints.

“Now as to your first question, this is Mr. Goodwin, an associate of mine. He has a special talent for, shall we say, ferreting out information. Usually that information is of the kind that people wish to keep secret. As in your case.”

“M-m-my case?”

“Precisely. Your case or should I say the case of the missing funds from Miss Jane Waddington’s trust.”

The banker’s face paled, but he said nothing.

“No slick comment to make now, I see. Well, no matter. We shall explore the possibilities available to us to alleviate this delicate situation for you.”

The Dealer paused, and seeing that Lund was panic-stricken, continued. “Your recent investment of funds with me sharpened my natural sense of curiosity. Imagine a banker with two thousand quid to invest who takes that money to someone other than his own bank. It does sound a bit queer, doesn’t it.”

The Dealer paused again and Lund gave an almost-imperceptible nod.

“That’s where Mr. Goodwin enters the picture. He was most helpful in tracking down the source of those funds. Of course we all now know the money actually belongs to the vicar’s niece.”

Lund sat as still as a salt pillar, his gaze riveted on the Dealer, who continued.

“Mr. Goodwin and me, we got to talking one evening and decided that perhaps you might be convinced to share some of that ill-found wealth with us. A small portion of it, at least.”

Rivulets of sweat ran down the side of Lund’s face and he shook his head as if coming out of a trance. “What if I refused?”

The Dealer leaned forward, all traces of good nature gone. “Then several events might take place. The first would be the notification of the bank’s board of directors about the irregularities. Second, the police would be sure to become involved. And third, there is the possibility of some possible harm befalling members of your family.”

Lund’s lower lip trembled for a half minute before he stammered, “How much would a small portion amount to?”

The Dealer looked at Goodwin and smiled. “You see, I told you Lund would be a reasonable man.” He stroked his chin, then clapped his hand down hard on Lund’s shoulder. “There’s no need to be fearful. We’ll be willing to settle for half.”

“H-h-half of the entire investment?”

“Aye, that’s right. A thousand pounds Sterling.” The Dealer leaned closer to Lund, his gaze locked on the banker’s. “You can’t afford not to cooperate with us Mr. Lund. And after all, it’s only money. You’ll get more.”

Lund lowered his head and stared at the table. “All right. Whatever you say.”

“Capital! Why we’re almost like partners.” The Dealer clapped Lund on the shoulder again, and then drained the last of his ale. “Incidentally, Mr. Lund, “the pints are on you.”

Jane opened her eyes and looked around the brightly-lit room, squinting as she peered out an undraped window into the bright sunshine. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was and a small panic seized her as she bolted upright on the bed. Then her rapid heartbeat slowed when she remembered the policeman bringing her to the country house late the previous evening. Ashfield House, he had called it. He had said it was well away from the city; she hoped he was right.

She slid off the bed and moved to the washstand where a pitcher of tepid water stood next to a basin with a large chip in its rim. She poured two inches of water into the basin and gently splashed the water over her face, rubbing it back and forth into the corners of her eyes. She wondered if there was someone in the house to protect her, another policeman perhaps. She decided to go downstairs and find out.

The clatter of pots drew Jane’s attention toward the back of the house. She negotiated a dim hallway leading from the entry hall and found herself at the entrance to a dining room. Through a door in the far wall, she could see a woman fussing over something on a table.

“Hello, there,” she called as she moved into the kitchen. “May I help you with anything?”

A dark-haired woman with thick forearms and a stained apron looked startled at Jane’s appearance in the doorway, yet recovered quickly and continued with her work.

“Your personal protection, miss.” the cook said, nodding toward the opposite wall where a thin constable sat, squirming in his wool uniform.

As the constable stood, Jane had to stifle a smile because his uniform appeared to be dripping off his body, being at least two sizes too large.

“Morning, miss. Constable Phillips is the name. I’m here to be sure that no harm comes to you.” He shifted from one foot to the other, seemingly unsure of what to do next.

“How do you do, constable. I shall rest easier knowing that you are here.” She smiled as Phillips visibly relaxed. “Can you tell me if I am allowed to go outside? Sergeant Hume said the house is surrounded by a high wall. He mentioned some gardens where I might take a stroll. It’s such a beautiful morning.”

“I – I’m not sure that’s a wise idea, miss. There are bad people looking for you,” Phillips stammered.

“Let the girl walk in the garden, for goodness sakes.” The cook stood with her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “We’re the only ones that know she’s here, other than Sergeant Hume and me own governor,” she said. “It can’t hurt her to get a bit of air.”

Phillips looked from the cook to Anne and back again. “All right,” he said, hanging his head. “But I’ll be out there with her.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, constable,” Anne responded. Then she turned and headed for the front door.

Goodwin turned when the door to Goodram Chapel’s anteroom creaked as it was opened. He heaved a sigh when he saw the Reverend Elsworth peer through the narrow doorway. Goodwin, sitting at a deal table, had his sizeable bulk tilted back in a wooden chair at an alarming angle. As the vicar came into the room, Goodwin pushed his weight forward and the chair slammed onto the stone floor with a bang.