Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

“How’s that, sir?” Andrews replied. “I don’t take your drift.”

Round Freddy gave the constable the kind of smile a parent gives a backward child. “This fellow, the Dealer, and whoever his shadowy partner might be. They seem to have no conscience at all in relieving honest citizens of their money.”

Round Freddy leaned back in the chair and his eyebrows shot up. “Did I say ‘honest citizens’ when I was referring to our good banker, Mr. Lund?” He laughed and shook his head. “I suppose we can hardly classify Mr. Lund as an honest citizen, seeing as he embezzled two thousand quid from a trust fund that he was sworn to protect.”

“Miss Waddington’s money?”

“Correct, constable. Money that she was even unaware amounted to a considerable sum. By my reckoning, something on the order of eight to ten thousand pounds is missing from the fund. Lund admits to shifting two thousand of it in small amounts into his own accounts. That leaves quite a bit of money still unaccounted for.”

The constable’s brow was furrowed, as if in thought. “If Lund didn’t take it, then who did?”

“The answer to that question may be the key that solves this case,” Round Freddy said, coming around the front of the desk. “I plan on taking a closer look at the reverend’s life to see if any changes have been made over the past year. Money usually means changes in how one lives.”

Andrews nodded, but Round Freddy could see that the constable was still well behind in figuring out his reasoning.

“Andrews, I need your assistance if we are to have a hope to catch this fellow, the Dealer. Now here is what I want you to do.”

Round Freddy drew closer to Andrews and explained his plan to catch the Dealer.

***'

Jane felt like a bird confined in a large cage. She had the ability to move around, to fly a bit even, but not the freedom to go where she wanted. Not that she specifically desired to go anywhere. But the past few weeks had been particularly trying and she felt as if everyone else controlled her life. And she wasn’t far wrong on that score, she mused. Her uncle had incarcerated her in Bootham Park Lunatic Asylum, she had felt compelled to work in the Sleeping Dog public house in order to have a place to hide, and now the police had her hidden away in this house, pleasant as it was.

She looked out the second story window, across the back garden, to a wooden gate set into the high brick wall. A stack of decaying crates leaned up against the wall near the gate, partially shielding the gate from anyone’s view at the back door. Deciding quickly, Jane snatched a bonnet and a hooded cape from hooks on the wall and quietly stole down the back staircase.

At the bottom she froze, listening intently for voices from other parts of the house, but she heard nothing. She moved along the dusty corridor to the pantry and then into the kitchen. No one was around. She cracked the back door open and peek out. Satisfied that she was alone, she slipped out and quietly closed the door behind her.

At the back gate she cast a long glance back at the house, holding her breath for fear that constable Phillips would come out of the door and detain her. But he didn’t. She smiled and drew the deadbolt on the heavy wood gate, and pulling it open a bit, slipped through and out into freedom.

Lund didn’t like the fact that the Dealer refused to meet in a public house this time as he had in the past. Apparently, the thought of passing money in so public a place put him off. So the Dealer had chosen a more remote location, but one that sent shivers of worry up Lund’s spine.

Just south of the Scarborough Bridge that crossed over the River Ouse, Lund found Cinder Lane heading off to the west, leading to St. Barnabas Church near Jubilee Terrace. He trudged along Cinder Lane, walking parallel to the North Eastern Railway spurs that led to one of the line’s small train maintenance sheds. The lane was coated with a fine layer of soot from the engines that moved rolling stock back and forth along the spur line for repair.

When he arrived at St. Barnabas, Lund clambered over the head high fence that separated the railway lines from the rest of the world and made his way to the northeast corner of the maintenance shed. As he approached, he could hear the sound of hammers striking metal inside the shed, and the shouts of the workers. Shrinking back into the shadows of the shed, Lund bumped into something soft and yielding.

“Here now, Mr. Lund. You should not be getting too familiar with me.” The Dealer’s smile was visible even through the gloom of the evening.

Lund put his hand over his heart, as if to prevent it from flying from his chest. “Bigod, you frightened me.”

The Dealer tightened his hold on the woman that Lund had bumped into. She was buxom, probably in her mid-twenties, and apparently quite inebriated.

“What is she doing here?”

The Dealer smiled wider. “You didn’t think I was willing to wait in such a place as this without some amusement at hand, did ye?”

Lund could think of no reply. Instead, he said, “I have what you requested.”

The Dealer laughed and slapped his knee. “You slay me, Lund. It was not a request. It was a demand.” He extended his hand. “Give it here.”

Lund reached into his coat and extracted a fat envelope from an inside pocket.

“I hope you are satisfied.”

“I am never satisfied,” the Dealer responded, pulling open the envelope and fanning the money in the dim light. “However, I can be mollified from time to time.” He laughed again and squeezed the woman tightly.

“Get along there, Mr. Lund. Your task is done now.”

Lund gritted his teeth and bit back a reply as he slunk into the shadows.

Andrews followed Lund at a considerable distance and nearly panicked when he saw Lund disappear to the west off the southern bridge approach. But he soon picked up Lund ahead of him on Cinder Lane, seemingly unaware that anyone might be following him.

At St. Barnabas Church Lund looked around as if he were going to commit a crime and then clumsily climbed the fence that separated the railway from Cinder Lane. Andrews watch him disappear into the gloom and then followed.

After negotiating the fence, Andrews moved slowly until he heard voices coming from near the shed that loomed out of the darkness. He pulled back and moved sideways, finding cover behind a large piece of railway machinery that seemed to be abandoned near the side of the shed.

Andrews listened to the exchange between the Dealer and Lund, and had to smile when the Dealer got the best of the little banker. After Lund left, Andrews watched as the Dealer planted a long kiss on the woman’s lips. It seemed as if he were supporting her more than she was herself. Before long, they moved off to the west toward the fence at Kingland Terrace, where they would be among new cottages in the Victoria Park neighborhood.

He watched as the Dealer helped the woman over the fence and then followed. Softly, he followed them, intent on keeping them in sight, yet not being discovered. He knew he had to discover where the Dealer lived.

Sunderland Avenue teemed with activity. Pedestrians jostled one another on the crowded pavements, while an assortment of horse-drawn carts and carriages jockeyed for position with gas-powered motorcars and an electric tram. The housekeeper passed T. Rowling’s butcher shop and turned north toward the Turkish Baths. Just beyond, in the next block, stood the main police station.

She pushed hard on the station’s heavy oak door and then approached the high counter manned by an older policeman. She was wringing a handkerchief in her hands.