Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

The policeman looked down at her. “Yes?”

“I . . . I am here to report a kidnapping.”

“A kidnapping, you say? Just who has been taken?”

“Actually, the reverend’s not been taken anywhere.”

An exasperated look shot across the policeman’s face. “Then how can it be a kidnapping if no one has been taken?”

“Well, he’s been taken, but not away. He is being held against his will in his own house. In the vicarage.”

The policeman’s countenance changed. “You wait right there, miss. I shall have a detective speak with you straight away.”

Two minutes later Round Freddy lumbered around the counter and took the housekeeper’s elbow. “This way miss. We can speak in private in my office.”

As soon as she sat in a straight-backed wooden chair tears began to flow down her cheeks.

“Here, now miss,” Round Freddy began. “It will be easier to get to the heart of the tale if you don’t cry.” He leaned across the desk and gave her a handkerchief, which she used to daub at the corners of her eyes.

“You told the policeman outside that a reverend has been kidnapped. Who has been taken?”

“Reverend Elsworth, the vicar of St. Philip Church in Clifton.”

Round Freddy’s eyes widened. “When did this happen?”

“The day before yesterday. The man with one eye came to the house with a shotgun and demanded to speak to the reverend. When I told him the reverend was busy, he barged into the vicarage and began issuing orders. The vicar instructed me to make up one of the guest rooms for the man because he was to stay with us. But it’s that gun that has me worried.” She began to cry again, and stuffed the handkerchief up against her mouth.

“Is there anyone else in the house with this man and the reverend?”

“Just the cook. I was able to sneak out through the front when him and the reverend went for one of their walks in the back garden.”

“No other accomplices of whom you are aware.”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“And you say this man has a shotgun. Can you describe it?”

“A long bright metal thing with two big holes in the end of it and wood where you hold it.”

“That would be a double gun. Probably a twelve bore,” Round Freddy said. “Please excuse me for a moment.” At the office door he stopped and turned back to her. “And did you happen to hear the man’s name?”

“Aye, that I did. His name is Fletcher. You can’t miss him with that black eye patch.”

Round Freddy put his index finger across his lips. “No more for the moment, miss. Please relax as best you can until I return. I shall only be a few minutes.”

Outside in the main squad room, Round Freddy was surrounded by policemen. The desk constable had been busy spreading the news. Round Freddy turned to a sergeant with a belly that strained the front of his uniform.

“Sergeant, I want every constable to drop what he’s working on and assemble for a special case. We have a kidnapping under way at this moment — actually more of a hostage taking. A man with a double gun is holding the vicar of St. Philip in Clifton. There also is a cook in the house. I intend on getting them out of there. And I want the kidnapper taken alive.”

“Yes, sir. What do you want in the way of weapons?”

“Truncheons for every constable. Four constables armed with revolvers. Also one for you and another for me. Now let’s be quick about organizing this.”

The sergeant saluted and moved toward a staircase to the cellar, where the weapons were kept, followed by a small crowd of constables.

Round Freddy watched them swarm through the room. Fletcher, he thought, I’ve got you now.

Fletcher nudged Reverend Elsworth with the muzzle of the shotgun and followed the vicar into the corridor that ran down the center of the house, passing the kitchen, pantry and dining room before exiting into the main hall. As he passed the kitchen, Fletcher could hear the cook through the open door, humming as she worked. He hid the shotgun along his left leg and moved quickly past the door, almost bumping into the reverend in front of him.

Reverend Elsworth stopped and turned to him. “Are you in a great rush, Fletcher? You needn’t crowd me. I shall move along.”

Fletcher squinted his good eye at the reverend, trying to determine if the man was making sport of him. “Jest be sure ye do keep moving, vicar. That study off the entrance hall will do nicely. The one with the nice heavy doors and that big lock.”

Fletcher produced a long length of rope from inside his coat and spent a laborious amount of time wrapping the reverend in a chair and fastening the rope with three knots. After locking the study door, Fletcher hid the shotgun under the sofa in the sitting room and then prowled the ground floor rooms, looking for the housekeeper. He peeked into the kitchen, but the cook was still alone.

Taking the stairs to the first floor two at a time, Fletcher bustled from room to room, throwing open doors and becoming more frustrated with each empty room. A search of the attic also proved fruitless.

Back in the kitchen, he planted himself in front of the rotund cook and pushed his faced close to hers.

“Do ye know where the housekeeper is?”

The cook shrugged.

“Look here, woman. I want an answer.” Fletcher raised up on the balls of his feet. “Where is she?”

“She not here.” The cook gestured toward the window.

Fletcher looked out the window and then back to the cook. “You mean to say she went out the window? Do you take me for an idiot?”

The cook stepped back at the sound of Fletcher’s raised voice. “No, no. Not window. Door. She goes outside.”

“Where did she go?”

The cook shrugged.

“When? When did she leave?”

The cook shrugged again. “Only after you and reverend go into garden.”

“Damn.” Fletcher put his fist to his mouth and bit his knuckle in frustration. He looked at the heavy woman and decided she was too dense to do anything that would ruin his plans. He would leave her alone to finish cooking.

“When I come back, we’ll want food.”

The cook smiled brightly. “Food. Lots of food.”

Fletcher shook his head and stepped over to a table on the outside wall. Spotting a small knife alongside a bunch of carrots, he swept it into his coat pocket in one smooth motion. Then he returned to the sitting room where he broke down the shotgun and wrapped the two halves in an old coat. At the front of the vicarage he checked the surrounding grounds for signs of trouble, but all was clear.

With the housekeeper missing, he knew he had to find the vicar’s money man, Goodwin, and plenty fast. Things would come unraveled unless he did.

Jane strolled aimlessly along the dirt lane, which was bounded by shallow ditches and shielded by high hedges on both sides. Occasionally a break in the hedges would be barred by a weathered gate leading into pastureland beyond. She had traveled the road about a mile and was about to turn back toward Ashfield House when she heard the steady clopping of a horse’s hooves. She stopped and waited, and before long an old field wagon, creaking under the weight of a load of manure, came into view around a turn in the road.

Atop the wagon, astride a narrow board seat in the front, sat two bearded men in baggy, dirty clothes. Jane stepped to the side of the lane as the wagon drew abreast of her, but instead of passing by, the driver pulled back on the reins, stopping the heavily-breathing horse.

The man next to the driver looked down at her and showed a gap-toothed smile. “Hello miss. Good day to you.” He looked around. “You alone?”

Jane edged away from the wagon toward the ditch and the gate she had just passed.