Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

“Good day to you, too. I am out for a walk.”

“Well there’s no need for walkin’ when you can ride,” the driver said. “Jest climb up here with us and we’ll bring you where you wants to go.” He held out a dirty hand to help her up.

Jane stepped back and shook her head. “No thank you, I prefer to walk.”

She turned and began walking toward Ashfield House, but only took a few steps when she heard the thud of someone jumping to the ground. Quick as a flash, the driver was standing in front of her, grinning as widely as the other man, only with fewer teeth.

“Now it ain’t polite to refuse a ride, now is it, Clive?” He leered at Jane and then squinted up at the other man.

“Why we should get right acquainted with each other.” He grabbed her by the shoulder and tried to pull her into him, but she pushed off of his chest, spun and ran across the lane. The driver caught her in front of the horse and grabbed her in a bear hug. The smell of manure on him was nearly overpowering. Jane struggled to free herself, flipping her elbows at his head, but he only dodged her blows and laughed.

Finally finding her voice, Jane tipped back her head and screamed as loudly as she could, only to have the driver’s dirty hand clapped over her mouth. In the next instant, as she stamped her boot heel back into the driver’s knee, collapsing him, the horse reared because of the commotion in front of him and tried to run.

Jane danced out of the way as the horse brushed past her. The man on the wagon was desperately trying to retrieve the reins, which had fallen forward and were out of his reach. As the horse gained speed, the wagon lumbered forward and struck the driver, who was still writhing on the ground, holding his damaged knee. By the time the man in the wagon was able to stop the horse, the front wheel had passed completely over the driver.

Jane didn’t wait to see whether he was mortally injured or not. She gathered her skirts in her fists and sprinted down the lane toward Ashfield House, not stopping until the curses of the man on the wagon had faded in the distance. Breathless, she looked back along the lane and could just make out the specks of two individuals next to the horse and wagon. Summoning up her last reserves of energy, she began running again and didn’t stop until she reached the gate to the garden of Ashfield House.

Round Freddy stuck his hand in his coat pocket and fingered the vulcanite grips of the Webley and Scott WS Army model revolver. The six-inch barrel caused an interesting-looking bulge in the front of his coat, but he couldn’t worry about that now. The superintendent had gotten rid of all the police force’s old revolvers four years ago in 1906 and purchased an entire new lot of the WS Army models. The WS still came chambered for the same .455 caliber cartridges as the previous model, which meant the WS packed as much of a punch as ever. If you were on the receiving end of a Webley .455, Round Freddy thought, you were in a world of trouble.

The police cars pulled up in front of St. Philip’s vicarage in a precise line, as if the superintendent were going to appear and grade them on their neatness. Round Freddy motioned the fat sergeant over to him.

“Take two of the constables with the Webleys, along with another half dozen constables, and secure the garden and the rear entrance. I don’t want you to enter the vicarage from that direction, sergeant, do you understand? Just secure the back.”

“Yes sir. Anything else?”

“The man we’re looking for wears a black eye patch and may be armed with a double barrel shotgun. If he somehow makes it out the rear into the garden, I want him detained. You have permission to shoot him, but you don’t have permission to kill him. I want to talk to the man, so try not to hurt him too badly if the occasion arises.”

The sergeant stood straighter and a smile broke the corners of his mouth. “Yes sir. I assume that means we might also use the truncheons, eh?”

Round Freddy looked away to prevent the sergeant from seeing him smile. “Of course. If need be.”

While the sergeant deployed his men at the back of the vicarage, Round Freddy assembled the other two armed constables plus another half dozen men at the front. He looked over the expectant faces and exhaled a deep breath before speaking.

“Men, you are aware this is a dangerous situation. I want the two constables with the Webleys up front with me. The rest of you men bring up the rear and secure the entryway.”

He looked at them again and received murmurs of acknowledgment and saw the nodding of heads.

“If the man with the eye patch so much as points that shotgun in your direction, you have permission to shoot him. I prefer that he not be dead, but be sure that you protect yourself and your mates first. I’d rather have a dead criminal than a wounded constable. Now let’s get on with it.”

A burly constable with a belly that threatened to overflow his belt stepped up to the door and tried the latch. Shaking his head to the rest of the men, he stepped back and aimed a vicious kick just below the door latch. The heavy wood door shuddered, but held firm. The constable kicked a second time and then a third. The final kick sent the door slamming back against the wall as the constables crowded through the doorway and into the entry hall.

Round Freddy was at their head and pointed his Webley down the corridor toward the rear of the house. Another constable covered the open sitting room and the third the closed door to the study. The rest of the men stood ready behind them.

“Fletcher,” Round Freddy shouted. “Come out and surrender. There is no need for bloodshed.”

He held up his left hand for quiet, but received no response to his call.

“Fletcher, do you hear me? Come out now!”

The whining sound coming from the study caused the three armed policemen to swivel toward the doorway as a single unit.

“What was that, sir?”

“I don’t know. Billy. Try the door.”

“Locked, sir.”

“Kick it in, then.”

The burly constable stepped to the study door and put a well-aimed kick just above the latch, blasting the door open. Two armed constables charged into the room, their Webleys pointed directly at the vicar, tied to a chair in the center of the room.

Round Freddy came around his men and pushed the muzzle of the nearest Webley toward the floor. “Constables, check the rest of the rooms. Reverend, are you all right? Where is Fletcher?”

“He is long gone. Hours ago. Now get me out of here.” The reverend’s eyes blazed like hot coals in the night.

Round Freddy turned to his men. “Gentlemen, please disperse throughout the house and check everything. Be careful at the back of the house. You’re likely to find the cook in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Once you clear the house, report back to sergeant Wills in the entry hall. And close the study door on your way out.”

When the constables had left, Round Freddy turned to Reverend Elsworth. “Now you and I are going to have a small chat,” he said.

The reverend’s eyes bulged wider. “Untie me you idiot. Do you know who I am? Do you know what power I have? Let me loose, I say!”

Round Freddy pulled a straight backed chair in front of the trussed vicar and sat down heavily.

“I don’t think I can do that quite yet, reverend. You see, you still have to tell me about how you hired Fletcher, what you paid him to do, and how much money you embezzled from your niece.”

The reverend’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out.

“Speechless, eh? Well, we do have all day and night, as they say. Would you like something to eat or drink? I believe the cook is still in the building.”