Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

“Well, where the devil are you on the abduction, then?”

“Sir, we have interviewed the director of Bootham Park, as well as the two attendants on duty the night the young woman was snatched.”

“And?”

Round Freddy could see the veins on the side of the chief constable’s forehead bulging like thick, purple ropes.

“And we have spoken with the Reverend William Elsworth, the young woman’s uncle, and also are searching for her former suitor, though that seems to be a dead end as he's been aboard a Royal Navy ship for the past month."

Round Freddy stood his ground, inches from Raine’s scowling face.

As chief constable of the York Police Force, Raine was responsible for keeping order and ensuring the safety of the public in the city of 60,000 inhabitants. But Round Freddy knew that Raine held most of his subordinates in contempt, and believed they existed only to fulfill his wishes.

“You are not telling me anything about who accomplished this dastardly deed,” Raine bellowed, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth onto Round Freddy’s waistcoat. “Nor why.”

Round Freddy intentionally blinked his eyes slowly, trying to control the anger he felt welling inside him.

“As soon as I am aware of who perpetrated the crime, chief constable, you will be the first I shall tell. In the meantime, we do not have enough facts at our disposal to draw any conclusion.”

The explosion he expected was not long in coming. Raine had taken the bait.

“Then you had best get your arse out in the town and find out the facts so we can arrest the criminals,” Raine thundered. “Take whatever men you need to get the job done, but, by gawd, I want the bloody criminals caught, and caught quickly.”

Raine pulled back from the desk and glared at Round Freddy, who stood stock still, showing only the countenance of a haberdashery dummy. The chief constable grunted, then left the office, slamming the door shut behind him.

Round Freddy shook his head to dispel the image of the chief constable, replacing it with the image of St. Clare’s Church graveyard two weeks earlier. The small plot, holding the open grave of Inspector George Croft, had been flanked by a mound of freshly-dug earth, moist and dark and coarse. Croft had been Raine’s favorite, but with York Police Force's only inspector under six feet of Yorkshire soil, the chief constable was in a bind. He couldn’t endure being in the same room with Round Freddy and had spent the last three years trying to eliminate him from the duty roster. Nevertheless, with Croft dead, Raine had to trust the asylum abduction case, as well as many others, to his detective sergeant.

Round Freddy pulled the door open and cocked his head to one side, motioning Andrews into the office.

“You heard the commotion, I assume?”

“It was difficult not to, sir.” Andrews eyes shone bright, a half smile on his lips. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it’s not right.”

“I know, Andrews, but we all have our difficulties to weather. This particular one is more persistent than most.”

Andrews cracked a full smile, “What now, then?”

“I believe it is time to pay a visit to the Royal York Banking Society. That’s where the trust funds were held for Miss Waddington, according to Doctor Canham. Perhaps the good bankers over there can shed some light on why Miss Waddington was so distressed about her inheritance.”

The Royal York Banking Society occupied three floors of a Georgian stone building at Parliament and Market Streets, prime real estate fronting the city’s 500-foot long market square. Elias Lund, the bank’s manager, greeted Round Freddy and Constable Andrews with a curt nod and a nervous disposition as he led the policemen to his private office at the rear of the ground floor. Lund’s eyes, magnified by wire-rim spectacles housing thick lenses, shifted haphazardly back and forth between the two policemen sitting somberly before him.

“How may I help you, sergeant The bank is always ready to cooperate with the police.”

“Very upstanding of the bank, Mr. Lund. Admirable, indeed.”

Round Freddy fixed the man with a bland look and asked, “What can you tell me about the trust fund of Miss Jane Waddington?”

“Not much, I am afraid. The trust fund, as you are sure to know, is a private holding and as such, the bank is in no way obligated to divulge any details about it.”

Round Freddy snorted. The little man was actually showing some spine, he thought. He would see how firm it was. “Mr. Lund, I am sure you will be astonished to learn that the object of your protection, Miss Waddington, has been abducted and is now missing. We fear that some harm may have befallen her.”

Lund’s eyes widened to searchlight size. “I . . . I . . . is the woman . . . What I mean to say is, have you found. . . .” His voice trailed off with the unfinished question.

“The young woman was abducted from the Bootham Park Lunatic Asylum where she had been placed by her uncle, who, as you are well aware, administers her trust fund.”

Round Freddy leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of Lund’s desk. “It is the records of the trust that I am interested in learning about, sir.”

“But surely you cannot think that the Reverend Elsworth had anything to do with the abduction?”

“We do not think anything before ferreting out the facts, Mr. Lund. You are about to provide us with some of those facts. The rest will sort itself out.”

Lund stiffened again. “I am not certain that I am authorized to release such information without first consulting with the reverend.”

Round Freddy’s lips formed a thin smile. “As you wish, Mr. Lund. I am confident that a magistrate will be pleased to order the bank closed until we are able to comb through the records and satisfy ourselves that the Royal York Banking Society was not involved in any way with this heinous abduction. I would imagine such an investigation would be . . . lengthy.”

The little banker sagged visibly and lowered his gaze. “I shall have the records located and brought to you immediately.”

The storeroom that Lund provided for Round Freddy to examine the trust ledgers was lit by two naked bulbs that threw feeble rays of light barely reaching the corners of the room. Round Freddy squinted at page seven of a red-covered ledger, running his finger down the list of transactions. The ledger showed payments to merchants and professionals throughout the city, as well as money transfers from one account to another and back again. The half-dozen ledgers began their accounting early in 1904 and continued in the same manner for the next six years.

Round Freddy flipped the 1904 ledger aside and opened the book for 1910. On the twelfth page, he found the balance of the trust. He closed his eyes and calculated the potential income the original trust might have generated by the investment of its £10,000. Then he rechecked the balance noted on line 15 of the ledger. The entry read £1,953.

Round Freddy whistled softly. At a time when a single individual could easily live well on £200 a year, the trust was expending funds at ten times the expected rate, excluding investment income.

He instructed Andrews to summon the banker, and when Lund appeared, Round Freddy stood and hunched his shoulders to relieve the strain.

“Mr. Lund, I shall need time to study the trust accounting and will take the ledgers with me, if you have no objection.”

The banker opened his mouth to reply, but must have thought better of it and said nothing.

“It’s settled then. Constable Andrews will give you a receipt for the ledgers.”

Round Freddy turned to leave, then stopped abruptly.

“And one more thing. There will be no mention of this visit to anyone. Please remember this is a criminal investigation.”