Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

Fletcher stood alongside the trunk of an enormous elm, watching the roadway for any signs of activity. There had been little traffic that morning, chiefly wagons heading into town, laden with goods destined for the farmer’s market. One or two motorcars had passed by on the way through Clifton, along with two hiking enthusiasts. Fletcher glanced down the road a last time, then stepped from behind the tree and trudged down the dirt lane.

At the door, the housekeeper twisted her stained apron with weathered hands, insisting the vicar could not be disturbed at his breakfast.

“Tell him it’s Fletcher, dearie. He’ll see me.”

“Please step around back to the kitchen door, then.”

Fletcher shrugged and plodded along the side of the house, walking directly through beds of tulips and crocuses, breaking stems and flower heads in passing. As he reached the back door it burst open and the vicar stepped out.

“What is the meaning of this?” The strain in his voice was unmistakable. “How dare you invade my sanctuary.”

“I ain’t invading nothing, vicar. I only come for what’s rightfully mine. After all, I done the job for you, now didn’t I?”

“Keep your voice down man,” Elsworth said, taking Fletcher’s elbow and leading him along a path toward the carriage house. “You needn’t have come here.”

“Then how else were I to get the rest of the money you owe? Did you think it was to come to me, magically-like?”

“Your sarcasm is unnecessary. You’ll get your money.”

“Bleedin’ right, I will. And I’ll have it now.”

The vicar stiffened. “What if I told you that I did not have the cash in the house?”

Fletcher’s single eye widened and stared hard at the vicar. His jaw worked back and forth like a bovine masticating. Finally, he spoke. “You would make a big mistake to say that, vicar. A massive mistake.”

Elsworth leaned away from Fletcher, then quickly turned and walked back into the house. Five minutes later he was back, a brick-shaped paper-wrapped bundle in his hand.

“Before we conclude our business, I would like to put another proposition to you.”

“I’m all ears, vicar.”

Reverend Elsworth cleared his throat, then spoke in a low voice. “You have done well and earned every farthing of your fee,” he said. “But I now find that additional action appears to be necessary in our dealings.”

“What kind of additional action, eh?”

The vicar cleared his throat again. “I believe that the individual you are holding should have to disappear.”

“Disappear? Disappear? You mean like in a conjurer’s trick?”

“Not precisely. What I mean is disappear . . . permanently.”

Fletcher breathed deeply, his mind racing. The damn vicar was asking him to kill the girl.

“How do you expect it to be done?”

“It matters not to me. As long as she is gone permanently.”

“And when?”

“As soon as is practical.”

Fletcher thought for a moment. “Aye, I’ll do it. But it’ll cost you. Triple what you paid before.”

The vicar sputtered, flinging spittle onto his pressed lapels. “By Jove, Fletcher, you are unconscionable.”

“Is that your way of agreeing, vicar?”

The vicar glared at the shabby little man, but nodded his head.

Fletcher removed the package from the vicar’s hand, then tore the wrapping, exposing the banknotes. He began to count.

“It’s all there, Fletcher. Good lord, man, you should not have to count it out in full view of everyone.”

Fletcher looked around and laughed. “There’s no one about.”

“Damn you, Fletcher. Damn you to hell.”

As the vicar raised his voice, Fletcher’s eye caught a movement in an upper window of the house. The lace curtain had been pulled back slightly, then quickly closed.

“And you would be the one to know about damning people, eh vicar?” Fletcher stuffed the wad of bills inside his coat and shambled down the path, disappearing around the corner.

The vicar stood in the spring sunshine, sweat beaded on his forehead. He ran his hand across his brow and back through his gleaming hair before turning and striding back into the house.

“Good morning, Rose. It appears to be a fine morning.”

The mahogany chair scraped on the shiny plank floorboards as the vicar took his seat in the dining room and carefully arranged a linen napkin in his lap.

“It is, it is indeed. One hopes it will continue for us.” The always-cheerful cook and housemaid, Mrs. Thornton, scurried to the sideboard to snatch up a silver-covered tray.

“Kippered herring, vicar. Your favorite.”

“If I didn’t know you better, Rose, I would say you were trying to curry favor with me.” Reverend Elsworth forced a smile, but the cook continued talking without missing a beat.

“Vicar, Mr. Hardy stopped in the scullery early today and said, beggin’ his pardon, but the motor has developed a problem in the Wolseley. He thought he would be able to put it right within an hour or two and that you should not be delayed terribly much.”

The vicar leaned back as she spooned oatmeal into a bowl, then slid eggs and sausage on his plate, next to the herring. Mrs. Thornton set a plate of toasted bread and jam on the table to his right.

“If you’d be so kind as to tell Mr. Hardy I shall not need the motorcar until this afternoon, by which time I would imagine he will have corrected the problem.”

Mrs. Thornton nodded and replaced the trays on the sideboard, then withdrew to the kitchen.

Between bites of food, the vicar tried to relax, glancing around the spacious dining room. The vicarage of St. Philip’s Church in Clifton had been built in 1825, the year that several unsuccessful attempts were made to set up a university in York. At the time, the population of the city and its surrounding hamlets was nearly 17,000, a figure only two thousand fewer than its population at the time of the Reformation. But Clifton village, growing ever larger northwest of York and its awe-inspiring Minster, had need of spiritual comfort of its own. This need and the hard work of a core of believers resulted in the establishment of St. Philip’s and St. James’s Church in the former stone barn of a deceased farmer. After the congregation grew too large, a new church was built, and the old barn demolished to make way for the vicarage. For a reason lost to the years, the new church took only the name of St. Philip.

Now, eighty-five years after its founding, St. Philip’s Church and its surrounding property had become part of the expanded city of York, governed by its rules and regulations, but also assisted by its prosperity. The vicarage, a handsome, two-storied house with steeply-sloping roofs and gables in the upper floor, was approached through a ground floor entry hall that led to a sitting room on the south and a study on the north. Opposite the entry door, a corridor led to the dining room, which connected to the sitting room by a massive set of pocket doors. Across the corridor stood a butler’s pantry, adjacent to the kitchen in the rear of the house.

The first floor of the vicarage could be reached by a wide staircase from the entry hall or by a narrower set of stairs from the kitchen. Five rooms occupied this floor, one of largish size that the vicar maintained as his room, and the other four of diminishing size, such that the smallest was hardly able to accommodate more than an single iron bed and one small trunk. Situated midway along the first floor corridor was a washroom that included a cast iron tub, decorated with clawed feet.

The full-sized attic was divided into several spaces, one of which was occupied by the cook. The basement was high and dry, allowing Hardy, the vicar’s driver, to keep a sleeping room alongside his workroom. The vicar provided Hardy with decent accommodations and extra privileges because the man was responsible for the vicar’s new 16-horsepower Wolseley touring car, a two-door, four-seater with the new Scuttle dashboard and a glass windscreen to protect the driver from flying debris.