Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

The vicar drew in a deep breath. This is the empire over which I preside, he thought, as he finished the last morsel of herring.

After the concussion of the heavy iron doorknocker sounded through the house, Mrs. Thornton hurried into the dining room, holding a folded piece of paper in front of her.

“Thank you, Rose. Please wait.”

The vicar flipped open the sheet and quickly read its contents. A shadow of irritation passed over his face, which he quickly replaced with a look of nonchalance.

“Rose, please see if Mr. Boyce down the road at Coram Cottage would be so kind as to provide me with transportation into York. I fear that I must attend to some pressing business in the city.”

Within a half-hour, Mrs. Thornton returned with word of Boyce’s agreement, quickly followed by the man himself in a four passenger Sunbeam with the top folded back. Five minutes later, the vicar was comfortably ensconced in the passenger seat, bumping along Kelton Road with Mr. Boyce toward the city center.

“Please pull over at the Monk’s Bar, if you would be so kind,” the vicar requested, smiling broadly. “I must make a visit at the chapel down the road.”

Boyce edged the Sunbeam to the side of the road facing the Monk’s Bar, a massive stone gatehouse set into the perimeter wall that once encircled the entire city. From Monk’s Bar, Goodram Gate Road ran southwest into St. Sampson’s Square in what had developed into the most congested section of York.

The Goodram Chapel occupied a tidy plot 150 feet from the Monk’s Bar. The chapel’s cool, dim interior soothed the vicar’s senses as he softly closed the heavy door. He didn’t move for a full minute, studying the plain lectern and stone statuary arranged at the front wall, then quietly walked down the only aisle in the narrow chapel. Stepping through a low doorway set into the far wall, he found himself in an anteroom furnished with a round deal table and two straight-backed chairs. A bald man occupying one of the chairs nodded, and as the vicar took the other seat, began speaking.

“I am told that you are seeking assistance in the realm of secure investments; that you have a considerable amount you would consider placing in the right scheme.”

The vicar tilted his head and nodded, folding his hands in front of him as if in prayer. “You have the correct information, Mr. . . Mr. . . .”

“You may call me Goodwin.”

“Ah, yes. Well, Mr. Goodwin, I am pleased to say that you are correct and that I, in fact, have a substantial sum that I would wish to place in. . . how shall I phrase it . . . safekeeping.”

“I fully understand, vicar. I have served a large number of individuals such as yourself in similar circumstances in the past. You wish an investment that will be safe and secure, yet will prosper and grow with the years, is that not so?’

“That is the situation, precisely.”

“And of course, you also would want to retain a large degree of anonymity with regard to the investment. Am I correct in assuming that as a fact?”

The vicar leaned forward and nodded again.

“Then I am the man to help you with your situation,” Goodwin said, spreading his hands wide. “How much do you have to invest? A round figure is good enough to serve for our current discussion.”

The vicar pursed his lips, hesitating. “Five thousand pounds.”

Goodwin’s eyes widened and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “A considerable sum, vicar. In fact, an extremely large sum.”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Goodwin. If it is too much for you to handle, perhaps I should seek guidance elsewhere.”

Goodwin recovered quickly. “I meant no disrespect, vicar, nor did I seek to imply that I was unable to place such a sum into secure investments. I simply was complimenting you, sir, on amassing such an amount of money.”

He waited for the vicar to reply, but when the silence lengthened, continued.

“The safest investment I could make on your behalf would be to purchase freehold property. We would set up a company, of which I would be the nominal head, yet you would be the majority stockholder. The company would hold the deed to the property and take in any income. For my part, I would require only a small commission. Of course, the return on such an investment would be quite modest when compared to purchasing shares either on the exchange or through a private agent. But this course of action affords you the degree of anonymity that you desire, whereas a purchase of shares openly would not.”

Goodwin paused. The vicar had given him his full attention.

“I would recommend, for an investment of this size, that we use the funds to purchase an assortment of properties of differing types and sizes. By doing so, we will assure there is a diversity amongst your holdings. Purchasing one large property might call more attention to the investment than we would care to have cast on it.”

“I am in full agreement with all you have said thus far,” the vicar said. “You have placed your finger smack on the jugular vein of the problem. What is the next step?”

The old chair creaked as Goodwin leaned back. “I shall begin by forming the company I spoke of to hold the investments. As I said, you will be the majority stockholder, but only I shall appear in the filing documents as an officer. In that way, your participation will be shielded."

He continued, “Then I shall begin immediately to identify freeholds that might be acceptable as investments. I do have two such properties in mind already, but want to speak with their owners and sound them out on the terms they would require. Both of these properties are large, one here in York and the other in Clifton.”

“You know of my affiliation with St. Philip’s,” the vicar said. “Any investment in a Clifton freehold would have to be handled with the utmost care. I do not wish to be involved in any kind of scandal. I cannot.”

Goodwin raised a hand. “You are quite right. But please remember that discretion is my business. It is how I earn my daily bread. The protection of your good name and shielding your involvement are of the utmost importance to me and will not be compromised.”

The vicar stood and fixed Goodwin with a stare. “I am counting on your discretion, Mr. Goodwin. Please do not fail me.”

“I will not, vicar. You will be pleased with the result of dealing through me. Shall we meet here again in a week’s time?”

“Fair enough. I will be here at the same hour.” The vicar picked up his hat from the table and carefully arranged it on his head, then left the way he had arrived.

Wallace Goodwin had loved money all of his life. It was his reason for existing, he often thought, not because of any status it allowed him in society, since the bluebloods of Edwardian society looked down their noses at bourgeois financial merchants like him. Nor was it the expediency of having pounds in his pockets to purchase whatever he chose, although being able to do so, he knew, was so much better than the alternative.

No, it was the power that money conveyed, he thought; power to the one who held the money, or for that matter, the one who was owed the money. And being owed money was something at which Goodwin knew he was very skilled. He often thought that Shakespeare could have cast him in the role of Shylock in the “Merchant of Venice” and no one would have been able to decipher the difference.

Goodwin stood at the side entrance of the chapel puffing on a pipe filled with foul-smelling tobacco, shielded from the street by thick stand of hedgerows. He could see the forms of bodies passing outside the heavy iron fence, but his thoughts drifted to other matters. The vicar was a sly one, he mused. Behind him, he heard the sound of a creaking door.