Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

Lund turned to study the old drunkard on the other side of the post. The old man’s head lay on the bar, cushioned by his arm.

“You needn’t worry about these chappies,” the man said, gesturing around the room. “Our conversation is the last thing they would be interested in.”

Lund knew the Dealer was right. Initiates of York’s financial world called the man the Dealer because of his talent for unearthing information that led him and his business partners to lucrative transactions. It even was rumored that the Dealer occasionally handled situations on the gray side of the law, although Lund didn’t possess firsthand knowledge of such things.

“An associate of mine and I have a need to find a secure, yet unobtrusive investment that would . . . how shall I put it . . . shield a large amount of capital.”

Lund studied the Dealer closely for a reaction, but could detect none, so he continued. “This investment must be as solid as Gibraltar, be able to be liquidated should the need arise, but must on no account attract any attention to either of us.”

The Dealer drank deeply from the mug, draining the last streaks of foam before catching the publican’s eye and nodding for another.

“This capital that you must shield, what would its amount be?” The Dealer’s blue eyes twinkled brightly in the dim room, a slight smile creasing his lips. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

Lund cleared his throat again and looked left and right before responding. “Two thousand pounds.”

The Dealer arched his eyebrows and grinned broadly. “A tidy sum for a banker and his associate, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Lund?”

“Y-y-you must realize there are many people who use our bank who would like to participate with me in such an investment,” the banker replied, his brows knitting together. “Why is that so difficult to fathom?”

The Dealer cackled again. “It is not difficult to understand at all, Mr. Lund. But it is patently obvious that the two thousand pounds does not come through . . . shall we say . . . legitimate channels. If it did, then you would hardly be seeking my services.” He took a long swallow of beer, then held the mug up to Lund in a mock toast.

The banker’s face colored to the same red hue as his ears, and his lips tightened to a thin line of flesh. Jonas had told him the Dealer could be difficult, but Lund had waved away his admonition, confident in his own negotiating abilities. Now, standing eye to eye with the Dealer, Lund did not feel so confident.

“You should not concern yourself about the origin of my funds,” the banker began. “You should —”

“I suggest that you clip that mouth of yours shut and listen to what I have to say to you, Mr. Lund.”

The banker stared open-mouthed at the Dealer.

“Let’s look at the situation we find ourselves in, shall we? First, you contact me to meet you in a public house, instead of your offices at the bank.”

The Dealer’s gaze was locked on Lund’s. “Second, you must be fully aware of the kind of services that I offer, especially because you have access to similar types of investments through your bank.”

The Dealer had begun to tick off the reasons on his fingers.

“Third, a man of your stature does not simply find himself with two thousand quid to invest. He either inherits it, which I doubt you have done, or he acquires it in ways that are less than lawful.

“Fourth, assuming you have come by the funds through the latter method, you are hardly in any position to dictate to me what risks I must take to make your money safe.”

The Dealer held up his thumb in front of Lund’s face. “And fifth, if we are to do business with each other, then you shall put yourself and your money in my hands and cheerfully pay my commission. Otherwise, thank you for the ale and good luck with your funds.”

Lund managed to get his mouth shut during the Dealer’s enumeration and his mind raced with thoughts of how he could extricate himself from this undesirable situation. But he knew he had said too much already. While the Dealer couldn’t prove anything unlawful had occurred, the fact that he knew so much about Lund and the money was disquieting. Lund decided quickly.

“I shall not admit to any of the suggestions that you have posed, but I will tell you that I am inclined to put my trust, and the funds, in your hands.”

The twinkle came back in the Dealer’s eyes. “What form does the investment take at present? Is it in cash? Bonds? Shares?”

“Cash. All of it.”

The Dealer’s tongue crept over his lower lip. “Then we should have no difficulty in locating a secure investment for you.”

He clapped the little banker on the shoulder. “We’ll meet again next Friday. Here. I’ll have news for you then.” He quickly gulped the contents of his mug and was out the door before the banker could fashion a response.

Sleep claimed Jane once more and her chin dropped to her chest, disturbing the delicate balance she maintained on the rickety chair and startling her awake. I must find a way to pass the time, she thought. Her greatest fear lay in the unconscious state of sleep, something that had eluded her since her abduction. Jane’s eyes flitted from the door to her hands clasped in her lap to the still-bright light shimmering through the thick window glass, then back to the heavy door of the cell. It was a cycle she repeated countless times during the day.

Jane decided she must be in the hands of ruffians who would try to ransom her from the vicar. It was the only reason she could imagine for someone to abduct her. The kidnappers must be aware the vicar controlled her trust funds.

Would they try to extort money from him? What other reason could there be? And whatever else the vicar had done to her, surely, she thought, he would come to her aid in this predicament. At least she prayed he would.

She knew there had been two men in the house, although she had heard a door slam some time ago and now was unsure if one or both of them had left. And, she reasoned, there must not be any neighbors near where she was being kept because she had shouted and screamed many times, yet no one had appeared to assist her. In fact, the commotion she caused had angered the older kidnapper, who quickly came to the door, and banging on the wood, threatening to use his club on her if she didn’t silence herself.

Then the younger, snowy-haired man had entered her cell and cautioned her to be quiet or she might be harmed by the older man. Something in his tone of voice told Jane he knew what he was talking about, but his eyes conveyed another message. He may be her jailer, she thought, but he did not want to hurt her.

The snap of the lock being popped open brought her fully alert, and the older man appeared in the doorway, framed in a halo of light. He held a mug in one hand an a tin plate in the other.

“Supper’s on, miss. I expect you’ll want it at your usual dining table?” He laughed as he set the food and water down on the table, seemingly pleased with the joke he had made. He stood in front of Jane with his hands on his hips, still chuckling, when she quickly swung her foot up, striking him squarely between the legs.

Fletcher’s eyes bulged wide and the breath rushed out of him in a single gasp, as he doubled over and grabbed his crotch, moaning in pain.

Jane leaped out of the chair and ran past him, bouncing off the corridor wall opposite the door. At the top of the wooden stairs she found an empty room with two doors set in opposite walls. Either one could be the way to safety, she thought. She chose the one on the right and pulled up the latch, cracking the door open for a peek. A pasture defined by a broken-down stone wall spread out in front of her. Jane ran through the broken grass stalks and climbed through a break in the wall, then continued running through the next field over thick clumps of grass and clods of earth. As a copse of trees loomed ahead, she looked back over her shoulder to see who was following her. But she could see no one, as she stumbled forward into the shelter of the trees.