Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

Round Freddy peered at the smudged name in the ledger, its nib strokes having been elongated horizontally by a seemingly-errant thumb. Ah, yes, that was it, he realized. Collingwood. The Collingwood Naturalist’s Association, listed as an entry on 26 June 1907 for a payment of £215. Quite a hefty sum, he thought, trying to imagine what kind of services a naturalist’s group would perform for Miss Waddington’s trust. Round Freddy penciled a note of the entry in his notebook and ran his thick finger down the next several entries. Arundale the greengrocer, £6.42 for vegetables and the like. William Judson, solicitor, £23.50 for services to the trust — not an unusual amount for a legal invoice, he thought. Wright the butcher, £11.41 on account for meats and fish.

He found nothing much of interest in the rest of the column until the next to last entry. Mr. William Peckering of the Westview Merchant’s Association, £300 for services rendered. Round Freddy leaned back in his chair, causing the oak spindles to creak loudly in protest. What the devil could a man in the merchant’s association do for Miss Waddington or the vicar, he wondered. Round Freddy leaned over the ledger again and copied the association’s address into his notebook — 6 Bean Street. He ran his finger up the column to the Collingwood entry, and copied its address, 37 Fetter Road.

Slamming the ledger cover shut with a thump, Round Freddy stood and hunched his shoulders up and back to relieve the tension, then called for Constable Andrews.

“The motorcar, constable. We are going out into the town as the chief constable demands. I shall meet you in the rear yard in five minutes.”

As Round Freddy levered his bulk into the small police vehicle and pulled the door shut, he banged his knee against the motor’s firewall with a crunch. “Damn vehicle! I don’t know why we changed from the horse carriages.”

“Because the motors are much faster, and when maintained properly, are as reliable as any horse-drawn vehicle.” Andrews sheepishly smiled at the floor.

Round Freddy cast a sideways glance at the young constable, but made no response.

The two of them sat in the Austin, staring through the windshield for several more seconds. “Well, constable, what say we at least exit the rear yard and start onto our fair city’s streets.”

“Where would you like me to take you, sergeant?”

“Number 6 Bean Street would do very nicely, Andrews. Very nicely, indeed.”

The Austin had been purchased by the York Police the year previously and had proven to be a true iron workhorse. The vehicle was maintained by a mechanic who lived one street over from the police station. The chief constable was so pleased with the Austin that he purchased four more with the larger 24 horsepower engines, making the police force completely mechanized. The constables only resorted to horse-drawn conveyances, leased from a livery on Marsham Street, on occasional instances now.

Number 6 Bean Street stood in the middle of the block on the northwest side of a dreary street near the Wandesford’s Almshouse Hospital for the Indigent. The North Eastern Railway’s main line passed seven hundred feet to the west and the soot from the engines filtered down a fine black dust over everything when the wind blew out of the west. Number 6 itself was shuttered and locked, with no sign of use in recent times. A weathered old sign above the ground floor door bore traces of its former owner — J. Burton. Clockmaker.

Round Freddy strode north to Number 7 and hammered on the door, only to have it opened immediately by a diminutive woman with dark, straggly hair that dipped in front of her eyes. The woman studied Round Freddy from under her hair, but said nothing.

“Sergeant Hume of the York Police, ma’am. Would you know anything of your neighbor on the right?”

The woman’s face lit up immediately. “The old clockmaker, Mr. Burton? Aye, he died five years ago next week.”

Round Freddy forced a tolerant smile. “I am more concerned with Mr. Peckering of the West View Merchant’s Association who leased the premises.”

“Eh? No such person, nor any such business named that has been next door.”

“You’re sure of that, madam? I have information that indicates the West View Merchant’s Association had resided at that address.”

“Then your information taint worth much,” the woman said without malice. “That property has been in the Burton family hands for a hundred years or more. Me husband, Ralph, the bricklayer, was a good friend to the clockmaker. Did some work on his back garden for him, Ralph did. Old Mr. Burton, God rest his soul, worked until the day before he died, when he caught a serious chill. When he died, his wife shut up the shop and lived upstairs like the two of them had done all those years. Last year, she moved away. Some say it was to live with her granddaughter over in Carlisle. But I don’t know that for a fact, I don’t.”

“You have been most helpful, madam. I thank you for your assistance.”

Round Freddy strolled back to the car, whistling tunelessly.

“Andrews,” he called to the constable, “let’s have a look at the premises on Fetter Road.”

Number 37 Fetter Road was a small dusty shop on a quiet, narrow street a quarter mile southeast of the Minster. The faded sign over the double wooden carriage doors read Christopher Dodsworth. Wheelwright. Wheels, axles, springs, carriage boxes and wagon parts of all descriptions lay scattered in piles throughout the workshop, in the center of which stood a tall, burly man with impossibly-wide shoulders. A wheel was clamped onto a work spindle and the man was hammering a steel rim into place on its outer circumference.

Round Freddy waited for the hammering to stop. “Mr. Dodsworth, may I have a word with you? Sergeant Hume of the York Police.”

The wheelwright squinted into the brightness and set his lips tight. “What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“We’re only seeking information, Mr. Dodsworth, and not about you, but about a former resident of these premises.” Round Freddy could see the big man’s muscles relax at the realization he was not the focus of the conversation.

“Who might that be?”

“Actually, it’s more a group than a person. The Collingwood Naturalist’s Association. They seem to have had these premises as their address.”

“Like hell they have,” the wheelwright spit out. “I’ve had this place for the last nine years, and before that it was a blacksmith’s shop. The blacksmith must have been here twenty years before he gave up the ghost.”

Round Freddy nodded, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “So you would say that you have never heard of the Collingwood Naturalist’s Association, then?”

“That’s it exactly, sergeant. Never heard of the bleedin’ group.”

“I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mr. Dodsworth. Thanks for your cooperation.”

Round Freddy turned quickly and almost crashed into Andrews, who had silently crept up behind him.

“You heard all that?” Round Freddy asked as he got into the Austin.

“Yes, sir. Uncanny how both of the addresses turned out to be phony.”

Round Freddy smiled again. “Uncanny, indeed. I think we should pay another visit to the good vicar. But first, let’s find some lunch.”

The Dealer swept his hand back through his long, silver hair, plucking at the duck’s tail at the nape of his neck as he walked. His long strides brought him quickly past a gaggle of pedestrians on Museum Street, near the Richardson Concert Rooms. He made a mental note to purchase tickets for the piano competition on Saturday afternoon to hear York’s virtuoso, John Pool, match his talents against other pianists from throughout the county. There also was the matter of the wager he had placed on Pool — fifty quid. While there was no legitimate, organized betting on the piano competition — after all, who in the world cared about betting on classical piano recitals, he thought — the Dealer had been able to find a willing conspirator with whom to wager.