Bootham Park Lunatic Asylum sprawled across ten acres of neglected lawn and gardens, surrounded by a stout, eight-foot high iron fence, topped with sharpened points on the uprights, which kept the asylum inmates inside while preventing anyone from wandering uninvited onto the grounds. Only three gates pierced the iron fence around the property. The south gate lay at the chapel entrance on the southeast corner, the main gate was on the northeast along Asylum Lane, and a service gate occupied the farthest northwest reach of Asylum Lane where the building stood closest to the fence.

Four men stood across from the northwest gate in the shadows of the trees lining the front of the cricket ground, talking in low murmurs and occasionally stamping their feet to ward off the early morning chill. Across the lane, lights showed dimly along the two wings that were visible from the street, as well as in the more brightly-lit main reception area.

The smallest of the men stepped to the edge of the pavement and studied the building across the road, scratching at the collection of scraggly whiskers on his chin.

�When do we go over there?� Snow, the near-white-blond with the quavering voice, asked him.

Harry Fletcher looked up into the dark sky, as if sniffing the air for a sign of trouble, then turned his gaze back toward the asylum. He ran his hand over the black eye patch covering his left eye and breathed deeply.

�In a bit,� he said. �Patience, me boy.�

Behind them Kendrew and Moses slapped at each other�s face, trying for a hit that would leave a red handprint on the other�s cheek. A flurry of open handed blows by Moses sent Kendrew reeling backward into the bushes, crashing through the underbrush. He let loose with a loud string of oaths.

�Shut up you two bloody buggars,� Fletcher hissed. �You arseholes will give the caper away.�

Grinning broadly, Moses extended a hand to Kendrew and pulled him to his feet.

�Next time,� Kendrew said, pointing at Moses�s chest. �Just wait, matey.�

The asylum had been constructed in the form of the letter H to allow a series of windows for light and ventilation to be set in the four wings emanating from the central reception area. Bootham Park was built in 1831 as York�s workhouse and functioned in that capacity until 1901 when the city councilors converted it to a containment area for the infirm of mind.

�Boys, there�s absolutely nothing moving over there. No watchman or guards of any kind. Let�s go and get the girl,� Fletcher said.

The foursome loped across the road in a ragged line, down the gravel drive and up to the portico at the end of the northwest wing.

Fletcher stood to one side. �Put a bar to the door.�

Kendrew pulled a short length of iron from under his coat and inserted its flat tip into the door jamb immediately above the latch. He leaned on the bar, pushing it as far into the joint as possible, then levered it back. The door popped open amid a shower of wood splinters and the sound of snapping wood.

Fletcher stood listening in the dim light spilling from the opening. Turning to the three men behind him, he grinned.

�Let�s be on our way. Snow and Moses, make sure that she�s kept quiet.�

Moses and Snow sprinted ahead, but stopped halfway down the hallway in front of a locked door. Moses ran his hands over the door�s edges to test its solidity, then looked back at the others.

�The bar won�t do for this one. But we can take it down if we hit it together.�

The four men retreated ten feet and assembled in a wedge formation. On Fletcher�s word, they hurled themselves into the wooden door, ripping it from its frame and sending it crashing into the corridor beyond.

At the instant the intruders assaulted the door, an attendant stood on the opposite side, twisting an iron key in the door�s lock. Startled from a near slumber by the splintering sound of the exterior door, John Benson had bestirred himself and shuffled down the hallway to investigate. As he turned the key, the door crashed down on top of him, pinning him to the floor.

Fletcher and Kendrew ran across the door, then stopped past the other end to pull it off Benson. As the old man raised his hands, Kendrew smashed his head with the iron bar.

Snow and Moses continued along the corridor to room 114. Stopping outside the door, Snow touched the card pinned to the doorframe, tracing the neatly-printed letters with his fingers. He looked blankly at Moses.

�What�s it read?�

Moses squinted at the card. �Jane Waddington,� he announced. �Tis the woman we want.� He cocked his head toward the interior. �Let�s take her.�

Snow turned the latch, but the door didn�t budge. He pressed his shoulder against the heavy door, but it still stuck fast.

Moses stood to the side, a bemused smile on his face. �Snow, you bloody moron, go back and tell Fletcher we need a key for the door.�

A glint of recognition washed over Snow�s face, and he raced down the corridor, nearly bowling over Fletcher as he turned a corner.

�The woman�s door is locked, Fletcher. We need a key.�

Fletcher returned to the unconscious attendant and rifled the man�s pockets, fishing a key from the front left. He held it up for Snow to inspect. �Here�s our ticket, me boy. Come with me.�

Fletcher entered the dimly-lit room and immediately saw a woman sleeping in the narrow bed against the wall. Snow reached past him and pulled back the blanket, exposing the woman in her white, full length nightgown. She shivered in the night chill.

Fletcher pulled the top off of a tin can and removed a chloroform-soaked rag, wrinkling his nose as the sickly-sweet smell wafted into the room.

�This should do nicely,� he said as he applied the rag softly to the sleeping woman�s nose. She continued to breathe regularly and slept without interruption.

Within minutes, Snow and Fletcher bundled the unconscious woman into the blanket, and tied thin ropes around her chest and thighs to prevent her from falling out. Fletcher snatched a handful of clothes from pegs on the wall and threw them on top of the blanket. He then whistled lightly.

Kendrew and Moses entered the small room and lifted the woman from the bed. They carried her down the corridor, struggling not to drop her, and at the doorway to the service entrance, Snow helped them through the opening. Fletcher, the last to leave the asylum, pulled the broken door shut behind him and then disappeared into the black night.

The day dawned clear and chilly, a sure sign that spring had not yet arrived in full force. Round Freddy pulled on his mackintosh and lumbered down the steps of the flat to the ground floor. The bracing air stung his cheeks and he pulled his collar up close around his chin as he trudged toward the corner. A two-wheeled gig occupied the cab stand at the end of St. Helen�s Square, its driver dozing on the front seat, bundled against the chill. Round Freddy arrived as a Morris motorcar taxi pulled away and noisily sped down the street. He rapped on the carriage�s side as he hauled himself into the rear seat.

�Wake up, driver; you have a fare. To the Central York Police Station on Church Street, if you please. And you can make it at a leisurely trot.�

Only a few constables talking in low tones inhabited the station house at that early hour. One policeman, a disgusted look on his face, rubbed dirt and grime from his jacket sleeve, the occupational hazard of retrieving a drunk from the gutter and confining him to a holding cell in the cellar to sleep it off.

Round Freddy bellowed a cheerier �good morning� than he felt to the constable on desk duty, clucking his tongue and nodding at the stack of papers the man had yet to sort through. One flight up on the first floor, he ducked into the back room where the constable on watch brewed coffee. He sighed when he saw a pot steaming on the iron grate.

�There you are, Wallace. Do you mind if I help myself?�

The big constable smiled. �As if that would somehow stop you, eh?�

Round Freddy flipped his forefinger at Wallace. �Point taken, old man. Anything during the night?�

�Only the usual robberies, drunks and whores.�

�Which was it last night?�

�All three. And there was something else. An odd occurrence at Bootham Park. I have two constables looking into it now.�

�The lunatic asylum? What the devil�s happened there?�

�No word yet. Some kind of break-in, I expect. I�ll have the constables report to you as soon as they arrive.�

Round Freddy took a deep sip of the hot, strong liquid and smacked his lips.

�Outstanding as usual, Wallace. I�ll be in my office if you need me.�

An hour passed as Round Freddy worked his way through the evidence on the Presbyterian Church case, once refilling his cup with Wallace�s brew.

A loud rap on the doorframe preceded the appearance of a youthful, ramrod-straight constable, accompanied by an older, gray-haired policeman. The older man nudged the younger in the ribs.

�Go on, boy. Give him the news.�

The young constable straightened himself even more. �Beggin� your pardon, detective sergeant. Constables Pybus and Carter reporting on the incident at Bootham Park.�

The older constable bit his lip and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

�Good man. Report, if you please.�

�Sir, there�s been a kidnapping at the asylum. A young lady has been abducted.�

Round Freddy rose from the chair and leaned forward, hands splayed on the desktop. �What do you mean, abducted? From an insane asylum?�

�Yes, sir. Some men forced their way in during the night by breaking through the northwest door. They broke down another door inside the place and assaulted one of the attendants.�

�Were they after a particular individual, or was the young woman snatched as a hostage?�

�The details are a bit sketchy, sergeant, but it appears the kidnappers were looking for someone specific. They went directly to this woman�s room and took her straightaway from the place.�

�No one tried to stop them?�

The young constable shrugged. �The night attendants are old men. Hardly a match for the kidnappers.�

Round Freddy nodded and sat down heavily. �And the victim�s name?�

�It�s a Miss Jane Waddington.�

Jane coughed noisily, sitting bolt upright on the straw mattress. The metallic taste in her mouth brought a wave of nausea washing over her, which she fought back down by crossing her arms tightly over her stomach. As the nausea receded, she peered at her surroundings. She sat on a filthy mattress, filled with old straw and who knew what else. Jane stood quickly and brushed off the back of her nightdress, but regretted the action almost immediately as a wave of dizziness overcame her. She slumped to her knees on the stone floor, her chin lowered to her chest.

My God, she thought, what has happened to me? She knew she wasn�t in Bootham Park any more. This place smelled much different than the antiseptic smell of the asylum; it had the odor of the country, of dirt and manure.

Jane remembered dreaming that men had come into her room during the night at Bootham Park. She even pictured them carrying some kind of bundle, and there was that odd smell too. But then the dream suddenly had stopped.

She took a deep breath and stood again, more slowly this time, and reached out to a small table to steady herself. A rickety chair stood alongside the table and she gingerly lowered herself onto it, praying it would support her weight. It did, but not without creaking protest.

Jane looked around the room. Flagstone floored, with a single door set into the wall, the space looked to be about eight by ten feet in size. High in the wall opposite the door, she could see a small window of thick, milky glass that allowed some daylight into the dismal space. At the end of the narrow bed was a small pile of clothes. Her clothes.

Tears welled in her eyes. How could she get out of here? Who would know where she was and come to help her?

The sound of boots descending wooden stairs interrupted her thoughts and she stiffened in the old chair. Jane stared hard at the door, willing it to be locked. Just when she thought the boots had passed by, they stopped and she heard a key scrape in the lock. Slowly the latch moved up and the door swung open, banging lightly against the wall.

�Are you awake?� A tall, slender man stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, watching her.

�Yes.� Her voice cracked and she tasted the metallic taste again. �I would like a cup of water, if I may.�

The man took a step nearer and regarded her closely. �You should be resting. You�ll feel better if you�re over there.� He indicated the mattress with a nod of his head.

�I am perfectly fine where I am. But I do want some water and perhaps something to eat.�

The man stared at her for what she thought was an interminable time before replying. �I�ll see to it.�

He returned soon after with a mug of water and a handful of hard bread. He held the bread and water out for her to take, but she could not make her hands respond. He gave her a curious look and set the mug and bread on the table, shaking his close-cropped blond head.

�Eat the bread,� he said. �It�s all we have right now.�

When he left, Jane took a long draught of the water and broke the bread into smaller pieces, each of which she soaked in the water to soften before slipping them into her mouth. She was amazed at how hungry she was, even after finishing the hunk of stale bread.

Feeling slightly better, Jane rose and made a careful inspection of the room. She ran her hands over the wooden walls, fingering the seams between the boards, looking for a chink in the wooden armor. After a complete circuit of the room, she had found none.

The window, she thought. That must be the route out. Jane pulled the table to the wall, wedging it tightly against the smooth wood. She gently put her weight on the chair�s frame, then stepped onto the table. As her head came up even with the window, her spirits fell. The space occupied by the heavy glass was quite narrow; only eight or nine inches high, while its width was about fourteen. Even if she could somehow break out the heavy glass, she knew it would be impossible to squeeze through such a small opening.

The only way out would be through the door. She decided she would have to wait for the next visit from her snowy-haired jailer.

At the main doors to Bootham Park, Round Freddy sucked in his overhanging gut, only slightly diminishing its visible girth, then exhaled a blast of air as he simultaneously pushed open the heavy oak door. He knew the young constable accompanying him would only observe the blast of breath and the door opening, and draw the conclusion that Round Freddy had blown the door open. Inside, the tile floor of the entryway echoed with their boot steps as they approached a semicircular counter set against the side of a stairwell.

�Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume of the York Police to see Doctor Canham.�

The sleepy-eyed attendant leaned back from the counter and studied the two policemen briefly, then disappeared through a curtained doorway. Within minutes, Doctor Edward Canham, the director of Bootham Park, appeared and led them along green-hued corridors to an office in an outer wing of the building.

�What can you tell us of the abduction last night of Miss Jane Waddington, doctor?�

�I�m afraid I am unable to give you an eyewitness account of the crime,� the doctor replied, �but I can relate all that has been conveyed to me.�

Round Freddy waved his hand in a rolling motion to encourage the doctor to continue.

�None of our medical staff was on duty last night, nor is it on any night shift at Bootham Park. We commonly see the patients during the day and have only attendants on duty throughout the evening and night hours. At about two o�clock this morning, there was a clatter in the northwest wing at the side entrance facing Asylum Road. The attendant, John Benson, went to see what was causing the commotion when an interior door was bashed in, landing on top of him. One of the intruders then beat him senseless and removed his keys.�

The doctor paused, and receiving a nod from Round Freddy, continued.

�Another attendant, Walter Winks, heard the commotion and ran to the northwest wing where he viewed the abduction from a shadowed doorway.�

A dark look passed over Round Freddy�s face and Doctor Canham quickly continued.

�You mustn�t blame poor Mr. Winks, sergeant. The man is seventy if he�s a day old, and certainly no match for those ruffians.�

�What about Mr. Benson?� Round Freddy asked. �Did he survive?�

�While he is in great pain, he will recover from his injuries.

�Tell me what happened next.�

�The men went directly to Miss Waddington�s room, bundled her up in a blanket, and took her out the way they had entered. From the odor in the room, we believe that chloroform or ether was used to subdue her.�

Round Freddy glanced at Constable Andrews, who was scribbling notes onto a dog-eared notepad, and then turned his attention back to the doctor.

�Tell me about Miss Waddington, Why was she here?�

�Ah, an unusual case, sergeant. She was committed here by her uncle, the Reverend William Elsworth. You may know him as the vicar of St. Philip�s Church in Clifton. He was concerned that Miss Waddington intended to harm herself. We treated her as a suicidal case.�

�And what did you discover about her?�

�The past several years had been very unhappy for her, very traumatic. Her mother died in the centennial year, and her father met his maker three years after that. Even now, after seven years, the young woman still has not come to terms with their deaths. That fact, a recent failed romance, and her obvious distaste over the terms of her inheritance, have caused her great distress.�

Round Freddy straightened in his chair, but did not interrupt.

�Miss Waddington spent a fortnight with us at Bootham Park, and I conducted sessions with her on a number of days during her incarceration. I arrived at the opinion that the young woman was not a danger to herself, nor to anyone else, and wrote the orders to have her discharged.�

�When was that discharge to occur?�

�This very day.�

"Did Miss Waddington tell you the name of her former suitor?"

"No; she only called him 'William' and said he had gone off with the Royal Navy."

Round Freddy stroked the side of his nose lightly. �Please elaborate on what else you know of Miss Waddington�s inheritance, if you would, doctor.�

�Well, there is not a great deal to tell. When Miss Waddington�s father died, his will directed that his brother-in-law, the Reverend Elsworth, administer the inheritance for the young woman. It appears her father was over-protective and believed the girl would not be able to handle the necessary financial dealings in a proper manner."

Round Freddy slid to the edge of his chair. �And do you know if the inheritance amounted to much?�

�Miss Waddington told me her inheritance was the sum of nearly �10,000 when her father died.�

The doctor bit his upper lip and blinked slowly. �I am told the trust account holds considerably less than that now, but am unaware of the remaining amount."

�And has the good reverend been to visit his niece?�

�He has not been here since he left her in our care, but two days ago I sent him a message giving him the good news about Miss Waddington�s release.�

Round Freddy swiveled toward the constable, who wrote furiously in his notebook. �Thank you for your help, doctor. You have been most enlightening. We shall return if we require further clarification on any of the points you raised.�

The vicarage door creaked open to reveal an elegantly-appointed entry hall, and to the right, a newly-decorated sitting room with a sparkling dining room just beyond. The housekeeper showed them into the sitting room where Round Freddy collapsed onto an overstuffed sofa. Constable Andrews stood near the doorway. They remained in those positions until the reverend appeared ten minutes later.

Round Freddy stood and extracted a pocket watch from his waistcoat, eyed the dial with a walleye-glare, then looked directly into the vicar�s eyes.

�While I trust you are quite busy in ministering to your flock, reverend, I�m sure you can appreciate that our time is valuable too.� Round Freddy snapped the watch�s cover shut with a loud click.

The smile disappeared from Reverend Elsworth�s face. �How may I help you?�

�I am Detective Sergeant Hume and this is Constable Andrews. Please tell me, where is your niece, Miss Waddington?�

�Regrettably, the poor girl is a resident at Bootham Park, sergeant.�

�What would you say if I told you that she was no longer a resident at Bootham Park; that she had been abducted from that place last night?�

The reverend�s face remained immobile, but his eyes flickered from side to side before he answered. �I had no idea.��.��.��.�

�Of course not, vicar. Perhaps you could tell us something of your relationship with your niece.�

Reverend Elsworth drew a deep breath. �My sister, Helen, was her mother. After Helen died, and such a tragic death it was, the girl lived a number of years with her father in York. When he died in 1903, his will named me to administer a trust fund for Jane. I have been doing so since his death these past seven years.�

Round Freddy allowed the silence to deepen, watching as the reverend�s fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of the chair.

�And do you get a stipend for performing such a service as the trustee of the fund?�

The clergyman seemed surprised by the question, but recovered quickly.

�A small stipend, sergeant. About fifty pounds a year is allocated to me for my work in handling the administrative details of the fund. The Royal York Banking Society holds the actual monies in trust for my niece.�

�And you have no idea of where Miss Waddington might be at this moment, reverend?�

The vicar raised his chin and pushed his shoulders back.

�No sir, I do not.�

Round Freddy stretched his bulky frame and leaned toward Constable Andrews, raising his voice to make himself heard over the whine of the open car�s two-cylinder engine.

�What do you make of that, eh?�

Andrews shrugged as he wrenched the steering wheel to the left to avoid a water-filled hole in the track.

�He�s covering something up, isn�t he, sergeant?�

Round Freddy fixed Andrews with a bemused look.

�You actually have been minding what�s happening around you, lad. Yes, the man is hiding something, but we cannot tell what that might be. Enough for now. Let�s get back to the station.�

Richard Raine puffed his chest out and leaned forward, planting red, meaty hands on the clutter littering Round Freddy�s desk. Raine�s blotchy face moved closer and closer until it was inches from the detective sergeant�s.

�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.�

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.

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.

The man standing in the doorway was the direct opposite of Goodwin. Where Goodwin was short, fat and bald, the other man was tall, slender and sported a full mane of silver hair.

�You heard the conversation?� Goodwin asked.

�I did. You must realize that the good vicar could in no way have accumulated that amount of money unless it was through nefarious means.� When the man spoke, his voice sounded as smooth as a lake�s surface after a rain.

�What of the possibility that the vicar had money from his family?� Even Goodwin himself didn�t believe that could be the case, yet he broached the possibility nonetheless. He had been taught always to be thorough.

�Why would a man who had money from his family not immediately find a secure investment in which to hold that money?�

The silver-haired man paused momentarily, but appeared satisfied when Goodwin did not respond.

�Perhaps if it was recently-acquired money, then we may be involved with a much different situation. But such information is easily ferreted out, as you are well aware.�

Goodwin lowered his gaze and nodded. He was a master at prying the true story from behind a wall of fabrication.

�I shall have the answer to that riddle right quick enough,� he said. �A day or two is all I shall need.�

�And if the situation is as we expect, that the vicar has somehow had five thousand pounds bestowed on him by an unknown benefactor?�

�Then we shall put the funds to good use. The Clifton property that we own is certainly one we could sell to the good vicar, at a nice profit, of course.�

�Damn the nice profit,� the slender man spat out. �We shall inflate the value a thousand percent. Perhaps more. There�s no sense letting a sheep like the vicar walk by without helping ourselves to its fleece.�

Goodwin smiled broadly, gripping the pipe stem tightly between his front teeth. �You always had a way with words, father. You actually should think of taking to the pulpit yourself, with that silver tongue.�

The older man grinned and shook his head. �I�m quite content playing the game, son. Quite content, indeed.�

Round Freddy knew he was a worrier. The way he saw it, the reason for his worrying was unimportant. His disposition led him to believe that by worrying about something � anything � he could catalyze his reasoning powers into action and apply them to the case he was investigating. As the ranking detective sergeant in the York Police, he had the choice of cases, and often chose those that were either unusual or especially difficult.

He looked at the case materials laid out on his desk and shook his head. A sewing bobbin, three matches, a half-sheet of paper that had been wadded into a ball so many times that the pencil writing on it was illegible, a woman�s handkerchief with a �J� monogrammed in one corner, a torn handbill promoting a Temperance Society meeting, and a copper penny. Not a terribly remarkable accumulation of goods, he thought, except for the fact that the effects had been removed from the dead body of a man, dressed as a woman.

How the disguised man had come to be dead was the puzzling part of the case. The body bore no visible wounds or unusual marks, nor were there any signs of a struggle.

The deceased�s mode of dress certainly cast the tenor of the case into the unusual category, Round Freddy thought. But the lack of an obvious cause of death also made him wonder whether he should take the case on or not. His desk already overflowed with work. The First Presbyterian Church on Conley Street had been broken into and ransacked two weeks previously, two elderly women had been bilked out of their life savings by a smooth-talking Frenchman, the wealthy owner of the Cocoa Works had not been seen for months and his wife was attempting to collect on an insurance policy, and the weekly payroll had been stolen at gunpoint from the York Flour Mills by two hooded men. Added to that was this latest case, the abduction of Miss Waddington from Bootham Park. Who in the world, he mused, would want to steal someone from an insane asylum?

Round Freddy held the handkerchief up to the light and scrutinized the monogram. Fine workmanship, he thought. Surely the man must have had money to purchase fine linens.

A loud rap on the doorframe broke his train of thought. It was Andrews, the young constable with big eyes and few questions.

�Beggin� your pardon, detective sergeant, but I have the report on the items taken from the First Presbyterian Church.� Andrews shifted uneasily in the doorway. �You said you wanted it straight away.�

Round Freddy extended his hand and took the offered pages.

�Anything interesting on the list?�

�Sir?�

�Are there any items on the list that jump out at you, constable? Anything that is out of the ordinary?�

Andrews furrowed his brow and put his forefinger to his lips as if he were retaining a secret. �Now that you ask, sergeant, there was something on the list that caught me eye.�

�And what would that be?�

�The reverend�s double barrel pheasant gun.�

�Just so,� Round Freddy replied. �What would a pheasant gun be doing in a house of worship?� He cleared his throat and dropped the handkerchief to the desk. �Perhaps we should ask.�

�����

Elias Lund peered over his shoulder at the crowded pavement on Blake Street, then ducked unnoticed through the door of the Hound and Hen Public House, bumping the hip of a overweight tramp who smelled of stale ale and dead fish. The tramp gave Lund a beery smile and pushed through the doorway in the opposite direction, leaving a trail of odor and dirt behind him.

Lund stepped to the bar, brushing his sleeve vigorously as he surveyed the room, then wedged himself between a wooden post and an inebriated old man. He looked around the barroom again, but could see nothing of the man he was to meet because of the crowd, most of whom appeared to be either smelly or unwashed or both, he thought. As Lund turned back to the bar, the publican appeared and cocked his head to one side, his eyebrows raised in expectation.

�A Thatcher�s, and mind you fill it to the brim.�

The publican had already turned away, but quickly spun back, and leaning over the wide wooden bar, moved his face to within inches of Lund�s.

�If ye think ye�ll be cheated here, little man, ye can always get drink at the Queen�s �ead down the road.�

Lund pulled back and fluttered his hand in the air. �Your Thatcher�s will be fine.�

The publican grunted and turned to the tap, drawing a frothy dark liquid into a chipped pint mug. He slid the mug along the bar, and it stopped directly in front of Lund.

As Lund reached to grasp the handle, a hand shot past his and snatched the pint from the bar, spilling the top inch over Lund�s coat sleeve.

�What do you think you�re doing?� Lund�s voice rose as he spun to face the man who had snatched his drink. �Oh, it�s you. Where have you been?�

�It�s not for you to question me, Mr. Lund.�

Lund bristled, but made no reply.

�Ah, nothing to say. Please remember it was you who sent word to meet here.�

�I�ve not forgotten, but you need not be so rude as to take what does not belong to you.�

The man regarded Lund for a moment, then threw back his head and gave a deep, cackling laugh. �You would have stood me to a pint in any event, Lund. I simply took the first one available.�

Lund�s ears reddened and a quick reply formed on his lips, but he choked it back, taking a deep breath.

�I�ll thank you to pay close attention to what I have to say,� he murmured, �as I shall only do so one time. I don�t fancy repeating these instructions in such a place where it can be overheard by anyone.�

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.

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.

He took the steps to the Lendal Club two at a time, arriving at the massive oak door as the uniformed porter swung it open to reveal the cool interior of the marbled entry hall. The Lendal Club had been built on the site of the old Lendal Tower, which once had overlooked the River Ouse and guarded the southwest corner of York�s city wall. The club�s square brick exterior rose four stories high, it�s hundred foot length dominating the narrow bridge that carried Museum Street across the river to the new railway station built on the site of a Roman cemetery. It was said that when the construction crews prepared the land for the roadbeds and sidings of the twelve-track North Eastern Railway station, they unearthed masses of bones, pottery and metal artifacts. The Dealer mused that the Romans were very much like the Egyptians in burying their dead with implements that would serve them well in the nether world.

The Lendal Club served as a haven for traders, entrepreneurs and sharpies who didn�t fit the mold of the average businessman in the staid city of York. Those straight-laced denizens trod the hallowed rooms of the Minster Club, the Dealer knew, an unprepossessing granite building standing in Duncombe Place, a stone�s throw from the great Minster itself.

Relieved of his hat by the hall porter, the Dealer noticed Goodwin seated at a window in the Great Room, reading the York Gazette.

�Any news of import?�

Goodwin peered over the top of the newspaper, then resumed reading.

�The Algerian scheme appears to have fallen through,� he said, snapping the paper shut and dropping it at his feet. �The damn Frogs caused a row over the financing arrangements and now the Gazette says they shall put it off indefinitely.�

�Then it�s fortunate that you found the vicar for us to represent.�

�Aye, and what news have you?�

The Dealer caught the attention of a passing waiter. �Two fingers of Teacher�s, if you please.� He stretched his long legs to the side of Goodwin�s chair and yawned. �Do you remember that nervous little banker at the Royal York Banking Society?�

�Lund? The man with the voice that runs up and down the scale as he talks?�

�That�s the one,� the Dealer said. �He sent word that he desired a meeting to speak of an intimate matter. This we did at the Hound and Hen. It appears that our Mr. Lund has been up to nefarious ends and has a pressing need to shelter cash.�

Goodwin sat forward and steepled his fingers. �How much?�

�Ah, a good round figure. Two thousand.�

Goodwin whistled silently. �Has it struck you that a great deal of money has been offered to us in the past two days, all money that must be safely tucked out of sight?�

�It has not escaped my notice. In fact, I�d like you to put that bloodhound nose of yours to good use. You should ask some of our associates, on the quiet of course, if there is any link between Mr. Lund and the good Reverend Elsworth. If we are able to discern a link between them, we also may be able to trace a path to the source of their sudden wealth. Perhaps we might find a way to tap such a reservoir for ourselves.�

Goodwin smiled broadly. �First, lunch.�

�Agreed, my boy.� The Dealer raised the Teacher�s in a toast.

Snow whistled a series of discordant notes as he stepped into the house, his mind on the pretty girl in the cellar�s room. Fletcher would have fed her by now. It would be Snow�s turn at breakfast. A low growling noise emanated from the next room, and Snow tilted his head like a hound picking up his master�s call. He pushed aside the blanket hung across the doorway and stopped dead still, staring. Fletcher lay on the floor with his trousers around his ankles, cradling his bright red, swollen genitals in his hands and groaning between moaning curses.

�Bloody hell, what happened?�

Fletcher�s contorted face reddened and he let loose with another stream of cursing. When he finished, he gulped a deep breath. �She�s gone. The little shit is gone and she�s crippled me.�

Snow winced at the sight of Fletcher�s swollen testicles. �What do you want me to do?�

Fletcher groaned again. �Fetch a bucket of cold water. And mind that it�s as cold as you can get it.�

Snow went through the back room to the scullery where he found a shallow iron bucket. He filled it at the pump behind the house, making sure he brought up the coldest water from the lower depths of the well. As he scuttled back into the room, some of the contents sloshed over on Fletcher�s leg.

�Damn, Snow. I want it in the bucket, not on me.�

Snow watched open-mouthed as Fletcher gingerly raised himself to a squatting position and ever so slowly lowered his swollen testicles into the cold water. A mixture of a groan and a sigh escaped Fletcher�s lips as he straddled the bucket.

�Now get your arse outside and find that girl.�

�Did you see which way she ran?�

�Snow, in my condition, does it look like I had the bloody inclination to walk to the door and see where she went? Do you?�

Fletcher�s raised voice told Snow all he needed to know. �I�ll find her.�

�And when you do, Snow, there�s no need to be gentle. But make sure you bring her back.�

Snow nodded and stepped through the doorway. He stood behind the house for a minute, unsure of which way to go. Pastureland was everywhere, except to the west, where the copse of trees lay. There, he thought, that�s where I�d run. He crossed the two fields as quickly as he could manage and burst through the underbrush lining the rocky border between the far pasture and the woods. His long legs made great strides through the woodland, eating up the width of the woods in a speedy fashion.

Once through the trees, he quickened his pace through the next field and only slowed to vault a low stone wall. As he pulled out of a crouch from landing on the other side, a gleam of reflected sunlight caught his peripheral vision. It was a bicycle, standing against the wall on the back side of a gate. Snow pulled the cycle from its resting place and swung his leg over the bar. In the distance he could see a small farm, consisting of a cottage, a barn and outbuildings. It would be a place to begin searching.

Lund halted at the edge of the building and stretched his neck to peer around the corner. A pair of old women gossiped at the entrance to a butcher shop three doors down the street, while a middle-aged man attempted to crank-start a reluctant automobile. Farther down the road, a wizened man with a white beard swept trash into small piles on the pavement. Satisfied that no unwanted attention would be paid to him, Lund swung quickly around the corner and forced his short legs into a fast pace, passing the chattering woman and the automobile driver, before he ducked into a run-down lodging house.

The entry hallway was dark, and Lund tripped on the turned-up edge of a threadbare carpet, only just catching himself from falling on his face. As he straightened his jacket and pulled the bottom of his waistcoat down, a tall, heavy woman stepped through a curtained doorway.

She thrust her chin at Lund. �What do ye want �ere?�

Lund tried to peer beyond the woman at a movement behind the curtain, but she shifted her position to block his view.

�What�s your business, little man?�

Lund bristled. �Are you the proprietress of the house?�

�I asked ye what you want. I�m not here to answer questions.�

�I .��.��. I am looking for a man called Fletcher. I was told he sometimes lodged here.�

The woman looked Lund up and down, then snickered. �What�s a dandy like you want with the likes of Fletcher?�

�That would be my business, madame, and none of yours.�

The woman�s eyebrows shot up and she emitted a loud, raucous laugh. �So ye have a spot of spunk in ye, eh?� She stepped closer to Lund and looked him over once again. �E�s not �ere.�

Lund shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable at how close the woman stood. He pulled at his tight collar. �When do you expect him to return?�

�I never �spects nothing out o� that one, I can tell thee that.�

She made no effort to move away from Lund, and seemed to delight in the discomfort she was causing him.

Lund cleared his throat and took a step back. �Perhaps I should wait outside for him?� He indicated the door with his forefinger.

�Ye could do that, little man,� the woman said, stepping close to Lund again. �But Fletcher�s often away for days at a time. It may be a long wait.�

Lund looked at the big smile creasing the woman�s face and realized she was plainly enjoying herself at his expense. He summoned his self-control and took a deep breath.

�Please tell Mr. Fletcher that Elias Lund called on him and would like to meet with him as soon as possible. He will know where to find me.�

�Aye, I�m certain he will.�

�Then you shall give him the message?�

The smile dropped off the woman�s face and she took another step closer to Lund. �Ye have what ye came for. Now leave.�

He was out the door before she had finished speaking.

Jane checked the field behind her once more, then loped through the woods in the opposite direction, her stride hampered by her long skirt and petticoats. The copse was filled with old-growth trees standing on an area of rocky ground, creased by two streams that sandwiched a fertile pastureland. She moved over the rough ground as fast as she could, once stumbling on a moss-covered rock, then again tripping on a decaying branch. Within fifteen minutes, she was out of breath and out of the woods. Before her lay an unbroken stretch of pastures, each bordered by waist-high stone walls. In the middle distance, she saw a line of smoke curling from a chimney. Someone was at home in the farmhouse, she thought. They would be able to help her there. Pulling her skirt up to her knees, Jane took a deep breath and ran across the pasture.

The farm was farther away than she had anticipated and Jane stopped three times to catch her breath before she climbed the final wall separating her from the cottage. A pair of cows looked disinterested as she passed, lowing only because the afternoon was waning and their udders were full. They turned and followed Jane as she trudged a narrow path into the barnyard, scattering a handful of scrawny-looking chickens. The rear door of the cottage stood open, apparently to allow the breeze to swirl through the interior. Jane rapped three times on the door frame.

�Hello? Is anyone there? I am in need of help.�

She waited a few seconds, then repeated her appeal, but there still was no answer. Jane stepped through the doorway into a cluttered kitchen. Someone must be in the place, she thought. A pot bubbled on the stove and the smell of baking bread filled the room. Jane skirted the scarred pine table in the center of the room and walked slowly through a narrow passageway toward the front of the house.

�Hello .��.��.��.�

She gasped as a hand clamped over her mouth and a steely arm swept around her stomach, pulling her back against a lean body. She tried to scream, but the hand covered her mouth too tightly and she could only push out muffled sounds. She tried to kick at the legs of the man who held her, but stopped short when she saw the knife come up in front of her face.

�Don�t do it or I�ll have to cut you.�

The point of the blade was aimed directly at her eye. She stopped struggling and the grip on her face loosened.

�I�m going to take me hand away. I don�t want you to make a sound. Do you understand?�

Jane nodded and the man removed his hand from her mouth. She used the opportunity to look around the room and was horrified by what she saw. In the back corner of the large room sat a woman tied to a stout chair, gagged by a cloth wound around her mouth. Her terror-stricken eyes bulged above cheeks streaked by tears.

Goodwin ran his hand over his bald pate and exhaled a forceful breath. He squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest as much as he could, yet his chest had a difficult time competing for attention with his ample mid-section, which overflowed his wide belt so as to hide it almost completely. He walked into the room slowly, making sure he had the attention of all the clerks. Goodwin knew he was important, and believed it necessary that the clerks knew it too.

A tall, thin man rose and indicated a chair for Goodwin to use. The leather creaked as Goodwin lowered his bulk onto it.

�Very good of you to honor us with your presence, Mr. Goodwin. My name is Wray. Leonard Wray. I am the managing director of the Crescent Building Society. How may I be of service to you.�

�I have been engaged by a client to determine if a certain investment is suitable for his needs,� Goodwin began. �You see, he is the trustee of a blind trust and must scrupulously adhere to the requirements for investment as set forth by the trust itself.�

Goodwin paused for a moment, then satisfied that the managing director had swallowed that portion of his tale, continued.

�We are considering an investment that involves a considerable amount of land holdings in the village of Clifton. Those holdings represent the raw land itself, as well as a number of structures � houses, barns, outbuildings, that sort of thing.�

�Yes, well, Clifton is quite a desirable area, as it is situated north of the river. It gets favorable winds and is out of the hustle and bustle of York proper, is it not?�

�Indeed, it is, Mr. Wray. You have put your finger on the very reason why it appears to be such an attractive group of holdings for investment.�

�But I fail to see what service we might provide for you, Mr. Goodwin. Unless you are seeking our services as lending agents.�

�That is one of my reasons for visiting you, sir. We indeed are considering using the Crescent Building Society as a lending agent. And I don�t mind telling you that the sums involved are quite substantial. Quite substantial, indeed.�

Goodwin leaned back in the chair and looked around the room. The low murmur of conversation in the room had stopped, and while the clerks appeared busy at their work, he could see many pairs of eyes darting looks between their desks and him. Goodwin smiled and continued.

�The second reason is that we have heard some unsettling rumors about a potential purchase of land in Clifton by the congregation of St. Philip�s Church. Do you happen to know the vicar there, a Reverend Elsworth?�

Wray�s furrowed brow stretched taut, then his face brightened.

�Why of course I am familiar with the good Vicar Elsworth. In fact, if I may say in confidence, he is one of our clients. A very large one at that.� Wray had raised a finger to his lips as if to shush himself for spilling a secret.

�The information that I possess about the church�s land speculation is not specific in relation to the large holdings that we are seeking for our client,� Goodwin said. �However, when one enters into a transaction of this magnitude, it is always wise to be prudent.�

�Quite so. Quite so.�

�Has the vicar approached the Crescent Building Society about financing such a land purchase in Clifton?�

�Actually, the vicar was in our offices recently to discuss a business matter and he did mention something of that nature.�

�Are you at liberty to advise me what he said.�

Wray pursed his lips. �I can tell you in confidence that he is rather stretched in his payments to our society, so I suggested he take the transaction to another financial institution.�

�Were you able to make any specific recommendation to the vicar?�

�Why, of course we did. That is one of the reasons we are held in such good esteem by our clients.�

�And you recommended whom?�

�Why the Royal York Banking Society at Parliament and Market Streets. It�s director is Elias Lund.�

Goodwin smiled and rose, then bowed slightly to Wray.

�Thank you, good sir. You have been most helpful. I am sure I will return the favor to you one day.�

Snow eased his hand away from the girl, but kept the knife close to her neck in case she decided to try and run again. He watched as she looked wild-eyed at the farmer�s wife tied in the corner.

The bicycle had allowed him to get ahead of Jane and arrive at the cottage first, but he had been surprised by the woman in the kitchen. She must have recognized the bicycle he had stolen because she berated him loudly, then swiped at him with her broom. Snow had grabbed the broom away and wrestled her back into the house where, with a hard slap across her face, he knocked her to the floor. At the time, tying her to the chair had seemed the best course to take, but now, with two women on his hands and no idea of what to do, Snow wasn�t so sure.

As his concentration wavered, Snow relaxed his grip and lowered the tip of the knife. Almost immediately, Jane crashed her heel down on his right instep, snapping the arch bone and buckling him to the floor. As Jane skittered out of his grasp toward the door, Snow pushed off the floor after her, but collapsed before he could reach her. He hurled his knife after her, but only succeeded in piercing the caned back of an old chair.

Snow heard the kitchen door slam shut and then the sound of the scrape of metal against stone. The bicycle, he thought. She took the bicycle. There was no way he could catch her now. He reached down and rubbed his broken instep, causing alternating waves of pain and relief to wash over him and tears to form in his eyes.

�What are you looking at woman?� Snow saw that the woman was plainly terrified by the unexpected intrusion. �When is your husband due to come back? Is it at dark? Is it?�

The woman nodded affirmatively, her eyes fixed on Snow�s.

�Well then, there�s still time.� Snow pulled his good leg under his body and levered himself up, shifting his weight and standing awkwardly to the left. He reached out and steadied himself against a small table, then saw a shepherd�s staff in the far corner of the room.

�I�ll borrow this staff for awhile, missus, to help me get across your fields. You sit quiet now.� He stared at the woman for a few moments, and then hobbled through the kitchen and out into the yard.

It took Snow an hour to drag his broken foot across the fields to the house where he and Fletcher had hidden Jane. As he pushed open the door, Fletcher was hitching up his pants and fastening on a thick leather belt.

�Where the bloody hell is she?�

�I had her Fletcher, I did, but she stomped me foot and got away.�

Fletcher�s eyes followed Snow�s gaze to his now-swollen foot, which had spread the boot�s loosened laces bowstring tight.

�Now that�s a sight, it is,� Fletcher laughed, then immediately grimaced in pain. He rubbed his crotch gingerly, then shook his head.

�We have to find her, Snow.�

�She�s taken a bicycle from the farm where I found her. She could be anywhere by now.�

�We�ll start at the farm and follow her tracks as best we can.�

�Ah .��.��.��.� Snow hesitated. �There�s another thing.�

Fletcher had reached the door and paused, waiting.

�When I followed the girl to the house, the farmer�s wife attacked me. I had to tie her up to keep her quiet.�

A grin crept onto Fletcher�s face. �Women certainly seem to be getting the best of you today, matey. Let�s see what I can do to help.�

Fletcher�s gait over the rough ground was hardly faster than Snow�s stumbling walk. For each step Fletcher took, his rough trousers brushed against his still-swollen private parts, causing him to stop frequently and catch his breath. Snow, seeing Fletcher�s suffering, became more determined to reach the farmhouse door first, which he did, winded and sore.

Snow pushed the door open with the shepherd�s staff and peered in. The scene was the same as when he had left.

�It looks clear,� he said, but made no move to enter.

Fletcher brushed past him and stopped at the table to tear a chunk of bread from a baked loaf. Taking large bites of the bread, he moved into the front room and stood looking at the woman, dribbling crumbs down the front of his shirt.

�Ah, missus. There you are. It was good of you to wait for us.�

He smiled at Snow, then tapped the side of his head.

�This woman may be able to help us after all, Snow, me boy. Tell me what you think of this.�

The pair moved into the kitchen and Fletcher spoke in a low tone, keeping his gaze toward the open doorway.

�There�s still a payment to come once we finish with his niece.�

�But she�s gotten away and we�ll not catch her now.�

Fletcher clucked his tongue. �Right. But we yet can collect the rest of the money, even without the girl.�

Snow�s smooth brow creased in thought, but he said nothing.

�We have to give the vicar a reason to think the deed�s been done. We need a body for the good vicar.�

The meaning of Fletcher�s argument flashed across Snow�s face like a quickly-moving storm.

�Not me. No I won�t do that. I told you at the beginning I wouldn�t hurt anyone.�

�Ye�ll need not do any of the hurting, me boy. I�ll take care of that. Ye�ll need to do some of the carrying and disposing, though.� Fletcher�s lone eye shone like a warning light on a dark night, but his gaze never wavered from Snow.

Snow, looking at the floor, assented with a small nod.

Back in the front room, Snow squatted in front of the woman and tried to put a smile on his face.

�Missus, you must take a minute to listen to me.� He could see she was scared and tried to calm her. �We don�t want to hurt you, missus, so you must be still.�

The woman�s eyes softened, then suddenly bulged, as Fletcher�s meaty hands encircled her neck and choked off her air. She rocked and kicked as Fletcher tightened his hold, but her efforts only succeeded in pushing out of her lungs what little oxygen remained. Within thirty seconds, the woman�s head slumped to the side. She was dead.

Fletcher�s flushed face looked as if it was burning and the white of his eye flashed in the gloomy room.

�There�s a cart at the side of the house. Bring it around to the door. We�ll load her on it and cover her with that sacking over there.� He pointed to a pile of deteriorating sacks.

�And let�s be quick about it. We have to get her to the river before we can go to the vicar for more money.�

Snow shivered as he looked at the dead woman. Then he hobbled through the doorway.

The journey to the vicarage in Clifton was not unpleasant, Round Freddy thought, as he stretched his legs out as far as the firewall of the Austin would allow. The late spring sunshine had warmed the air, and despite the strong breeze blowing, the day had turned into a fine one. Round Freddy had directed constable Andrews to put the vehicle�s top down, so as to soak up as many of the sun�s weak rays as possible. As the constable drove the car down the dirt drive at the side of the church, Round Freddy quickly put his hand on Andrews� arm.

�Quickly, man; pull over behind that hedge.�

Andrews yanked the wheel around, slewing the little vehicle in a tight turn that brought it perilously close to the head-high hedges.

Peering around the thick branches and newly-greening leaves, Round Freddy watched as Lund and Reverend Elsworth exchanged words on the vicarage portico. Round Freddy couldn�t decipher what was being said, but the raised voices and staccato punch of the conversation clearly indicated a strong disagreement.

As Lund got into his car, the reverend approached its off side, leaning into the open window. The engine fired to life and the reverend lunged back as the sleek black auto flung itself into reverse, then roared down the dirt drive toward the street. Preoccupied, Lund did not notice the small police vehicle hidden behind the hedge.

�Clearly,� Round Freddy murmured, �this is not the time to disturb the reverend. It�s best if we see what develops next.�

Jane did not know where she was or where she was headed. She only knew she had to get away from the farm house and the madmen who were after her. She had begun hyperventilating when the snowy-haired man had put the knife to her neck, but when she realized he really didn�t intend to hurt her, she decided to find a way to escape. Stomping his foot wasn�t an action she consciously considered; it simply happened and Jane was as surprised as he must have been when she did it.

She passed several small farms set back in the fields from the dusty track, but was too terrified to stop and ask for help. Her fear made everyone suspect. Jane slowed her pace as she passed the last farm, watching the smoke curl lazily from a stone chimney. But as she debated about approaching the house, the fear of being caught by her former captors seized her again and she took off at a quickened pace, driving the bicycle�s pedals faster and faster.

A mile down the road, the bicycle�s front tire bounced as it ran over a partially-buried stone in the dirt track, pushing her toward a hedge, but Jane recovered in time to avoid crashing into the thick foliage. She was breathing hard and looked back down the track to see if anyone was following her. She could see no one and decided it was safe to stop and rest.

Jane sat on a grassy patch of ground and smoothed her skirt over her outstretched legs, listening to her heartbeat slowing to a more normal cadence. She looked at the countryside around her, trying to decide which direction would take her to safety. The day was dry, but a thick bank of clouds filled the sky and blocked out all signs of the sun. If she only had the sun, Jane thought, she could determine the direction in which she should ride. But without it, she decided it was best to continue in the direction she had been heading.

Another half-hour of pedaling brought her to a junction with a well-traveled dirt road. To the left she saw only a few scattered farms and outbuildings, a scene that looked much like where she had been. But to the right, Jane could plainly see a cluster of buildings in the distance, probably a mile and a half away. She remounted the bicycle and began pedaling with renewed vigor.

The town limit sign read Nunthorpe, which Jane knew to be a village about five miles southwest of York. She pedaled along the tiny village�s main street and stopped in front of the Sleeping Dog Public House. As Jane stepped inside, the low hum of conversation stopped and all of the room�s occupants turned to stare at her.

Jane sat down in a straight-backed chair at a small round table and breathed a large sigh. I must look a fright, she thought, brushing her hand back through her tangled hair. Everyone is staring at me.

The publican, a large, raw-boned man, shuffled over to her. �Here now, we�ll not be having your type in here. This is a clean establishment.�

Jane�s eyes widened at the implied accusation. �And what type would that be, sir?�

The man blew a beery breath in her direction. �You knows well enough the type I mean. Go ply your trade somewhere else.�

�I can assure you sir, that you are quite mistaken.�

�Harold, you leave off insulting that young woman.� It was the publican�s wife, one hand on her hip and a broom in the other. �Can�t you see she�s had a hard time of it. Why in bleedin� hell must you always pick on the pretty young ones?�

A roar of laughter erupted from the small crowd of drinkers in the pub.

The publican, red-faced, retreated behind the bar. �You deal with her, then.�

�That I will Harold.�

The woman ducked behind the bar and pulled on a long handle, drawing a half pint of lager into a mug, then strolled over to Jane�s table.

�Drink this, dearie,� she said, setting the half pint in front of Jane. �And don�t you pay any mind to Harold over there growling at us.�

Jane gulped a mouthful of lager and spilled some of it down her chin.

�Easy, girl. There�s plenty there. My name�s Lizzie. Now tell me what�s happened to you?�

Jane swallowed two more mouthfuls before beginning her story, starting from the day when her uncle committed her to the asylum. By the time she chronicled her ordeal, she had finished the half pint, as well as a second one that the publican had brought at his wife�s direction.

�You�re in a fix, you are,� Lizzie said. �You need a safe place to hide until those men stop looking for you.�

�How do we know that they will stop?�

�We don�t, but men being men, they�ll get distracted by something else � either ale or a woman � and forget about you. Until then, you stay here. I have a room at the back upstairs. You�ll be safe. And you can work in the pub and the scullery to earn your keep.�

�Why are you doing this for me?�

Lizzie bit her lip. �My younger sister was in a situation a bit like yours. A bad man wouldn�t leave her alone, so she packed up and ran. I haven�t seen her in four years.�

Jane�s eyes teared as she grasped Lizzie�s hands. �Thank you. Thank you so much.�

�Let�s get you cleaned up and then onto a soft bed.�

�At this point, the soft bed alone sounds fine.�

Snow leaned against the cold stone wall of the farmhouse and tried to control his breathing by opening his mouth wide and sucking in great gulps of air. He had seen Fletcher do many distasteful things, but nothing like this. Dead, he thought. Fletcher had really killed her. When they were talking about it in the kitchen, Fletcher made it seem so sensible, like it was the only thing they could do. But now, Snow wasn�t so sure. He looked at the dogcart he had dragged to the front door and shuddered at the thought of touching the woman�s dead body.

�Snow, where the bloody hell are you? Get in here.�

Snow bumped his head lightly against the cottage wall, closing his eyes tightly. �Coming, Fletcher.�

Inside, the woman lay on her back on the smooth floor, her eyes staring unseeing at the beamed ceiling and her tongue lolling out of her mouth as if she were licking crumbs. Those eyes held the same fear now as when she was tied to the chair, Snow thought.

�Stop staring like a schoolgirl and give me a hand here,� Fletcher said. �Grab the legs.�

Fletcher had lifted the woman�s torso so she resembled a rag doll folded in the center, with a head too heavy for its body. Snow grabbed the woman�s ankles and lifted, surprised at how light she was. He backed out of the room slowly, putting most of his weight, and the woman�s, on his good ankle.

At the rear of the dogcart, they lifted the corpse into the box, but even though the woman was short, her body was too long for the cart and hung over the end.

�We could cut her legs off and solve the problem, but that would ruin the purpose of dumping the body,� Fletcher said. He looked at Snow with a burning-bright eye, then laughed. �Let�s get her arse up at the back of the cart and fold her in half.�

By the time they had the body completely contained in the cart and covered with an assortment of dirty, odorous sacks, dusk had fallen and a half moon had already risen.

�We�ll take turns pulling the cart, so we both don�t get worn out,� Fletcher said.

�But the river�s two miles from here, at least.�

�More like three,� Fletcher countered, �but once we get out of these fields, we can use the lanes and back roads to take us to the river. I know just the spot where we can set our parcel free in the water.�

The dogcart creaked as Fletcher pulled it over the uneven ground and occasionally stuck as one of the wheels dropped into a rut. At the gate to the next field, Fletcher pulled open the wooden bar and offered the cart�s handle to Snow.

�Your turn, matey.�

Snow heaved on the handle and got the cart moving, surprised at the relative ease with which it moved over the deepening grass. The ground in the field had been left fallow during the growing season, so a plow had not turned the earth and made it as uneven as in the previous field. But within minutes, Snow�s injured foot was on fire, sending shooting pains up his leg.

�I don�t know how much longer I can pull the cart. She�s gotten a lot heavier.�

Fletcher simply grunted.

Snow kept silent for another hundred feet, then stopped.

�I�m done in, Fletcher. I can�t do any more.�

Fletcher edged over to Snow and stared up at him through the weak moonlight as if inspecting a chicken hanging on a peg. Satisfied, he nodded and took the handle.

�Get what relief you can now, matey. You�re going to do more pulling once we�re on the roads. I can�t do this all by meself.�

As they reached the gate at the back corner of the field, Snow opened the bar while Fletcher slipped through the opening and peered down the narrow dirt lane. The feeble half moon cast only enough light to dimly make out the shapes of bushes and rocks alongside the road and Fletcher studied each of them before giving a low whistle.

�Bring the cart through and I�ll bar the gate.�

�How far to the river now, do you think?�

�The better part of two miles, I reckon. Probably more.�

Two-and-a-half miles and three hours later, Fletcher turned off the dirt track and pulled the cart onto a nearly-imperceptible path through the underbrush. Beyond the thick screen of leaves Snow could hear the sound of water lapping along a shoreline.

�It�s not far now, Snow. Just down here a bit.�

Snow hurried forward, then groaned as he stubbed his injured foot on an upturned stone. Rubbing his swollen instep, he called to Fletcher.

�No farther. Damn, I�m not going to move.�

As Fletcher materialized beside him, a vice-like hand gripped the side of his neck.

�You�ll damn well do as you�re told, matey. Now move on down to the water and help me unload the woman.�

Rigor mortis had come and gone on the body during the transport to the river and the body slid easily from the cart and thumped onto the soft ground at the water�s edge. A sack caught under one arm and Fletcher yanked it out, sending the woman�s limp arm up in an arc as if she were trying to attract someone�s attention.

Snow reached down and grabbed the body�s ankles.

�Hold on there, matey. There�s one more thing to be done.�

Fletcher reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small cloth bag with a brass clasp. He threaded the woman�s arm through the bag�s strap, then pulled it over her head, leaving the bag slung diagonally across the body.

�Why not keep the bag? We could sell it.�

Fletcher shook his head. �Snow, me boy, you have a lot to learn. This bag is how we�ll get a bloody great pile of money from the vicar. It�s his niece�s bag and when they find the body they�ll think its her. We�ll collect from the vicar then.�

Round Freddy found Lund in his office, slumped in his chair, chin on his chest. The banker looked up as they entered the room, almost as if he had been expecting the visit.

�I shall need a few more minutes of your time, Mr. Lund.�

Lund smiled and chuckled under his breath. �I had an unshakable feeling that you would be back, sergeant. And now here you are.� He gestured for Round Freddy to take a seat.

�I�ll come straightaway to the point. What did you and the vicar argue about yesterday afternoon?�

Lund�s eyes widened in surprise. �How could you know .��.��.��.�

�Think about it for a moment, Mr. Lund. We have been asking you probing questions about your relationship with Reverend Elsworth. Miss Waddington is kidnapped from Bootham Park. Did you not think we would be watching the vicarage? Of course we saw your argument at the vicarage.�

�I .��.��. I thought I might reason with the man. Make him see that I had to tell you the truth.�

�But the vicar wasn�t interested in you telling the truth, was he?�

The banker shook his head. �No, he was not. In fact, he threatened me. When I told him what had transpired, he said he would have Fletcher and his men deal with me.� Lund looked up at Round Freddy. �I was scared, sergeant. I returned here a fast as I could.�

�Why don�t you take a moment to collect yourself, and tell me more about this man, Fletcher.�

�There�s not much to tell.�

Round Freddy arched his eyebrows. �Indeed! That is precisely what you have been saying to us all along. And then you dribble more bits of information that would have helped us earlier.�

Lund hid his face in his hands, then dragged them down across his nose and mouth in a slow, drawing movement.

�I can honestly tell you, sergeant, that I am tired of the deceptions I have perpetrated. The truth is that the vicar sought my advice about the services of a man who would be willing to perform acts that were, how shall I say, outside of the law.�

The banker sighed before continuing. �I had used Fletcher in the past to collect money owed to the bank by debtors who had gone into hiding to avoid paying. Fletcher is the type of man who can mingle with that lower class element and fit in nicely.�

�Please describe the man for us.�

�Short and stocky, with a shock of dark hair and a scruffly little beard. But the one thing that you�ll notice about him is that he only has one eye. He wears a black patch over the other.�

�That is most helpful. Please continue with your narration.�

�There is not much more for me to tell you. When the vicar approached me about the matter, he was reluctant to discuss the purpose for which he needed men who could handle elements of danger, as he put it. I pressed him for more details and he finally admitted the men were needed to make a kidnapping.�

A shudder ran down the banker�s small frame, as he drew a deep breath.

�It was his niece in Bootham Park that he had designs on. He wanted the men to snatch her from the asylum.�

�And what did he intend to have them do with her?�

�The vicar never discussed the plan any further with me. He only wanted the name of someone who could do the job, so I gave him Fletcher�s name and told the vicar where to find him. That was the last I heard of the matter from the vicar.�

�And now you shall tell us where we can find Mr. Fletcher.�

Fletcher and Snow took the rest of the night to negotiate the quiet back roads, always heading in a northerly direction toward York. Daylight found the pair sitting at the side of stone stile.

Fletcher rubbed his back from side to side against the rough stone, then arched his neck and looked up into the cloud-filled morning sky.

�At least the rain�s held off,� he said, looking down at Snow�s foot. He motioned with his chin. �How is it?�

�Like there�s a fire in me boot. I plan to soak it for a week if I ever get back home.� Snow stared hard at Fletcher�s crotch. �How�s yours?�

�Sore. And still swollen. I feels them with each step I takes.� Then he chuckled and slowly shook his head. �It might seem bleak to you now, lad, but you�ll cheer up greatly when we split the money from the vicar. They are sure to find the body in the next day or two, so he�ll have the word by then.�

�So he knows the girl is dead. Then what?�

�Snow, me boy, think on it for a moment. He wants the girl out of the way. We can�t claim the money he owes for the job until he knows she�s dead. Once the woman�s body is found, we can collect from the vicar. By the time he learns its not his niece, we�ll be long gone with the cash.�

Snow rubbed his foot and nodded. �Just so he doesn�t pull the double cross on us.�

Fletcher clucked his tongue. �Never you worry on that score, lad. I�ll see to it that he keeps his part of the bargain. Come on,� he said, rising. �Let�s get you home.�

Snow stood unsteadily, putting most of his weight on his uninjured foot, then shuffled after Fletcher.

Within a half-mile, the pair entered the outskirts of the city and squeezed through a break in the fence around the North Eastern Railway Goods and Mineral Yard. The River Ouse took a long, curving loop to the northeast at that point, then turned back to the southeast along the Clifton Long Reach. The railway yard paralleled the river, filling in acres of unwanted land with miles and miles of track. As they passed the coaling depot, Snow elbowed Fletcher in the ribs.

�Over on the right. Trouble coming.�

Fletcher spotted the watchman headed in their direction and halted, putting his hands in his pockets. �Do the same as me, Snow. Hands out of sight.�

The watchman pulled a truncheon from his belt and held it in front of him, angled out from his body. He stopped two yards from the pair.

�What are you two derelicts doing in my yard?�

Fletcher cocked his head and studied the man, then leaned forward pushing his hand forward, still inside the coat, as if he had a weapon.

�Only passing through. We�ll be gone on the other side of the engine shed.� Fletcher indicated the far side of the yard with his chin.

The watchman eyed Fletcher warily, then looked Snow up and down. After glancing over his shoulder at the engine shed, he looked back and jerked his head to the side.

�The both of you be quick. You�re lucky I�m in a good humor this morning.�

Snow moved past the man first, followed by Fletcher who stopped two feet from the watchman and fixed him with a single-eyed stare. After the watchman blinked and looked away, Fletcher smiled and hurried to catch up with Snow.

By mid-morning, they reached the alleyway off of Dudley Street where Snow and his mother lived. Snow limped into the front room and collapsed into a shabby, threadbare chair he had stolen from a dispensing chemist�s office. Fletcher disappeared into the back room and returned a few minutes later with two large crockery mugs, both missing handles, full to the brim with water.

�The best available,� Fletcher said, then gulped down the tepid liquid, smacking his lips when he finished.

Snow took a deep draught of the water, but began coughing before he had half of it down his throat.

�Easy, me boy. Don�t die on me now after all we�ve been through. I have an errand to run tomorrow or the day after and you should be very pleased with the result of it.�

Fletcher winked at Snow, then skittered out the door.

Round Freddy stared down Haver Lane at the fronts of the run-down houses that lined both sides of the narrow street. Trash and garbage littered the gutters, giving off a high stink because of the added condiment of dirty, stagnant water pooled against the kerbstones. A knot of small children picked at the corners of a trash pile, poking into the mess with sticks in an attempt to force out some type of a small animal. No doubt a rat, Round Freddy thought, and likely a large one at that.

Haver Lane ran between Hungate and Aldwark, two ancient streets that encompassed two almshouses, several rowdy public houses, a brothel, the Hungate Saw Mill and the Blue Coat Flour Mills. The nearby saw and flour mills offered the chance of a minimal weekly wage for many of the unfortunate residents of Haver Lane. But after the workers toiled ten hours a day in the mills, the landlords of the tenements took the lion�s share of their wages as rent for the privilege of occupying buildings that were literally falling down around them.

�What was that address again, Andrews?�

�Number eighteen. On the left in the middle of the block.�

The dark green paint on number eighteen Haver Lane had long since cracked and peeled off the siding, leaving only scattered traces of its former color. Likewise, the numerals painted on the door appeared like ghosts floating in the wood.

Round Freddy pulled the latch and swept the door open, sending it crashing against the wall and spewing a cloud of dust into the dim hallway. He looked down at the truncheon in Andrews� hand and grunted his approval, then lumbered up the staircase with the constable close behind. On the third level, doors were set at opposite sides of the short hallway. Round Freddy rapped his knuckles on the nearest one, and on receiving no answer, rapped again, only louder.

�Still nothing. Let�s have a look.�

He pulled the latch up gently, then pushed his weight against the door, easily swinging it open. The smell in the room stung his nostrils and he immediately could see it was the wrong room. A narrow cot sat against the far wall with an emaciated old woman lying face up on it. She was fast asleep. A chamber pot at the foot of the cot was full to the brim.

�Next room is what we�re after,� Round Freddy said, pulling the door shut behind him. �Keep that truncheon handy.�

When there was no response to his rapping on the second door, Round Freddy put his shoulder to the wood and pushed at the same time as he pulled the latch up. Round Freddy burst into the room with Andrews at his heels, the two of them with hands out and ready for action. But no one was in the room.

�Have a look through the drawers of that chest over there.�

As Andrews pulled open drawers and examined their meager contents, Round Freddy went to the window and peered out.

�Good view of the street from here. If he had been in here, he could have seen us coming.�

�But we would have run into him on our way up,� Andrews said.

�Not if he didn�t come in our direction,� Round Freddy extended his index finger toward the ceiling. �He could have gone up, then over the roofs. Let�s have a look.�

The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a flat roof badly in need of repair. One large hole had been haphazardly patched with planks laid across it and held down by a keg full of stones. It certainly could not be watertight, Round Freddy thought.

�There�s his escape route,� Round Freddy said, pointing. �Across to the next building and the one beyond, then down the stairs and out onto the street when it�s safe. Damn.�

As Round Freddy exited the building onto Haver Lane, he bumped into a small boy with coal black hands and dirt streaked over his face. Round Freddy grabbed the boy by the shoulders to stop him from falling. The child looked to be about seven years old.

�Easy there, lad. Easy. What�s your name?�

The boy eyed him suspiciously. �William Hall.�

�Do you live here at number eighteen?�

The boy nodded.

�Which room is yours?�

�The first in the front on the ground floor. It�s me mum�s.�

�Then you must know Mr. Fletcher, eh?�

The boy shrugged his shoulders.

�How about this then? Does a man with a black eye patch live here?�

The boy�s head bobbed vigorously. �He�s scary.�

�How would you like to make yourself a tuppence, William Hall?�

The suspicion returned to the boy�s face. �How?�

�It�s actually very simple. The next time you see the man with the black eye patch come into the building, I want you to run over to the police station on Petergate near the Presbytery and tell the constable at the desk that the eye patch is home. It�s not that far and you look like you�re a fast runner. Do you think you can do that?�

The boy hesitated, then shrugged.

Round Freddy decided to try another tack. �You think that the man with the eye patch is scary, don�t you?�

�Well, we do too. And we would like to talk to him about not being so scary any more. So if you do this for us, we�ll be able to make him less scary.�

The boy brightened at the thought and smiled. �Sure. But I want thruppence.�

Round Freddy bit back a smile of his own. �Done.�

Jane piled the plates and crockery on top of each another, then heaved the stack up against her stomach, slopping gravy onto the already-stained apron. The back doorway to the kitchen at the rear of the pub led into a dimly-lit room where she slid the heavy pile onto a scarred, wooden table. As she had only the clothes on her back and no money, she knew that scullery duty was the only way she could repay Lizzie for sheltering her.

Jane had slept most of Saturday, pulling the threadbare blanket over her head and trying to forget the frightening events of the previous few days, especially her harrowing escape from the two thugs. Lizzie had coaxed her into eating a bowl of soup late in the day, and once Jane had finished it, she lay back against the feather mattress and fell asleep again.

Yesterday the pub had been quiet, with only the regulars filling the low room that faced the dusty street trafficked by farm vehicles, horse-drawn carts and the occasional motor vehicle. But today the usual crush of laborers, farmers, shopkeepers and layabouts filled the pub�s great room from the time the doors opened and they showed no signs of quitting the place.

Jane leaned against the rough plank wall and pushed a handful of stray hair back behind her ear as Lizzie emerged from outside with a load of wood in her arms.

�Gawd girl, you look worn out and it�s not even supper yet,� she said, dropping the wood into an overflowing wood box. �Scullery maid duty doesn�t suit you?�

�It�s not that, Lizzie. The work is so much more physical than what I am used to.�

�And what might that be?�

�Before my father died, I was a secretarial clerk to a veterinary surgeon on Bootham Row in York. After Dad died and left me a trust fund, I no longer needed to work, yet I continued with Dr. Snarry on a limited basis, usually working two or three days a week. But three months ago, his practice slowed considerably and he had no more work for me.�

�Different work than lifting stacks of crockery and cleaning the crud off them, eh?�

Jane nodded, distracted. �I have been thinking. I am deeply grateful to you and Harold for sheltering me, but think that I should make an effort to get back to York.�

Lizzie cocked her head, yet said nothing.

�Once I get back, I can send you a payment for anything that I owe you for your trouble.�

�Luv, there�s been no trouble from you,� Lizzie said, drawing closer to Jane and lowering her voice. �But you must remember what drove you here in the first place. Those murderous bastards might yet be looking to do you harm.�

Jane drew a deep breath. �That�s all I have been thinking about. I cannot get them out of my mind and they haunt my dreams at night. But I must face the issue of returning home at some point.�

�I�ve an idea. You could send a message to someone you trust that you�re safe and wish to return home. A relative or friend who could alert the proper authorities to ensure your safety.�

Jane�s eyes brightened. �Yes, of course. A message. But I have no relatives save my uncle, who put me in that horrid asylum in the first place.�

�No friends then, either?�

Jane shook her head. �No, I am afraid I live a quiet life.�

�What about the veterinary you worked for? Do you trust him?�

Jane hesitated, considering. �No, I do not. He is a very moody man and his personality changes drastically when he drinks. One never knows the kind of mind he will be in.�

The two of them fell silent. Jane moved to the stove where a large pot of water was steaming. �Could you help me pour this into the sink?�

Lizzie grasped the other pot handle and the two of them carried the heavy load to the slop sink and filled the tub.

�Well there must be someone who would listen to you.�

�There is one person, although I do not actually know him very well. Doctor Canham at Bootham Park.�

�The doctor at the asylum? He�s who you want to trust?�

�Well, he didn�t believe me when I first was brought to Bootham Park. But after I spoke with him several times, he seemed to take a strong interest in my case. It was because of his own personal investigation that I was to be released. But I was abducted before they could let me out of there.�

�It�s settled then. Doctor Canham it is. I�ll get paper and ink for you to write the message.� She patted Jane on the shoulder and smiled. �This problem will pass you by, luv. Mark my words. And what a story you�ll have to tell to your grandchildren.�

�But how shall we get the message to Doctor Canham?� Jane asked. �And should I tell him where I am staying?�

�If you trust the man, dearie, there�s no reason not to tell him. We can get one of the men out front to deliver the message. One of them will surely do it for the promise of a pint of ale. I�ll choose one who can�t read, so your secret will remain safe.�

Jane reached out and hugged Lizzie tightly. �Thank you so much. You�ve been so good to me.�

Lizzie smiled and returned the hug. �I hope someone out there is doing the same for my sister.�

Goodwin stopped at the wooden gate set into the head-high stone wall and looked back along Aldwark Road. A stream of heavy wagons drawn by two-horse teams made an unbroken line down the block and into the alleyway alongside the Inland Brewery. On the pavement, men dressed in dark worker�s clothes hurried toward the brewery, apparently intent on getting inside the building before the starting whistle sounded. Goodwin looked the other way toward the chemist�s shop at the intersection with Goodram Gate Road. There was no one nearby. He lifted the latch up and slipped through the opening, closing the gate as noiselessly as he could.

He stood still for a few moments, staring down the narrow pathway that led behind the chemist�s and to the tiny rear garden of the Goodram Chapel. The plot of land at the back of the chapel was so small, there was no room to bury it�s deceased parishioners on site. Instead, they were interred on the other side of the city in St. Stephen�s Church.

Satisfied that he was alone, Goodwin hurried down the path and turned the handle on the chapel�s rear door. It turned easily and he quickly moved inside, gaining access to the chapel in the same manner as he had for his first meeting with the vicar. The chapel was dim, with deep shadows in the small nooks that served as the transept of the building. Goodwin crossed to the low door in the side wall and entered the anteroom. He breathed a sigh of relief; the vicar did not arrive early. Goodwin arranged his bulky bottom in a straight-backed chair and folded his hands to wait.

Five minutes later he heard the sound of the heavy front door close with a muffled thud. Footsteps echoed on the chapel�s flagstones, hesitating outside the anteroom door. Then the door swung open and the Reverend Elsworth ducked through the opening.

�Good morning, vicar. Please take a chair.� Goodwin indicated the empty seat across from him.

The vicar sat and crossed his legs at the knees, fixing Goodwin with an expectant look. �And how have you managed this week on my behalf?�

Goodwin puffed out his chest before replying. �Quite nicely, I must say. I have several properties in mind that would make secure locations in which to house your funds.�

�Several, you say? How many might that be?�

�Six, to be precise.�

�I shall require that I personally examine each of them before I will give you a commitment to purchase them.�

�Of course, vicar. The idea is to shelter your cash in worthwhile enterprises, yet in holdings that cannot be readily traced back to you.�

�That has been my intent all along. Tell me about these properties.�

�You�ll remember that I spoke of a holding in Clifton at our last meeting, so I shall tackle that one first. You are aware, I trust, of Scarborough Villas?�

�Yes, a series of row houses on the southwest side of the village.�

�Actually a double series of row houses, and ones that bring in substantial profits for the owner from the rents. The owner, an elderly gent, has had enough of the dismal weather in York and has decided to spend his remaining years in Southampton where it is decidedly warmer.�

�And he is amenable to selling at a reasonable price?�

�Ah, there�s the rub, eh,� Goodwin said, his eyes alight. �What one considers a high price today is a reasonable price tomorrow and a bargain two years from now. These houses are practically a license to print Sterling.�

�How much is he asking?�

�Twenty-five hundred for the lot of them.�

�Damn, man, that�s half of what I have to invest.�

�You�ll remember that I suggested an assortment of types and sizes of purchases. That is what I continue to suggest to you and this property fits the bill nicely for the larger purchase.�

�As I said earlier, I shall have to inspect the premises.�

Goodwin rubbed his chin. �I should be careful if I were you, vicar. You would like to maintain an invisible presence concerning these transactions, yet if you go prancing about the properties, and looking inside each and every one, then surely someone is bound to notice. Especially in Clifton, where you are a rather notable figure.�

Reverend Elsworth frowned and deep, twin lines formed across the middle of his forehead. �You make a valid point, Mr. Goodwin. I shall make an inspection of the property from the exterior only, and do so surreptitiously. I also shall have to trust in your veracity concerning the property and its value.�

Goodwin gave an elaborate nod, but said nothing.

�And what of these smaller properties? Will there be the same restrictions on me?� the reverend asked.

�I would hardly call them restrictions, vicar. You are the one who has set forth the rules in this matter. I simply am making suggestions that I think reflect your best interests.�

Goodwin watched the vicar for a reaction, and on receiving none, continued.

�The other five properties are single freeholds that are available for purchase. All have operating businesses in them and produce consistent rent payments. There�s a seed merchant on Leeman Road, a joiner on Lowther Street, a stone yard off Bootham Square, a coppersmith on Walmgate Road, and an auction house on Toft Green.�

He pushed a square of paper with penciled notations on it across the table to the reverend. �All the addresses and details are there.�

�And the prices for them?�

�The total for the five comes out to just shy of five thousand quid.�

�If the properties are as good as you say, then we likely will proceed. Have you given any thought to forming the corporation yet?�

�I have indeed. In fact, I took the liberty of visiting a solicitor whom I use for confidential transactions, and he has drawn up these papers for you to endorse. That is, after you have reviewed them.� Goodwin extracted a small sheaf of papers from inside his jacket and laid them on the table.

The reverend snatched the papers and began leafing through them.

�And your commission for these transactions. Is that in these documents?�

�No, it is not. I feel that it is best if such things are not in writing.�

The reverend stopped leafing and smiled. �I heartily agree. So what shall your percentage be?�

�Fifteen percent.�

The reverend�s face turned pale. �Of the entire amount invested?�

Goodwin nodded.

�But that will amount to nearly 750 pounds. That�s outrageous!� The reverend�s face had gone from pale to purple.

Goodwin sat nonplussed. �I think you should remember why you came to me in the first instance, vicar. The service I am willing to provide for you cannot be found elsewhere. You simply cannot walk into an establishment like the Royal York Banking Society or the Crescent Building Society and expect the good people there to assist you in the manner that I am willing to do.�

At the mention of the two banking societies, the reverend turned pale again. Goodwin knew his jab had hit it�s mark.

�But 15 percent; my God, man, that�s usury.�

�I prefer to call it a modest commission to compensate me for all the risk that I am assuming.� Goodwin hesitated and then continued. �Reverend, if you�re thinking of backing out of our deal, I�m sure I can make the details of our arrangements known to your congregation on Sunday.�

The reverend sat quietly for a full minute, staring intently at Goodwin. Suddenly, the reverend shot out of his chair and snatched the contract from the table. �Give me a pen,� he snapped.

Goodwin produced a pen from an inner pocket, along with a small container of ink.

The reverend quickly signed the document and dated it. �There, blast you. I�ve done it.�

�You won�t be sorry, vicar. In a few weeks when we�ve completed all the transactions, your funds will be as safe as if they resided in the Bank of England�s vault itself.�

The vicar stared at Goodwin, then turned and ducked through the low door.

When Round Freddy stepped inside the station house he stopped short and stared hard at the scene before him. The room throbbed with activity, as if someone had stirred a hornet�s nest, but instead of bees, constables flew from place to place.

Pulling aside a smooth-faced constable, he asked, �What�s got into the place, Nelson?�

�It�s the body, detective sergeant. An old fisherman just came in and told us about it. In the river. A dead woman.�

�A dead woman, you say. Any identification?�

�None stated, sir. Beggin� your pardon, but the chief constable�s sent me on an errand and I must be getting� on with it.�

�True enough, Nelson. Off you go.�

As soon as Round Freddy stepped behind his own desk, the chief constable burst into the office.

�What the bloody hell are you doing in the station, Hume? There�s a body in the river and an investigation to be done.�

�I�ve only just arrived from checking on the Waddington abduction, sir. I shall head for the river immediately.�

�You damn well will, Hume, or I�ll have your warrant card.� The chief constable stomped from the office, leaving a smell of cigar smoke and body odor in his wake.

Round Freddy spoke briefly with the constable on station duty, and then quickly returned to the car.

�To the River Ouse at the foot of Scarborough Bridge, Andrews. It appears that we have another case on our hands, one equally as nefarious as the Waddington mystery. A dead body, my boy. A dead woman�s body.�

�You don�t think there�s any connection between the two cases, do you sir?�

�I never try to think until I am presented with facts to think about,� Round Freddy said, grinning widely. �We shall know more shortly.�

He could tell that Andrews was nervous from the way the lad�s foot shuddered on the motorcar�s accelerator, causing a stuttering motion in no way related to the cobblestones over which they rode.

Andrews parked the Austin in the shadow of the Scarborough Bridge�s north pier and the two of them walked past gawkers and bystanders to the water�s edge. Round Freddy pointed to the corpse that had filled up with gases and floated like a ship�s life preserver.

�The body has been in the water for some time,� he said to Andrews in a conspiratorial whisper. I would hazard a guess of at least a day or more. The decomposing tissue emits gases that makes the body fill up with air. So, of course, the corpse floats.�

Andrews shifted his weight from side to side, but said nothing.

As two beefy constables heaved the body onto the long reeds at the shoreline, Round Freddy stepped forward. But Constable Andrews, staring hard at the bloated body, coughed and bent forward, spraying his breakfast on the ground and across the tips of his scuffed boots.

Round Freddy grimaced, first at Andrews, then at the distorted features of the woman�s body.

She had never been pretty, even in life, he thought, but she was by no means ugly either. More plain than anything else, with dark freckles splashed across her face and neck and long red hair, now clumped into matted ropes of dull sienna that obscured much of her face.

He pushed her hair aside. Round Freddy had never seen Jane Waddington and knew he could not identify her by looking at this corpse.

�Shall I have Reverend Elsworth brought here to see if this is his niece, detective sergeant?� Andrews seemed to have recovered some of his composure.

Round Freddy held up his hand, then reached down to the body. A small bag was slung across the body�s chest, from shoulder to hip, its pouch secured by a brass clasp. He unsnapped the clasp and slipped two fingers inside the wet material, extracting a small wad of papers and several coins.

�Robbery obviously was not the motive,� he said as he pulled the sodden papers apart. �And here is what we are seeking.�

He held up a crumpled, dripping calling card. It read: Miss Jane Waddington. Fenleigh House. York.

Round Freddy stood and motioned the beefy two constables over to him. He spoke with them a minute, then looked at Andrews and smiled.

�Right, constable, let�s be on our way. This puts an entirely different shine to the case, I daresay.�

Jane brushed a strand of hair out of her eye and behind her ear as she leaned against the kitchen doorway, surveying the room. The pub overflowed with people, many of them soundly inebriated, even though closing time remained two hours distant. This pub life is not for me, she thought, wondering if she would ever get back to her former life of tranquility. She straightened and nodded to a heavily-whiskered man gesturing wildly to attract her attention.

�Yes, sir. What can I get you?�

�Two pints of bitter, young lass. And we�ll continue to be friends, then.� The man squinted through a pince-nez, then leered as she left.

But before Jane could reach the bar to deliver the order to Harold, a meaty hand swept around her waist and a red-faced drover pulled her onto his lap.

�Here now, miss. Wot�s your hurry? Sit with me for a spell and let me tell you some tales.�

Jane squirmed from his grasp and succeeded in standing before the ginger-haired drover clamped his hand on her forearm.

His face tightened and he said in a loud voice, �I said we�re to talk a bit miss, and I mean to do it right now.� He pulled Jane back onto his lap and tightened his grip on her waist.

Jane let her body go limp, and as the drover grabbed to keep her from falling, she raked her nails across his cheek, drawing trails of blood.�

The drover roared in pain and stood up, dropping Jane onto the floor.

�I�ll show you how to behave with a man,� he shouted, grabbing her by the hair and raising her off the wood planking.

As he did, a wooden truncheon crashed across the side of his head, splitting his scalp from the eyebrow to the ear, and sending him crashing to the floor.

Harold, with the truncheon still raised threateningly, pointed at the drover.

�Don�t you ever touch any of the staff in my pub again or the next time I�ll slice your bollocks off for you.�

The drover, blood streaming down the side of his head, started to stand, but sat back down when Harold waved the truncheon.

�Out,� Harold yelled. �Out of my pub, now!�

�But I�ve a half pint left to finish.�

Harold picked up the mug and slowly poured the remaining contents over the drover�s head, then slammed it down on the table.

�You�re finished now. Out.�

As the drover limped toward the door, Harold took Jane by the elbow and helped her sit in the chair the drover had vacated.

�Are you all right?�

Jane nodded, her limbs still shaking.

�Lizzie,� Harold called, �sherry for the girl. And be quick about it.�

�He wouldn�t release me. He had a tight grip on me.�

�He won�t do that again, girl. You can wager on that.�

Lizzie held out a glass of sherry and Jane greedily gulped the contents, then coughed furiously as the fiery liquid burned the back of her throat.

�Easy there, dearie; there�s plenty more and enough time to drink it in.�

Lizzie plucked at Harold�s sleeve and pulled him to the side.

�That was a good thing you did for her. I�m beginning to think you might actually have a soft spot, Harold.�

Harold scowled and looked away. �Gawd, woman. Must you always make a pile out of nothing?�

�Still, you did well. I�m proud of you.�

Harold lowered his chin and mumbled. �Well the girl�s a hard worker. She deserves better treatment.�

�I�ll show you good treatment later,� Lizzie said, swinging her hips as she moved to Jane�s side.

�A few more days, lovie. You should have some kind of answer by then from your doctor friend.�

Jane brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.

�I wish I could believe that. I really do.�

The sound of the heavy door knocker had hardly drifted away when the housekeeper swung the vicarage door open. �Oh, it�s you gentlemen from the police. I expect you�ll want the reverend.�

�Indeed we do,� Round Freddy said, fingering the brim of the hat in his hands. �May we come in?�

�Please take a seat in the sitting room there.� The housekeeper indicated an arrangement of overstuffed, flower furniture in a room off the entry hall.

Round Freddy stood as Reverend Elsworth entered the room.

�What is it now, detective?�

�I think that you might want to sit down, sir. I have distressing news.�

The reverend stiffened, but did not move.

�We found a body in the river. We believe it to be your niece.� Round Freddy pulled a damp bag from his pocket and handed it to the reverend. �This also was in the bag.� He held out the wrinkled and stained calling card.

The reverend looked at the card, but did not touch it. �That�s her card. And this is her bag,� he said, turning the bag over and over in his hands.

Round Freddy studied the reverend�s face, but couldn�t decide if it was shock or unconcern that registered there. He gently took the bag back from the reverend.

�I�m sure you understand. This is a police investigation and these items are evidence. We shall be sure to return them to you as soon as possible.�

The reverend nodded, then lowered his gaze to the floor.

�Did she drown?�

�It seems so, although the doctor has not finished with the body yet. We shall know more presently.�

�Then that�s it,� the reverend said, slapping his thighs and standing abruptly. �She�s killed herself.�

�We don�t know that is what transpired, sir. The only thing we know now is that she was found floating in the river. How she came to be there or how she met her end are still questions to be answered.�

�I shall have to make arrangements for her burial.�

�Yes, of course. We will have the body released to you as soon as the doctor is finished with his examination. I�ll have constable Andrews advise you personally.�

The reverend nodded absently. �That would be fine.�

Round Freddy glanced at Andrews and cocked his head toward the door. Neither of them said anything as they left the house.

Fletcher stood in the deep shadows at the rear of St. Philip�s Church, watching as the last of three old women made her way toward the exit and into the churchyard. St. Philip�s was laid out in the traditional form of a cross, with a transept bisecting the main hall and nave near the church�s apex. Three aisles, one in the center and one on each side, led from the entryway to the celebratory podium at the front.

To the left side of the transept stood a baptismal font; a choir area was on the right. Set into the outer wall adjacent to the choir stall was an oak door. Fletcher heard the protest of little-used hinges as the door opened, and when it shut with a thud, Fletcher could make out the Reverend Elsworth through the dim light. The vicar paused briefly before striding to the front of the church, where he rummaged through a cabinet set into a side wall.

Fletcher shambled down the left aisle and came up behind the vicar without making a sound.

�A fine afternoon it is, vicar.�

The reverend spun around, his face ashen. �What are you doing here? My God, man, someone could see us together.�

Fletcher chuckled and pinched the tip of his nose. �I shouldn�t worry about that, vicar. Folks is used to seeing all kinds of people come and go from the church. Another one shan�t make a difference.�

�What do you want?�

�Only what�s due me. I�m here for the rest of the payment.�

�Fletcher,� the reverend began, raising a hand as if trying to calm a nervous horse, �this is neither the time nor the place.�

Fletcher stepped closer and thrust his face next to the vicar�s.

�I thought ye might say something of the kind. It may not be the place, but the time is right. You heard from the police, eh?�

�I did.�

Fletcher sighed heavily and his face grew grave. �Ye shouldn�t make this any harder than it is vicar. What did they say?�

The reverend hesitated. �They brought round Jane�s bag and one of her calling cards. She was pulled from the river, drowned.�

�Is that what they said?� Fletcher asked.

�No, you fool. It must be obvious, even to you. She got away from you and drowned in the river.�

Fletcher bumped his chest against the vicar until the reverend was pressed up against the cabinet.

�Ye listen to me ye sanctimonious arsehole,� Fletcher hissed. �I took care of the girl as ye directed, and it weren�t the water which killed her. It were me. So ye�d better be thinking hard about getting together the rest of the cash that ye owe for the deed being completed.�

The vicar squirmed away. �All right, man. All right.� He brushed his jacket with long strokes as he spoke. �There is no need to get physical here. We can settle this like .��.��. gentlemen, can we not? You�ll appreciate that I don�t carry great amounts of cash on my person.�

Fletcher eyed the vicar closely. �When can we settle it and where?�

�Give me a day to get the cash. Tomorrow afternoon.�

�Is that the best ye can manage?�

�The bank is likely closed by now,� the reverend said, snapping open his pocket watch. �Yes, probably shutting its doors as we speak. I shall stop in the morning and get the cash, then meet you. Let�s say the Goodram Chapel on Goodram Gate Road at two.�

�Nay, ye�ll not choose the location this time. Ye�ll meet me in the forecourt of the York Minster at noon. That should allow ye plenty of time to get from the bank to the Minster.� He edged closer to the vicar. �Ye do plan on being there to meet me, don�t ye? And alone.�

The reverend leaned back away from Fletcher, and steepled his hands in front of him as if in prayer.

�I�ve come this far in this devilish business. I shall see it through to the end.�

�Just be sure ye do,� Fletcher intoned, �or ye might find yourself swimming in the River Ouse too.�

Lund twisted in his seat, watching Round Freddy pick his nails and then run his fingers down the ledger�s columns. The detective had the book propped up on his knee, precariously balanced, as he nonchalantly went about his personal hygiene. Without warning, Round Freddy snatched the ledger from his lap and flung it onto the center of Lund�s desk. The heavy book landed with a loud thud and sent papers fluttering to the floor.

�Perhaps you could explain the second entry for June fourteenth?�

Lund took a deep breath and read the entry, then his shoulders sagged. �It�s a payment to a corporation for services rendered,� he stammered.

�Ah, yes. The Alliance Stock Society. Is that not the organization that was closed down two years ago for fraudulently extracting investments from the good citizens of York?�

The banker said nothing.

�And the third entry for July twenty-seventh?�

Lund ran his finger down the column and closed his eyes at sight of the entry. He did not answer.

�Let me see,� Round Freddy began. �Is that not the �450 payment to the North Eastern Temperance Protective Society? That is the very group we have shown to have no offices and no staff, nor does it do work of any nature whatsoever.�

Lund sat back in his chair, his eyes flickering toward the closed door.

�Perhaps you should explain your role in this matter, Mr. Lund. If you assist us in the investigation, it will be to your credit when you stand before the magistrate. We will be pleased to tell him that you had no part in the abduction and possible murder of Miss Waddington.�

The banker blanched. �M .��. m .��. murder? I had nothing to do with murder, only the false payments.�

�Well then, perhaps you should start at the beginning.�

Doctor Canham straightened in his chair and slowly hunched his shoulders up, rolled them back, then relaxed. He repeated the exercise four times, and with each repetition, exhaled a long breath. The stack of paperwork on the right side of his desk had dwindled from over a foot high to only two inches, but the effort took its toll on his back and neck. He pulled the next case file from the stack, but was interrupted by a light tapping on his door.

�Come.�

The door swung open to reveal his office attendant, Mrs. Sheppard, standing in front of an ill-dressed elderly man, white hair peaked high on his head and cap in his hand.

�Doctor, this .��.��. man .��.��. would like a word with you. He says he has something to give only to your hands and refuses to tell me what it involves.� Mrs. Sheppard edged further into the room, putting more distance between her and the rumpled courier.

Doctor Canham came around the desk, studying the man as he did. �Thank you Mrs. Sheppard. Please allow the fellow to enter.�

The doctor watched the woman hold her breath as the old man passed, then quickly retreat through the doorway. He was used to unusual patients being thrust at him by weary officials or harried family members, but could not remember one walking in on him unannounced.

�How may I help you?�

�Ye�d be Doctor Canham, the governor o� Bootham Park Asylum?� The man�s front teeth were missing and most of the rest of them blackened. The odor emanating from him was beginning to permeate the room.

�That I am. Again I ask, how may I be of service to you? Do you need medical assistance?�

�Nay, it�s not for me that I�ve come. It�s the message.� The old man extended a crumpled paper in his hand.

Doctor Canham unfolded the paper and read the precise handwriting it contained. He peered over his round spectacles at the courier.

�Did you look at the contents of this message?�

�I did that, sir.�

�Did no one ever tell you that messages are meant to be private?�

�It makes no difference, sir. I can�ts read anyhow.�

Doctor Canham stifled a smile and dug in the pocket of his waistcoat for a coin. �Take this for your trouble. Can you find your way out?�

�Aye, sir, I can, and thank ye kindly.�

When the man had gone, the doctor went to the window and threw it fully open, allowing a breeze in that fluttered the papers on his desk and began to clear the odor hanging in the air.

He opened the paper again and reread the message.

DEAR DOCTOR CANHAM:

IT IS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE THAT YOU HOLD THIS COMMUNICATION IN THE STRICTEST OF CONFIDENCE, FOR MY VERY LIFE SHOULD DEPEND ON YOUR ACTIONS. YOU WILL KNOW THAT I WAS ABDUCTED FROM BOOTHAM PARK, BUT YOU CANNOT KNOW THAT THE HOUDLUMS WHO PERPETRATED THE ABDUCTION ALSO ATTEMPTED TO MURDER ME. IT WAS ONLY THROUGH GREAT GOOD FORTUNE THAT I WAS ABLE TO ESCAPE AND HAVE FOUND REFUGE AT THE SLEEPING DOG IN NUNTHORPE. YOU BELIEVED IN ME ENOUGH AT ONE TIME TO AUTHENTICATE MY ASSERTIONS AND FOUND ME TO BE TELLING THE TRUTH. I PRAY THAT YOU WILL HELP ME AGAIN. PLEASE ALERT THE AUTHORITIES OF MY WHEREABOUTS, FOR I CONTINUE TO BE FEARFUL OF THOSE WHO ABDUCTED ME. PERHAPS THE POLICE CAN ARRANGE SAFE PASSAGE FOR ME. WITH MY DEEPEST THANKS.

JANE WADDINGTON

Tucking the paper into his jacket pocket, Doctor Canham jammed on his hat and within two minutes stepped into the courtyard, heading toward his automobile.

Doctor Canhan had thought that his Sunbeam automobile was an extravagance when he purchased it six months previously, but had become so comfortable in the vehicle that he knew he could never go back to using a horse and carriage regularly. The 16-horsepower vehicle commanded more than enough power to get him around town, and he delighted in taking the Sunbeam on country roads and getting as much speed as he could out of her.

The doctor wound his way through St. Sampson�s Square, then turned onto Church Street and pulled to the kerb in front of the Central York Police Station. Inside, a burly police corporal behind a high counter confronted him.

�Your business, sir?�

�I must speak with the officer in charge of the abduction at the asylum. I believe it is Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume.�

�And you must speak with him because.��.��. ?�

�I must speak directly with him, constable. I have information for his ears only.�

The corporal nodded and disappeared through a doorway. He returned a few minutes later and gestured the doctor to follow. As the doctor moved deeper into the police station, constables glanced his way, then apparently uninterested in him, returned to their conversations and their work. Presently, he found himself ushered into an office filled with papers, casebooks and dead cigarette and cigar butts.

Round Freddy looked up from the desk, his eyebrows raised. �Please take a chair, doctor. I surely did not expect to have a visit from you today.�

�It is only because of an urgent message that I received, sergeant.� The doctor held out the crumpled paper.

Round Freddy read the contents quickly, then peered over the top of the paper at the doctor. He lowered his gaze and read the message a second time, noting the date on the letter was after when the body in the river was found. He dropped the paper on his desk and leaned back in his chair.

�You believe the message to be genuine, then?�

�Absolutely.�

�And why is that?�

�Because no one else but Miss Waddington knew that I personally investigated the claims she made against her uncle. I found clear evidence that she was telling the truth, which is why I was going to release her from Bootham Park.�

Round Freddy stroked his chin, then quickly stood up. �Doctor, thank you very much for bringing this message to me. I trust you will keep your word to Miss Waddington and not say anything of this matter to anyone else.�

The doctor stood too. �Yes, surely I will keep my word. But what will you do now?�

Round Freddy smiled broadly. �Why bring the girl back here safely, of course.�

Reverend Elsworth peered around the corner into the kitchen. The cook was bent over a table, fussing with the filling for a mince pie. He drew back and quickly covered the distance to his study, where he shut and locked the door. Sliding open the drawer of a desk built into a wall of bookcases, the reverend pulled out the papers and envelopes that filled the space and put them aside. Then he reached into the back of the drawer, searching with his fingers until he heard a soft click. Pulling up on the false bottom, his eyes grew larger, as they always did when he looked at his secret stash. In the bottom of the drawer lay six thousand pounds sterling in crisp notes.

As he carefully arranged bundles of bills in the bottom of a satchel, a dark look crossed the vicar�s face. Damn that Goodwin, he thought. Seven hundred and fifty pounds! The man was a thief in good clothes. The reverend drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. At least the bulk of his cash would be made safe, he mused. He could be sure of that.

Round Freddy leaned back against the Austin�s leather seat and exhaled a long breath as he studied the outside of the Sleeping Dog public house. The pub had only been open an hour and he could already see that a crowd had formed inside the main room. The low hum of voices and clinking glassware seeped out of the open doorway. He huffed out another breath and pulled himself from the vehicle, glancing at Andrews as the constable came around the front of the car.

�I want you to keep a sharp eye open in there,� Round Freddy said, jerking his head in the direction of the pub. �We�re dealing with criminals who have no compunction about killing innocent women, so they hardly would blink an eye at the thought of killing a copper.�

�Aye, sergeant. Should I bring my truncheon?�

�I believe that would be a wise decision.�

As Round Freddy strode into the dimly-lit pub, followed by Andrews, the level of conversation in the room dipped noticeably, then stopped all together.

�Publican, a moment of your time,� he said, bellying up to the polished bar.

Harold gave Round Freddy a fish-eyed look. �Anything to drink?�

�Not at the moment. I�ve come to speak to Miss Waddington.� He turned toward the center of the room and as his eyes swept back and forth, the onlookers returned their attention to their ale and conversations.

�And who might ye be?�

The look on Harold�s face told Round Freddy the man had a natural talent for obstinate behavior. He decided on a pleasant approach and smiled.

�Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume of the York Police Force.� Round Freddy leaned closer to Harold and lowered his voice. �I�m relatively sure we don�t want to advertise the fact of who she is to the entire room, do we now?�

�Nay, that�s not necessary. I�ll get me wife.� Harold disappeared through a doorway and in less than a minute returned with Lizzy.

�Detective, I�m sure you and the constable must be thirsty after your trip out here. Perhaps we can get you a glass of ale?�

�Thank you, missus, but I think it�s best if I see Miss Waddington first. There�s plenty of time for the ale later.�

�Very well. Come around the back and through here.�

Round Freddy stepped into the kitchen as Jane walked through the doorway from the scullery, carrying a stack of clean, chipped plates. He stepped forward and took the stack from Jane and set them on a wooden bench.

�Miss Waddington, I presume?�

Jane�s hands were at her throat, clutching at her collar, as she backed away. �Who are you?�

�Pardon me, miss. I am Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume from the York Police Force. I�m here to fetch you home safely.�

Jane covered her face with her hands and began sobbing.

�Now, miss, there�s no need for that. You�re safe with us. No harm can come to you now.�

Lizzy stepped to Jane�s side and moved the plates so she could sit down.

�I never expected that someone would actually come for me. I thought I would have to go on hiding forever.� Another sob shivered along her body.

Round Freddy ran his hand across his chin, pulling at the flesh.

�There�s nothing to worry about; nothing at all. I don�t imagine that you have packed your things yet. You�ll want to do that so we can be on our way.�

Jane looked up at him and shook her head. �I have nothing to pack. I arrived here only with a bicycle that I took from a farmhouse. Perhaps we can bring it back to them.�

�I can arrange for that to be done, miss. But the more important task for me is to get you safely back to York and into hiding there until these murderers are caught.�

�Murderers? Who was killed?�

�Ah, of course. You could not have known. We found a woman�s body floating in the river. The woman had your bag slung across her. We originally thought that woman was you.�

Jane slumped back against the wall. �How awful. And all because of me.�

�You mustn�t blame yourself, my dear. Whatever drove these ruffians to killing had nothing to do with you.�

�But that might have been me.�

�Yes, I daresay that is a strong possibility. But enough of that. You�re safe with us now and I intend to keep you that way � safe.�

Round Freddy turned to Lizzy. �Might you find a coat for Miss Waddington to borrow. The sun�s going down and the ride back to York is likely to be a bit chilly.�

�Aye, I can indeed.� She disappeared through the doorway.

�Now, miss. I�d like to ask you some questions about your kidnappers. Do you feel up to answering them? Constable Andrews here will make notes of your responses.�

Jane nodded.

�Right then. Let�s start with their number. How many took you from Bootham Park.�

�I actually can�t say, sergeant. I went to sleep that night in Bootham Park and awoke in the morning in a small dark cell in a basement.�

�Do you know where it was located?�

�I only know it was some miles from here in rural country,� she said. �When I escaped from there, I ran across fields and through some woods before coming to a farmhouse, where .��.��. oh, my god!�

�What is it?�

�The woman who was tied up in the farmhouse. Do you suppose she�s the one they killed?�

�We shouldn�t get ahead of ourselves, miss. Let�s worry about the details that we know and not leap to conclusions that we can�t prove. But we shall check everything that you tell us. Apparently, when you last saw this woman, she was alive?�

�She was. They had her tied hand and foot to a wooden chair and had a gag wrapped around her mouth so she couldn�t speak.�

�And who is �they�?�

The snowy-haired young one and the older man with the black eye patch.�

Round Freddy stiffened. �Please describe the older man.�

�Short and stocky, with a stubble of beard on his face. He was always grinning like he knew some kind of secret. But the eye patch made him distinctive.�

�Over which eye?�

�The left.�

�And the other man?�

�He was much younger, hardly more than a boy, and with snow-white hair, closely cropped. He didn�t want to harm me.�

�And how did you discover that fact?�

�I didn�t really. It was more in the manner that he treated me, like when he brought food and water.�

�How did you escape from your confinement?�

Jane blushed a deep red. �Must I say?�

�I cannot imagine that it will be held against you in any way.�

She began to say something, then stopped. �It is shameful. I should not say.�

�Miss Waddington, these are dangerous men. We should know all we can about them.�

�All right, sergeant. I kicked him between his legs when he brought me food. Then I ran up the stairs and out across the fields.�

�Is that when you found the bicycle and used it to flee safely?�

�Actually, I went to the farmhouse where I saw the woman tied up and someone grabbed me from behind. He had a knife and pointed it at my face. But something distracted him and I stomped on his foot. I saw him as he dropped the knife. It was the snowy-haired man. I ran from there as fast as I could and took the bicycle. That�s how I got to Nunthorpe.�

Round Freddy could see that she was breathing hard and in short gasps.

�Andrews, please fetch a drink of water for the young lady. In fact, make it a brandy. I believe she could use the fortification.�

He patted Jane�s shoulder. �All that unpleasantness is over now. You�re safe with us. I promise that I shall look out for you.�

Jane�s teary eyes searched Round Freddy�s face. �I shall hold you to that promise, sergeant.�

The bells of York Minster struck exactly at the stroke of noon, their deep notes resonating off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings. Fletcher huddled closer to the front wall of the massive cathedral, scanning the forecourt and the adjacent pavement for the vicar�s arrival. As the last peal of the bells died away in the weak sunshine, Fletcher spotted the Reverend Elsworth walking briskly along Minster Yard toward the forecourt entrance. The vicar turned in toward the Minster and, seeing Fletcher, slowed his pace to a leisurely stroll.

Fletcher cocked his head toward a grassy expanse adjoining College Street, and the two of them walked side by side in silence. Beneath a spreading elm tree, Fletcher stopped.

�Ye brought the money?�

�It�s right here.� The reverend patted his jacket�s breast pocket.

�Let�s have it here, then.�

The reverend looked behind him toward the forecourt, then back toward the rear of the Minster. Scores of people strolled the grounds; some rested in the shade of trees, while others made the most of the spring sunshine.

�What? Right here in front of everyone?�

Fletcher laughed. �Worried about me causing little bit of unpleasantness, vicar? You know what I did for you. Now it�s your turn to do something for me.� He held a gnarled hand out. �Let�s have it.�

The reverend hesitated, then reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a fat, white envelope. He handed it to Fletcher.

Fletcher moved toward the side wall of the Minster, counting the banknotes as he walked. When he finished, he turned back toward the reverend.

�All here, just as you promised.�

The vicar looked surprised. �Surely you did not think I would cheat you?�

A big grin broke across Fletcher�s face. �Actually, I did, vicar. I really did.� Then he turned and loped across the grass and disappeared around the side of the Minster.

The Dealer snapped his fingers at a passing waiter and ordered a double measure of whiskey. He sat in a plush, overstuffed chair in the member�s room of the Lendal Club, the day�s paper at his feet, soaking up the waning sun streaming through a nearby window. The Dealer closed his eyes and thought of the thousands of pounds that would be at his disposal as soon as he and Goodwin concluded their fleecing of Reverend Elsworth and the banker, Lund. And Goodwin, he thought, snapping open his eyes. Where was he?

As the waiter set his whiskey down on a side table, the Dealer caught sight of Goodwin weaving between the islands of chairs and tables scattered throughout the large room.

�I�ll have one of those too,� he told the waiter.

�Where the devil have you been for so long? You know I hate to be kept waiting?�

Goodwin plopped into a chair facing the Dealer and shrugged. �It takes a while to get information sometimes. This was one of those times.�

�So the two of them are in league over the money?�

�Everything points in that direction. In fact .��.��.� he stopped abruptly as the waiter set down his whiskey and waited until the man was out of earshot before continuing. �In fact, Lund handles the books of the trust that the reverend administers for his niece. I�ve had reports that the police are snooping around the books of the trust, probably looking into the possibility of money being embezzled.�

�That sounds as if it fits neatly with the banker and the vicar having plenty of excess funds to hide.�

�And there�s another thing. The vicar�s niece disappeared recently from Bootham Park Lunatic Asylum.�

�Disappeared from a lunatic asylum? What was she doing there anyway?�

�I�m told that the reverend committed her there for her own safety. Said she was going to harm herself.�

�And she simply disappeared from the place?�

�Not so much disappeared as was taken. She was kidnapped. And the word from the police is that they found her body in the river. Dead, of course.� Goodwin took a large swallow of whiskey.

The Dealer said nothing for a few moments, then raised his glass in a toast to Goodwin.

�You always manage to pry out the important bits of a story, my boy. I think these dealings with the vicar and Lund may prove to be even more profitable than we could have imagined.�

The day had grown dim and the shadows in Round Freddy�s office deepened to hide the accumulation of papers, reports and pieces of evidence that were strewn on every level surface in the room. Round Freddy picked up a miniature mountain of papers and cocked his head toward the chair.

�Please, Miss Waddington. Sit down. I have one of my constables making arrangements for a safe place where we can hide you until this case is resolved.�

�Then you think I am still in danger from the men who kidnapped me?�

Round Freddy pulled at his chin and frowned. �I am not certain that the ones who perpetrated the kidnapping are your worst threat at the moment. However, I would be remiss if I dismissed them entirely, especially this man called Fletcher.�

�And how do you know his name?�

�Throughout the course of our investigation into your whereabouts, he has appeared again and again. An individual who we interviewed supplied us with his name.�

�If you know who he is, why haven�t you arrested him?�

�First, we do not have enough evidence linking him to your kidnapping, or for that matter, to any other crime. Second, we have been unable to locate the man. We know where he lives, but it appears that he has not been home for some days.�

�Yet you seem to think he is not a great threat to me.�

Round Freddy nodded vigorously, then sat heavily in his chair.

�I believe that Fletcher�s actions are orchestrated by someone else.�

Jane stared at the detective for a few heartbeats. �I am not sure that I want you to continue.�

�That�s understandable, miss, but you should be apprised of the entire situation.� He waited for a few moments and only continued after she gave an almost imperceptible nod. �We believe your uncle to be involved in your kidnapping.�

�You are not serious, are you?�

�Dead serious, miss. We have plenty of evidence that Reverend Elsworth, with the assistance of a banker named Lund, embezzled thousands of pounds from your trust fund. I think that your uncle wanted to prevent you from discovering the money was missing and had you kidnapped.�

Before Round Freddy could continue, an insistent rapping sounded through the door.

�Who the devil could that be? I told them I did not want to be disturbed.� He yanked on the latch and pulled the door open to reveal a young boy standing with his cap in hand.

�Is there still a thruppence for information about Mr. Fletcher?� the boy asked.

Round Freddy�s face broke into a grin.

�William Hall, I believe.�

�Aye, that�s me. What about the thruppence?�

�Indeed, thruppence for the information, just as I last said.�

�Then you better hurry over to number eighteen in Haver Lane. The man you call Fletcher, the one with the black eye patch, he�s back.�

Round Freddy fished a three pence piece from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it to the boy, who snatched it out of the air, then turned and ran through the main room.

�A stroke of luck, Miss Waddington. It seems time for me to become better acquainted with Mr. Fletcher. As for you, please remain here until I return.�

As the little Austin shuddered to a stop outside Number 18 Haver Lane, Round Freddy stood up in the vehicle and nearly catapulted over the open top. Regaining his balance, he stepped quickly to the tenement door as Constable Andrews followed.

Round Freddy raised a forefinger to his lips, then made a circular motion with his hand. He wanted the constable to cover the rear entrance to the building.

Andrews nodded vigorously and disappeared down a narrow alley between a dilapidated house and a plasterer�s workshop.

Round Freddy counted to fifty to allow Andrews enough time to get to the rear, then pulled the latch and softly opened the door, not letting it bump against the wall. The hallway was empty, as was the ancient staircase. Upstairs, on the third floor, Round Freddy stood silently outside of Fletcher�s door, his fist balled tightly. He rapped on the door.

He could hear scuffling sounds from inside the room and tried the door latch. Locked. He banged again on the door, louder this time.

�York Police, Fletcher. Open up if you�re in there.�

The sound of furniture being dragged over a wood floor screeched through the door, and Round Freddy hammered the door a third time.

�I am warning you, Fletcher. Open the door this instant!�

At the sound of a window frame sliding in its tracks, Round Freddy leaned back, then bashed his shoulder into the door. It sagged, but held fast. He went at the door two more times before it finally gave way, splintering away from a rusty hasp secured by a metal spike.

The room was empty.

A scraping sound followed by a dull thud and a muffled cry came through the open window, partially covered by dirty curtains billowing softly in the spring breeze.

Round Freddy raced to the window only to see a small scruffy man with a black eye patch limp out of the rear yard into the alley that Andrews had used.

�Andrews, where the devil are you. Fletcher�s getting away.�

Exasperated, Round Freddy leaned out of the window, looking down at the roof of the porch directly below him. Fletcher must have jumped to the roof and then to the ground. As Round Freddy stretched farther out the window, a pair of legs in blue uniform trousers splayed on the ground came into view.

�Andrews! Can you hear me?�

No response.

Round Freddy hurried back down the three flights of stairs as fast as his bulk would carry him. As he turned the corner into the rear yard, he saw Andrews sitting on the ground, holding his head.

�Are you all right, man? What happened.�

Andrews shut his eyes tightly as if he were trying to remember the answer to a difficult riddle.

�Can you speak? Are you injured?

�Me head and shoulder hurt.�

Round Freddy looked up at the roof of the porch where broken shingles dangled at the edge.

�Fletcher escaped through his window to that roof,� Round Freddy said, pointing. �He must have leaped from there directly on top of you. I expect you were knocked unconscious.�

Andrews tried to stand, but fell back into a sitting position quickly.

�Woo, me head�s spinning now.�

�You sit there and don�t move. I shall go for help.�

�No, sir. Give me a minute to get me bearings. I�ll be fine.�

Round Freddy stared hard at the constable.

�Very well, then. We shall wait a few minutes for you to recover. But there�s one thing I shall insist on.�

�What�s that, detective?�

�I�ll do the driving.�

�But you�ve never driven before, sir.�

�How difficult can it be, Andrews? After all, you�ve mastered it.�

Fletcher rubbed his eye socket through the black patch, digging his fingertips into the peeling flesh at its edges and mumbling as he plodded down the filthy alley. Ahead of him, rats skittered along the base of the building walls among litter and trash, rushing from one side of the alley to the other in front of his boots. As a rodent approached from the side, Fletcher kicked at it, sending the rat hurtling against the brick wall with a liquid thud.

�At least t�others will have a supper tonight,� he said aloud, glancing back the way he had come.

The wooden door to Snow�s house had been repaired with heavy planking laid both horizontally and vertically to reinforce the decaying condition of the original planks. Fletcher cursed when it refused to yield by pulling on its latch, and he kicked its base three times, shaking dust from in between the old boards. In less than a minute Fletcher heard the sound of a bolt being thrown back and the door creaked open on a wizened old woman, squinting into the outside light from the dim room.

�Snow. Is �e �ere?�

The old woman did not reply but simply stood aside as Fletcher entered and then passed through the small front room to the rear of the house. Snow sat at a dilapidated table, munching a slab of dark bread lathered with a red jam.

�Snow, me boy, how�s your foot feeling?�

Snow smiled widely, exposing two blackened teeth along with a mass of partially-chewed bread. His voice quavered like the sound of a ghostly apparition, the result of a bout with scarlet fever during his toddling years.

�A tad better. I�m hardly limping.� Snow stood and walked the length of the narrow room, as if to prove his contention. �And how are your .��.��. jewels?�

Fletcher looked over his shoulder toward the front room before replying.

�Aye, lad, have your bit of fun. I�ve come for the bundle I left with you.�

Snow crammed the remains of the bread in his mouth, then took a long swig of water from a crockery mug. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dripping crumbs down the front of his shirt.

�I�ll get it for you.�

Fletcher eyed him up and down, but couldn�t suppress a smile. When Snow returned from the back room, he held out a long bundle, wrapped in a stained, threadbare blanket.

�What�s in it?� he asked.

Fletcher stared at him. �Ye mean ye didn�t look inside?�

�Nay. You told me to hide it well and leave it alone. I did.�

Fletcher shook his head and chuckled. The kid was more of a simpleton than he first surmised.

Behind the wheel of the Austin, Round Freddy decided that he had made a potentially deadly mistake. As he came abreast of the intersection with Groves Lane, he wrenched the steering wheel hard to the left to avoid two dray horses pulling a heavy goods wagon. The wagon driver�s curses followed him down the street. Round Freddy glanced over at Andrews and was stunned to see a tight smile on the constable�s face.

�Something particularly amusing, Andrews?� Round Freddy asked as he narrowly avoided a collision with a stationery lamp pole.

Andrews bit his lip and the smile disappeared. �No, sir.�

�Damned machinery. Nothing like driving a horse rig,� Round Freddy mumbled. �The horse seems to know his way around, but this metal contraption has to be told everything.� He winced as the right fender scraped the wheel of a tinker�s cart at the side of the road, sending tools and grinding wheels crashing into the street.

He looked at Andrews again. �It�s a lucky thing for you that you�re injured. I expect you won�t be able to remember any of this.�

Andrews had the tight smile on his face again. �No, sir. I�m sure I won�t.�

Ten minutes and four brushes with wagons and post boxes later, Round Freddy braked to a halt in front of the station.

�Do you require any assistance, Andrews?�

�Only a wee bit of support to get into the station, sir.�

Round Freddy studied him for a long moment, then grasped Andrews� arm at the elbow.

�You can be sure this is the last time you�ll see me doing this.�

�One can only hope, sir.�

In his office, Jane leaped to her feet as Round Freddy came through the door.

�Have you caught the man?�

�Regrettably, no. He gave us the slip. But please don�t worry. We shall get him. In the meantime, we shall get you to a place where you�ll be safe. I imagine you�re tired of this place by now. Sergeant Wallace has made all the necessary arrangements.�

�And where do you intend on taking me?�

�Southwest across the river, past the railway station, there�s a country house called Ashfield. It�s the retirement home of a former sergeant on the force. He and his wife have agreed to shelter you until we can bring this case to a conclusion.�

�How long do you expect that to be?�

Round Freddy shrugged. �I wish I could give you a clear estimate on that point, miss, but I cannot. I would expect a week would not be out of the ordinary. Perhaps more.�

�Will I be allowed to go outside?�

�Indeed, you will. Ashfield House is in a rural setting and is well protected by a high wall. The house sits well back from the road amid some fields, has a protective wall around it, and there are plenty of gardens where you should be able to amuse yourself if you choose.�

�It seems as if I have no alternative.�

�No, my dear, you do not. At least not at the moment. Your safety is my chief concern.�

The Dealer sat at a scarred pine table in the back corner of the Hound and Hen public house, his gaze flickering over the tall constable who stood in the doorway backlit by the noonday sun. The Dealer motioned with his chin toward the door, and Goodwin slowly looked over his shoulder.

�Looking for someone, I would guess,� Goodwin said, turning back toward his pint. �It can�t have anything to do with us. We�ve left a clean trail.�

The Dealer watched the constable thread his way through the crowded public room, his head swiveling slowly from side to side and his face expressionless. As the constable reached the back of the room, the Dealer looked him straight in the eye and let a smile curl one side of his mouth. The constable nodded and moved back through the room and out the door.

�What was that about?� Goodwin asked.

�I�ve found that looking like a cornered rat attracts far greater attention from the police. Showing you have nothing to hide, or no fear, for that matter, has always worked for me.�

Goodwin drank deeply and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. �You are a cold one, I�ll say that.�

A smile broke over the Dealer�s face and just as quickly disappeared. �Lund�s arrived. Remember what we discussed.�

�I shall play my part well, as always.�

Lund fought his way through the room and arrived at the back table, brushing his sleeve as if it were on fire. �Dirty rascals. They should learn how to behave.�

�Mr. Lund, so good of you to join us.� The Dealer, a bemused look on his face, indicated an empty stool.

The banker sat down and looked from the Dealer to Goodwin, then back. �And who might this be?� he asked, pointing at Goodwin.

The Dealer reached across the table and bent Lund�s index finger back, eliciting a howl from the banker and a chorus of laughter from nearby drinkers.

�It�s exceptionally impolite to point, especially at someone you do not know,� the Dealer said, releasing Lund�s finger.

Lund scowled at the table and rubbed his finger vigorously. �Damn but that hurt. Why did you do such a thing?�

�Simply to gain your attention, Mr. Lund. I want to be sure that you are aware how serious we are.�

�What are you talking about? Serious about what?� Lund�s voice had risen to a squeak.

�All in good time.� The Dealer caught the attention of a barmaid and ordered three pints.

�Now as to your first question, this is Mr. Goodwin, an associate of mine. He has a special talent for, shall we say, ferreting out information. Usually that information is of the kind that people wish to keep secret. As in your case.�

�M-m-my case?�

�Precisely. Your case or should I say the case of the missing funds from Miss Jane Waddington�s trust.�

The banker�s face paled, but he said nothing.

�No slick comment to make now, I see. Well, no matter. We shall explore the possibilities available to us to alleviate this delicate situation for you.�

The Dealer paused, and seeing that Lund was panic-stricken, continued. �Your recent investment of funds with me sharpened my natural sense of curiosity. Imagine a banker with two thousand quid to invest who takes that money to someone other than his own bank. It does sound a bit queer, doesn�t it.�

The Dealer paused again and Lund gave an almost-imperceptible nod.

�That�s where Mr. Goodwin enters the picture. He was most helpful in tracking down the source of those funds. Of course we all now know the money actually belongs to the vicar�s niece.�

Lund sat as still as a salt pillar, his gaze riveted on the Dealer, who continued.

�Mr. Goodwin and me, we got to talking one evening and decided that perhaps you might be convinced to share some of that ill-found wealth with us. A small portion of it, at least.�

Rivulets of sweat ran down the side of Lund�s face and he shook his head as if coming out of a trance. �What if I refused?�

The Dealer leaned forward, all traces of good nature gone. �Then several events might take place. The first would be the notification of the bank�s board of directors about the irregularities. Second, the police would be sure to become involved. And third, there is the possibility of some possible harm befalling members of your family.�

Lund�s lower lip trembled for a half minute before he stammered, �How much would a small portion amount to?�

The Dealer looked at Goodwin and smiled. �You see, I told you Lund would be a reasonable man.� He stroked his chin, then clapped his hand down hard on Lund�s shoulder. �There�s no need to be fearful. We�ll be willing to settle for half.�

�H-h-half of the entire investment?�

�Aye, that�s right. A thousand pounds Sterling.� The Dealer leaned closer to Lund, his gaze locked on the banker�s. �You can�t afford not to cooperate with us Mr. Lund. And after all, it�s only money. You�ll get more.�

Lund lowered his head and stared at the table. �All right. Whatever you say.�

�Capital! Why we�re almost like partners.� The Dealer clapped Lund on the shoulder again, and then drained the last of his ale. �Incidentally, Mr. Lund, �the pints are on you.�

Jane opened her eyes and looked around the brightly-lit room, squinting as she peered out an undraped window into the bright sunshine. For a moment, she didn�t know where she was and a small panic seized her as she bolted upright on the bed. Then her rapid heartbeat slowed when she remembered the policeman bringing her to the country house late the previous evening. Ashfield House, he had called it. He had said it was well away from the city; she hoped he was right.

She slid off the bed and moved to the washstand where a pitcher of tepid water stood next to a basin with a large chip in its rim. She poured two inches of water into the basin and gently splashed the water over her face, rubbing it back and forth into the corners of her eyes. She wondered if there was someone in the house to protect her, another policeman perhaps. She decided to go downstairs and find out.

The clatter of pots drew Jane�s attention toward the back of the house. She negotiated a dim hallway leading from the entry hall and found herself at the entrance to a dining room. Through a door in the far wall, she could see a woman fussing over something on a table.

�Hello, there,� she called as she moved into the kitchen. �May I help you with anything?�

A dark-haired woman with thick forearms and a stained apron looked startled at Jane�s appearance in the doorway, yet recovered quickly and continued with her work.

�Your personal protection, miss.� the cook said, nodding toward the opposite wall where a thin constable sat, squirming in his wool uniform.

As the constable stood, Jane had to stifle a smile because his uniform appeared to be dripping off his body, being at least two sizes too large.

�Morning, miss. Constable Phillips is the name. I�m here to be sure that no harm comes to you.� He shifted from one foot to the other, seemingly unsure of what to do next.

�How do you do, constable. I shall rest easier knowing that you are here.� She smiled as Phillips visibly relaxed. �Can you tell me if I am allowed to go outside? Sergeant Hume said the house is surrounded by a high wall. He mentioned some gardens where I might take a stroll. It�s such a beautiful morning.�

�I � I�m not sure that�s a wise idea, miss. There are bad people looking for you,� Phillips stammered.

�Let the girl walk in the garden, for goodness sakes.� The cook stood with her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. �We�re the only ones that know she�s here, other than Sergeant Hume and me own governor,� she said. �It can�t hurt her to get a bit of air.�

Phillips looked from the cook to Anne and back again. �All right,� he said, hanging his head. �But I�ll be out there with her.�

�I wouldn�t have it any other way, constable,� Anne responded. Then she turned and headed for the front door.

Goodwin turned when the door to Goodram Chapel�s anteroom creaked as it was opened. He heaved a sigh when he saw the Reverend Elsworth peer through the narrow doorway. Goodwin, sitting at a deal table, had his sizeable bulk tilted back in a wooden chair at an alarming angle. As the vicar came into the room, Goodwin pushed his weight forward and the chair slammed onto the stone floor with a bang.

�Do you always make yourself so comfortable wherever you go?� the vicar asked, dropping his hat onto the table.

A thin smile spread across Goodwin�s face. �I�ve always found that it�s easier to make the best of the situation I find myself in. There�s much less disappointment in life that way.�

Reverend Elsworth snorted. �Indeed! I myself am used to dealing with individuals who show respect for the people they do business with and in how they comport themselves.�

Goodwin�s grin widened. �Reverend, you need not worry about how I comport myself. Your only concern should be for the cash you�ll entrust to me. You did bring it, did you not?�

The vicar nodded and set a satchel on top of a small stack of papers.

�In there.�

Goodwin undid the straps holding the satchel shut and then opened the bag and peered inside. He whistled softly.

�It always warms my heart to see stacks of cash.�

�Yes, well let�s remember that cash is in exchange for the freeholds we discussed.�

�Of course, the properties.� Goodwin said, setting the satchel on the floor. The vicar was still standing and Goodwin indicated the other chair. �Please sit down and review these papers. They are the ones we discussed to shelter the cash for you, yet allow you to have control of the investments through me and the company we established.�

The vicar picked up the bundle and Goodwin continued.

�The largest investment is in the Scarborough Villas freehold. The others are the properties we discussed earlier. The Walmgate Road coppersmith, the auction house, the Leeman Road seed merchant, and the buildings on Lowther Street and Bootham Square.�

The vicar sat back in the chair and held the papers up to the light, saying nothing as he read, but occasionally grunting softly. When he finished reading the last page, he stacked the sheets neatly together and tapped the small bundle on the table several times before laying it flat.

�I shall sign it now,� he said.

�You can see that I have already endorsed the documents as managing partner for the various freehold properties,� Goodwin said, pushing a pen and small inkwell across the table.

Within minutes, the vicar had signed the copies and Goodwin separated the papers into two stacks.

�There�s an original set of documents for each of us,� he said, pushing one group of papers toward the vicar. �In that way, if one set is lost, the other partner has confirmation of the transaction.�

�I intend on keeping these papers in a very safe place,� the vicar said.

�As do I, reverend. You can be assured of that.�

The vicar pushed back from the table and retrieved his hat. �I�ve put my trust in you, Mr. Goodwin. I expect it to be kept closely.�

When the vicar had left, Goodwin smiled broadly and leaned back in the chair again. The Dealer would be pleased with the transaction, he thought. Very pleased.

Lund fidgeted with the food on his plate, pushing the peas from one side to the other. As the waiter approached, he laid his fork and knife down.

�The meal does not appeal to you this evening?� the waiter asked.

�No, it is not the meal,� Lund responded, pushing the plate of nearly-uneaten food toward the center of the table. �I think I do not feel well.�

The waiter leaned back from the waist, as if to get a better view of Lund. �Is there anything I can bring you?�

Lund shook his head.

�Then I shall clear the table. Perhaps you would like an aperitif to settle the stomach.�

�Ah, a splendid suggestion. Please bring me a large brandy.�

The waiter whisked the cutlery and crockery away and Lund returned to brooding. What measures should he take now, he wondered. He had suspected all along that his sly schemes with the Dealer were fraught with danger. Now the shylock was holding him hostage for an exorbitant sum of money as a commission.

Lund looked around the front room of Pym�s at the scattering of other diners still in the room.

There wasn�t much he could do about the situation, he mused. He couldn�t go to the police and tell them that he was being extorted. Or could he, he wondered. Perhaps there was a way of informing on the Dealer, and yet keeping his own indiscretions out of it. He would have to give that idea more thought. Putting large amounts of ill-gotten money to actual use had turned into more of a challenge than he had thought it would be.

Lund slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. Squinting at the face, he was surprised to see that it read nearly 9 o�clock. As he replaced the watch, the waiter set a snifter of brandy in front of him, and left the dinner bill at the corner of the table.

�I trust you will visit us again when you are feeling more robust,� the waiter said with a smile.

Lund raised the brandy snifter and inhaled the potent fumes.

�There�s a thought worth drinking to,� he said.

The Dealer stepped into the Lendal Club�s marbled entry hall and handed his hat to the hall porter. Then he shrugged off his coat and let if fall into the porter�s outstretched arms.

�I expect I shall be here for some time,� he said, pushing a tuppence into the man�s hand. He smiled as he thought that the porter would appreciate having the price of a pint when he finished working.

The Dealer found Goodwin nursing a whiskey in the Great Room and ordered one for himself. Settling back into the creaking leather of an ancient stuffed armchair, he checked the room for eavesdroppers. Seeing none, he exhaled noisily. �I trust that you had a profitable day?�

Goodwin smiled widely and leaned forward, the whiskey glass clenched in his left hand.

�I tell you that vicar is made of money. Lot�s of it.� Goodwin kicked at a black satchel laying at the foot of his armchair. �It is all in there.�

�The reverend actually brought the entire five thousand pounds in cash?� the Dealer asked. �He wasn�t suspicious?�

Goodwin threw back his head and laughed, drawing the attention of two nearby members from their newspapers. Leaning closer across the gap between himself and the Dealer, Goodwin whispered conspiratorially, �The man is a pigeon ready for plucking. And I have his tail feathers right there in the bag.� He laughed aloud again, and then took a large swallow of whiskey.

The Dealer studied Goodwin with a hard glare. �One element of this game is exceptionally important to us. The papers you gave the vicar � they are genuine � or as genuine as you could have them made?�

Goodwin smiled widely. �I used the best paper man in York. The one they call Johnny Quill. The vicar will never know those documents are forgeries until he tries to sell the properties. And there is little chance he will do so any time soon. He wants to shelter his money. So it�s important that he hides it somewhere. We simply gave him a place to do so.�

A houseman arrived with the Dealer�s whiskey. The Dealer raised his glass to Goodwin.

�You have done well, son. As usual. And yet we still must get through the issue of getting the money from Lund. Once we have done so, we are well situated.�

The two of them touched glasses and drank deeply.

Goodwin stared at the Dealer for a long moment. �We are well situated right now, with the money in this bag.� He nudged the satchel with his boot. �We could finish it here and now.�

The Dealer swallowed another gulp of whiskey. �Why should we leave Lund�s two thousand quid on the table? Think of it � seven thousand pounds. All in cash. What could go wrong with the little arsehole of a banker, I ask you? The man is a frightened mouse. He will do as I have instructed him.�

Goodwin raised his glass again. �You always did know your clients,� he said, taking another swallow. �Indeed, what could possibly go wrong?�

Fletcher dodged off the pathway behind a large elm and shifted the long blanket-wrapped parcel under his arm so it hung lengthwise along his body. He peered around the tree trunk at a passing horse and carriage, noting the near-sleeping driver nodding over the reins, his hat pulled low over his eyes. The man would never notice him, Fletcher concluded. But yet, it was best to be sure and stay out of sight until he finished his business with the vicar.

At the head of the driveway, Fletcher checked the road again, and seeing no one, trudged down the dirt track, fondling the hard metal under the fabric. Once he reached the covered portico of the vicarage, he stepped to the side of the house and laid the bundle on the ground. Throwing back the edges of the blanket, Fletcher unrolled the covering and plucked the butt stock and action of a double barrel shotgun from its folds. He raised the butt to his shoulder and sighted down the plane where the barrels would be, then mouthed a �boom.� A smile broke out over his face. The shotgun was one of the spoils of the burglary he had done at the First Presbyterian Church, a truly great surprise to find in a house of God, he thought.

Taking the barrels, Fletcher engaged the locking lugs and snapped the action closed, and then clipped the splinter fore stock into its spring-loaded recess. Hefting the gun in his hands, he looked toward the house. �Let�s see the old vicar deny me now,� he said aloud.

The housekeeper was the same timid woman whom he had seen the last time he visited the vicarage.

�But the reverend is not to be disturbed,� she said, eyeing the shotgun that Fletcher held at his side.

�Well then just tell the vicar that I�ll be awaiting his arrival in the sitting room, once he�s not so busy.� Fletcher pushed past the woman and bolted the door behind him. �Now run along and tell him.�

The housekeeper hurried down the hall toward the back of the house.

Within minutes, Fletcher heard the sound of leather boots slapping on the polished oak floors. Reverend Elsworth, his face red as a newly-blossoming blood rose, stalked into the room. �What�s the meaning of this .��.��. � he began, then came to a standstill when he saw the shotgun muzzles rise toward him.

�And a good morning to you, vicar.�

�Fletcher, are you mad?�

�Nay, just looking for a friendly face.� Fletcher motioned with the gun. �Close the door.�

After the vicar did so, Fletcher sat back in the chair, still training the gun on the reverend.

�You�re going to have a house guest for awhile, vicar. Now tell your housekeeper to prepare a room for me. And,� Fletcher raised a finger to his lips, �mum�s the word about our arrangement, eh? But I do need a place to hide out for a spell. You see, the police are looking for me now. How do you suppose they came to know my name?� Fletcher poked the gun toward the reverend as if he were spearing a fish.

The vicar took a step back. �I have no idea.�

�Hmmm. I imagine you do, but might be a wee bit reluctant to talk about it. Now let�s talk to that housekeeper of yours and then you and me can have a nice chat here in the privacy of your sitting room.�

Lund approached the police station from the north, slowing often to look over his shoulder at the pedestrian traffic on the pavement behind him. He didn�t trust the Dealer, especially after his outrageous demand of half the proceeds of Lund�s investment funds. Well, Lund mused, perhaps it was inaccurate to call them investment funds when the source of the money actually was other people�s accounts � Miss Waddington�s to be precise.

Lund shook off the thought, yet still had the feeling someone on the street was watching him. He knew the Dealer was crafty enough to keep his movements under scrutiny and assumed he was being followed. Lund stopped at the entrance to Miss Isabel Wood�s confectioner�s shop and tea room, and gazed through the large window at the selection of cakes and biscuits arranged behind the glass. A swirl of wind blew down the street and Lund flinched when a large man in a brown suit and dirty derby brushed past him, bumping his elbow in the process. Lund held his breath, only releasing it a half-minute later when he realized the man had continued down the street.

Lund brushed his sleeve several times, then pulled the hem of his jacket down tightly to straight the fabric. He then hustled along the pavement and stepped through the police department�s oak doorway as a thin constable emerged and wished him a good day.

Inside the station house he asked for Round Freddy and sat on a scarred pine bench in a corner to wait. Ten minutes later a constable with a fringe of white hair ringing his otherwise bald head ushered him through the room, past desks of working policeman, to an office set into the back of the room.

�Mr. Lund, please come in and take a seat,� Round Freddy said, indicating a chair laden with newspapers, reports and wadded up papers. �Just put that rubbish on the floor. It will be fine there.�

Lund did as instructed and sat fidgeting in front of the policeman.

Round Freddy arched his eyebrows and cocked his head toward Lund. �Well, sir, what may I do for you? As you might imagine, I have quite a bit on my plate right now.�

�Yes, I realize you are extremely busy, detective, but I have something to talk about concerning the Miss Waddington case. That is, it sort of is related to the case, at least I think it is.�

�Perhaps you should come to the point instead of, as our American friends say, �beating around the bush.��

�Ah, I hadn�t heard that,� Lund said, twisting his hands in his lap.

Round Freddy sat with his hands steepled on the desk as if he were praying for a resolution to the conversation.

�And this information about the Waddington case � if it does relate to the case � is delicate?�

Lund slapped the desktop, making a loud pop. �You have a knack for putting situations in the perfect light, detective. Delicate it certainly is, I must say. The question I have for you is this. If I were to give you information about the case and that information reflected badly on me, then what might happen?�

Round Freddy leaned back and a smile creased his face. �Is that what the difficulty is, Mr. Lund? A worry that you may be sucked up into the investigation?�

Lund looked down at the floor and nodded.

�You can set you mind at ease, sir. Anything else you can tell me about this case that further implicates you can be no worse than where you already stand with the embezzling, stealing funds and falsifying records charges. If you are able to help us in putting the rest of the puzzle pieces together, perhaps some of those existing charges can be, how shall I say, lightened.�

Lund searched Round Freddy�s face for any trace of insincerity, but could see nothing beyond the detective�s smile.

�Even if the behavior in question involved a great sum of money?�

�Especially if it involved a sum of money. In that way, the money inappropriately diverted might be returned to its original owner.�

Lund nodded again, but said nothing.

�Might I ask if the money to which we are referring is somehow connected to Miss Waddington.�

Lund nodded again in the affirmative.

�Then I think you should tell me what you know because it could very well help your own cause in this instance.�

Lund brightened and squirmed in the chair.

�You see, I had to find a safe place to put the money, so I asked discreet questions of an associate and was given the name of an individual who places funds in secure investments for a fee.�

�This money you refer to. Where did it come from?�

Lund lowered his head again. �From Miss Waddington�s trust fund. The Reverend Elsworth would set up the phony invoices and have me pay them. Then he would give a percentage of the money for my services. I know now the money was to keep my mouth shut.�

�Very good, Mr. Lund. You are learning about the criminal mind. And how much money are we discussing here?�

�I had two thousand pounds accumulated.�

Round Freddy sat back again and whistled silently. He steepled his fingers again. �Please continue.�

�As I said, I couldn�t very well leave two thousand pounds laying around my flat and I certainly couldn�t put it in a bank deposit in my name. How would I explain where I got two thousand pounds?�

�Indeed! So you found a broker to invest the money for you.�

Lund nodded vigorously. �Yes, I did and things went well at the beginning. Investments were going to be made through a company set up for the purpose of holding real estate and sheltering the cash. I would be a partner, but an unreported one on the papers establishing the company.�

�Would the managing partner be this individual to whom you were referred by your colleague?�

�The Dealer. That�s him. He�s the one who would buy the property and hold it through the company for me. He said I would make a pile of cash from the appreciation on the freeholds.�

�The Dealer, you say. Did he give you any other name?�

�That�s what everyone calls him. I doubt that he has any other name.�

�Well, I�m sure he does, but he may not be using it on a regular basis. Where did you two meet to transact your business?�

�The Hound and Hen public house. You can find it on Blake Street.�

�I know the place. A den of vipers waiting to prey on the unsuspecting.� Round Freddy came around to the front of the desk and leaned against it.�

�Are you willing to help us a bit more on this case, Mr. Lund? It could work greatly in your favor.�

�Help you how? I�ve told you all that I know.�

�First, you�ll have to furnish me with an accurate description of the Dealer.�

�I can do that.�

�And then, you can help us in this way.�

Lund sat statue-still as Round Freddy outlined what he had in mind. When the detective finished, he fixed Lund with a questioning gaze.

Lund thought for a moment and then decided.

�All right, I shall do it. As long as no physical harm can come to me by participating.�

�There is no danger of that. Just be sure that the information you give us is true and accurate. I cannot guarantee anyone�s safety on false information.�

Lund gulped down the bile in his throat. He knew he was stuck. He had to cooperate.

Reverend Elsworth opened the sitting room door and, after taking a long look at Fletcher standing a few feet away with the shotgun, called into the hallway for the housekeeper. When she appeared, the reverend noticed Fletcher shrink back against the wall.

�Mr. Fletcher will be spending some time with us. Please make up the large guest room for his use.�

�Very good, sir. Will his stay be long?� the housekeeper asked.

�I am unsure. I should think a few days at least. And tell the cook she should plan accordingly. Now run along.� He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

After the reverend shut the door and moved toward the sofa in front of the long windows, Fletcher shuffled forward and leaned against the door.

�Now that twern�t overly difficult, vicar. And here I was thinking you might not want to have me as your guest.� He snorted a laugh and wiped spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. �Let�s talk a bit more about how the police seem to be aware of me.�

�I can tell you I had nothing to do with the police getting your name. If they know who you are, and I cannot confirm that they do, then they certainly have learned it from a source other than me."

�Is that so? You mean to sit there and tell me you haven�t talked to the police?�

�That is not what I said. Of course I have spoken with the police. They have questioned me several times about my niece�s disappearance and death. I told them nothing. Not anything of our arrangement, and certainly not your name.�

A sly smile crept across Fletcher�s face and he rubbed his empty eye socket vigorously under the eye patch.

�For the time being I�ll have to trust you, vicar. But be aware that you shall regret it if you�re lying to me.�

�Really, Fletcher. I am a man of the cloth. Lying is not in my character.�

Fletcher�s explosive laugh filled the room.

�Not in your character? But cheating, stealing and plotting to kill are, eh?�

The reverend�s face reddened, but he said nothing in reply.

�Let�s talk about another subject dear to both our hearts. Money.�

The reverend�s eyes narrowed. �We are square as far as the money is concerned, Fletcher. I paid you off in the yard of York Minster, as you well know.�

�That you did, vicar. But I got to thinking about how I done all the dirty work whilst you reaped most of the benefits. And now the police are looking for a man called Fletcher. For all I knows, they might have a pretty accurate description of me too. The more I thought on the subject, the more I convinced meself that I was being shortchanged.�

The reverend shot to his feet. �Now see here, you cannot possibly want more money.�

Fletcher drove the butt stock of the shotgun into the vicar�s stomach, doubling him in half and driving him back onto the sofa. As the vicar gagged and fought for breath, Fletcher stepped back and spat on the carpet.

�Let that be the first installment on some of that regret we was talking about earlier.� Fletcher moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. �Looks as if it will be a pleasant day, vicar. After we�re done here, maybe we�ll take a stroll in your back garden.�

The reverend had pulled himself upright and was taking short wheezing breaths, still holding his stomach.

�From what I�ve heard, you�ve come into some extra money, vicar. Perhaps you were lucky and found it buried somewhere?� Fletcher studied the reverend�s distorted face and chuckled. �No, methinks that�s not where you found your pot of gold. But maybe it were somewhere closer to where money is usually located � like a bank.�

The reverend�s eyes widened. �Fletcher,� he gasped. �I must have a drink of water.�

�In a minute, vicar. But first we�re going to talk about how much money you have available to share with me.�

�I have nothing available to share. All the money I had is gone � invested.�

Fletcher�s eyebrows raised. �All of it? You invested everything you stole?�

The reverend nodded.

�And how much might that be?�

The reverend hesitated and Fletcher took a step forward with the shotgun.

�Five thousand pounds! But I don�t have it any more. As I said, it has been invested.�

�Well then we shall have to un-invest it for you.�

�That is impossible. The man with whom I placed the funds, my business partner, already has plans for it. He most likely has already made the purchases.�

�What purchases?�

�Freehold properties.�

Fletcher thought for a moment. Then he grasped the reverend�s elbow and pulled him to his feet.

�Let�s take that walk in the garden now, vicar, so you can tell me more about this partner of yours. Then I�ll go and convince him to take on old Fletcher as a partner too.�

�One wonders how these buggars sleep at night,� Round Freddy said, moving behind his desk and sitting down heavily.

�How�s that, sir?� Andrews replied. �I don�t take your drift.�

Round Freddy gave the constable the kind of smile a parent gives a backward child. �This fellow, the Dealer, and whoever his shadowy partner might be. They seem to have no conscience at all in relieving honest citizens of their money.�

Round Freddy leaned back in the chair and his eyebrows shot up. �Did I say �honest citizens� when I was referring to our good banker, Mr. Lund?� He laughed and shook his head. �I suppose we can hardly classify Mr. Lund as an honest citizen, seeing as he embezzled two thousand quid from a trust fund that he was sworn to protect.�

�Miss Waddington�s money?�

�Correct, constable. Money that she was even unaware amounted to a considerable sum. By my reckoning, something on the order of eight to ten thousand pounds is missing from the fund. Lund admits to shifting two thousand of it in small amounts into his own accounts. That leaves quite a bit of money still unaccounted for.�

The constable�s brow was furrowed, as if in thought. �If Lund didn�t take it, then who did?�

�The answer to that question may be the key that solves this case,� Round Freddy said, coming around the front of the desk. �I plan on taking a closer look at the reverend�s life to see if any changes have been made over the past year. Money usually means changes in how one lives.�

Andrews nodded, but Round Freddy could see that the constable was still well behind in figuring out his reasoning.

�Andrews, I need your assistance if we are to have a hope to catch this fellow, the Dealer. Now here is what I want you to do.�

Round Freddy drew closer to Andrews and explained his plan to catch the Dealer.

***'

Jane felt like a bird confined in a large cage. She had the ability to move around, to fly a bit even, but not the freedom to go where she wanted. Not that she specifically desired to go anywhere. But the past few weeks had been particularly trying and she felt as if everyone else controlled her life. And she wasn�t far wrong on that score, she mused. Her uncle had incarcerated her in Bootham Park Lunatic Asylum, she had felt compelled to work in the Sleeping Dog public house in order to have a place to hide, and now the police had her hidden away in this house, pleasant as it was.

She looked out the second story window, across the back garden, to a wooden gate set into the high brick wall. A stack of decaying crates leaned up against the wall near the gate, partially shielding the gate from anyone�s view at the back door. Deciding quickly, Jane snatched a bonnet and a hooded cape from hooks on the wall and quietly stole down the back staircase.

At the bottom she froze, listening intently for voices from other parts of the house, but she heard nothing. She moved along the dusty corridor to the pantry and then into the kitchen. No one was around. She cracked the back door open and peek out. Satisfied that she was alone, she slipped out and quietly closed the door behind her.

At the back gate she cast a long glance back at the house, holding her breath for fear that constable Phillips would come out of the door and detain her. But he didn�t. She smiled and drew the deadbolt on the heavy wood gate, and pulling it open a bit, slipped through and out into freedom.

Lund didn�t like the fact that the Dealer refused to meet in a public house this time as he had in the past. Apparently, the thought of passing money in so public a place put him off. So the Dealer had chosen a more remote location, but one that sent shivers of worry up Lund�s spine.

Just south of the Scarborough Bridge that crossed over the River Ouse, Lund found Cinder Lane heading off to the west, leading to St. Barnabas Church near Jubilee Terrace. He trudged along Cinder Lane, walking parallel to the North Eastern Railway spurs that led to one of the line�s small train maintenance sheds. The lane was coated with a fine layer of soot from the engines that moved rolling stock back and forth along the spur line for repair.

When he arrived at St. Barnabas, Lund clambered over the head high fence that separated the railway lines from the rest of the world and made his way to the northeast corner of the maintenance shed. As he approached, he could hear the sound of hammers striking metal inside the shed, and the shouts of the workers. Shrinking back into the shadows of the shed, Lund bumped into something soft and yielding.

�Here now, Mr. Lund. You should not be getting too familiar with me.� The Dealer�s smile was visible even through the gloom of the evening.

Lund put his hand over his heart, as if to prevent it from flying from his chest. �Bigod, you frightened me.�

The Dealer tightened his hold on the woman that Lund had bumped into. She was buxom, probably in her mid-twenties, and apparently quite inebriated.

�What is she doing here?�

The Dealer smiled wider. �You didn�t think I was willing to wait in such a place as this without some amusement at hand, did ye?�

Lund could think of no reply. Instead, he said, �I have what you requested.�

The Dealer laughed and slapped his knee. �You slay me, Lund. It was not a request. It was a demand.� He extended his hand. �Give it here.�

Lund reached into his coat and extracted a fat envelope from an inside pocket.

�I hope you are satisfied.�

�I am never satisfied,� the Dealer responded, pulling open the envelope and fanning the money in the dim light. �However, I can be mollified from time to time.� He laughed again and squeezed the woman tightly.

�Get along there, Mr. Lund. Your task is done now.�

Lund gritted his teeth and bit back a reply as he slunk into the shadows.

Andrews followed Lund at a considerable distance and nearly panicked when he saw Lund disappear to the west off the southern bridge approach. But he soon picked up Lund ahead of him on Cinder Lane, seemingly unaware that anyone might be following him.

At St. Barnabas Church Lund looked around as if he were going to commit a crime and then clumsily climbed the fence that separated the railway from Cinder Lane. Andrews watch him disappear into the gloom and then followed.

After negotiating the fence, Andrews moved slowly until he heard voices coming from near the shed that loomed out of the darkness. He pulled back and moved sideways, finding cover behind a large piece of railway machinery that seemed to be abandoned near the side of the shed.

Andrews listened to the exchange between the Dealer and Lund, and had to smile when the Dealer got the best of the little banker. After Lund left, Andrews watched as the Dealer planted a long kiss on the woman�s lips. It seemed as if he were supporting her more than she was herself. Before long, they moved off to the west toward the fence at Kingland Terrace, where they would be among new cottages in the Victoria Park neighborhood.

He watched as the Dealer helped the woman over the fence and then followed. Softly, he followed them, intent on keeping them in sight, yet not being discovered. He knew he had to discover where the Dealer lived.

Sunderland Avenue teemed with activity. Pedestrians jostled one another on the crowded pavements, while an assortment of horse-drawn carts and carriages jockeyed for position with gas-powered motorcars and an electric tram. The housekeeper passed T. Rowling�s butcher shop and turned north toward the Turkish Baths. Just beyond, in the next block, stood the main police station.

She pushed hard on the station�s heavy oak door and then approached the high counter manned by an older policeman. She was wringing a handkerchief in her hands.

The policeman looked down at her. �Yes?�

�I .��.��. I am here to report a kidnapping.�

�A kidnapping, you say? Just who has been taken?�

�Actually, the reverend�s not been taken anywhere.�

An exasperated look shot across the policeman�s face. �Then how can it be a kidnapping if no one has been taken?�

�Well, he�s been taken, but not away. He is being held against his will in his own house. In the vicarage.�

The policeman�s countenance changed. �You wait right there, miss. I shall have a detective speak with you straight away.�

Two minutes later Round Freddy lumbered around the counter and took the housekeeper�s elbow. �This way miss. We can speak in private in my office.�

As soon as she sat in a straight-backed wooden chair tears began to flow down her cheeks.

�Here, now miss,� Round Freddy began. �It will be easier to get to the heart of the tale if you don�t cry.� He leaned across the desk and gave her a handkerchief, which she used to daub at the corners of her eyes.

�You told the policeman outside that a reverend has been kidnapped. Who has been taken?�

�Reverend Elsworth, the vicar of St. Philip Church in Clifton.�

Round Freddy�s eyes widened. �When did this happen?�

�The day before yesterday. The man with one eye came to the house with a shotgun and demanded to speak to the reverend. When I told him the reverend was busy, he barged into the vicarage and began issuing orders. The vicar instructed me to make up one of the guest rooms for the man because he was to stay with us. But it�s that gun that has me worried.� She began to cry again, and stuffed the handkerchief up against her mouth.

�Is there anyone else in the house with this man and the reverend?�

�Just the cook. I was able to sneak out through the front when him and the reverend went for one of their walks in the back garden.�

�No other accomplices of whom you are aware.�

The housekeeper shook her head.

�And you say this man has a shotgun. Can you describe it?�

�A long bright metal thing with two big holes in the end of it and wood where you hold it.�

�That would be a double gun. Probably a twelve bore,� Round Freddy said. �Please excuse me for a moment.� At the office door he stopped and turned back to her. �And did you happen to hear the man�s name?�

�Aye, that I did. His name is Fletcher. You can�t miss him with that black eye patch.�

Round Freddy put his index finger across his lips. �No more for the moment, miss. Please relax as best you can until I return. I shall only be a few minutes.�

Outside in the main squad room, Round Freddy was surrounded by policemen. The desk constable had been busy spreading the news. Round Freddy turned to a sergeant with a belly that strained the front of his uniform.

�Sergeant, I want every constable to drop what he�s working on and assemble for a special case. We have a kidnapping under way at this moment � actually more of a hostage taking. A man with a double gun is holding the vicar of St. Philip in Clifton. There also is a cook in the house. I intend on getting them out of there. And I want the kidnapper taken alive.�

�Yes, sir. What do you want in the way of weapons?�

�Truncheons for every constable. Four constables armed with revolvers. Also one for you and another for me. Now let�s be quick about organizing this.�

The sergeant saluted and moved toward a staircase to the cellar, where the weapons were kept, followed by a small crowd of constables.

Round Freddy watched them swarm through the room. Fletcher, he thought, I�ve got you now.

Fletcher nudged Reverend Elsworth with the muzzle of the shotgun and followed the vicar into the corridor that ran down the center of the house, passing the kitchen, pantry and dining room before exiting into the main hall. As he passed the kitchen, Fletcher could hear the cook through the open door, humming as she worked. He hid the shotgun along his left leg and moved quickly past the door, almost bumping into the reverend in front of him.

Reverend Elsworth stopped and turned to him. �Are you in a great rush, Fletcher? You needn�t crowd me. I shall move along.�

Fletcher squinted his good eye at the reverend, trying to determine if the man was making sport of him. �Jest be sure ye do keep moving, vicar. That study off the entrance hall will do nicely. The one with the nice heavy doors and that big lock.�

Fletcher produced a long length of rope from inside his coat and spent a laborious amount of time wrapping the reverend in a chair and fastening the rope with three knots. After locking the study door, Fletcher hid the shotgun under the sofa in the sitting room and then prowled the ground floor rooms, looking for the housekeeper. He peeked into the kitchen, but the cook was still alone.

Taking the stairs to the first floor two at a time, Fletcher bustled from room to room, throwing open doors and becoming more frustrated with each empty room. A search of the attic also proved fruitless.

Back in the kitchen, he planted himself in front of the rotund cook and pushed his faced close to hers.

�Do ye know where the housekeeper is?�

The cook shrugged.

�Look here, woman. I want an answer.� Fletcher raised up on the balls of his feet. �Where is she?�

�She not here.� The cook gestured toward the window.

Fletcher looked out the window and then back to the cook. �You mean to say she went out the window? Do you take me for an idiot?�

The cook stepped back at the sound of Fletcher�s raised voice. �No, no. Not window. Door. She goes outside.�

�Where did she go?�

The cook shrugged.

�When? When did she leave?�

The cook shrugged again. �Only after you and reverend go into garden.�

�Damn.� Fletcher put his fist to his mouth and bit his knuckle in frustration. He looked at the heavy woman and decided she was too dense to do anything that would ruin his plans. He would leave her alone to finish cooking.

�When I come back, we�ll want food.�

The cook smiled brightly. �Food. Lots of food.�

Fletcher shook his head and stepped over to a table on the outside wall. Spotting a small knife alongside a bunch of carrots, he swept it into his coat pocket in one smooth motion. Then he returned to the sitting room where he broke down the shotgun and wrapped the two halves in an old coat. At the front of the vicarage he checked the surrounding grounds for signs of trouble, but all was clear.

With the housekeeper missing, he knew he had to find the vicar�s money man, Goodwin, and plenty fast. Things would come unraveled unless he did.

Jane strolled aimlessly along the dirt lane, which was bounded by shallow ditches and shielded by high hedges on both sides. Occasionally a break in the hedges would be barred by a weathered gate leading into pastureland beyond. She had traveled the road about a mile and was about to turn back toward Ashfield House when she heard the steady clopping of a horse�s hooves. She stopped and waited, and before long an old field wagon, creaking under the weight of a load of manure, came into view around a turn in the road.

Atop the wagon, astride a narrow board seat in the front, sat two bearded men in baggy, dirty clothes. Jane stepped to the side of the lane as the wagon drew abreast of her, but instead of passing by, the driver pulled back on the reins, stopping the heavily-breathing horse.

The man next to the driver looked down at her and showed a gap-toothed smile. �Hello miss. Good day to you.� He looked around. �You alone?�

Jane edged away from the wagon toward the ditch and the gate she had just passed.

�Good day to you, too. I am out for a walk.�

�Well there�s no need for walkin� when you can ride,� the driver said. �Jest climb up here with us and we�ll bring you where you wants to go.� He held out a dirty hand to help her up.

Jane stepped back and shook her head. �No thank you, I prefer to walk.�

She turned and began walking toward Ashfield House, but only took a few steps when she heard the thud of someone jumping to the ground. Quick as a flash, the driver was standing in front of her, grinning as widely as the other man, only with fewer teeth.

�Now it ain�t polite to refuse a ride, now is it, Clive?� He leered at Jane and then squinted up at the other man.

�Why we should get right acquainted with each other.� He grabbed her by the shoulder and tried to pull her into him, but she pushed off of his chest, spun and ran across the lane. The driver caught her in front of the horse and grabbed her in a bear hug. The smell of manure on him was nearly overpowering. Jane struggled to free herself, flipping her elbows at his head, but he only dodged her blows and laughed.

Finally finding her voice, Jane tipped back her head and screamed as loudly as she could, only to have the driver�s dirty hand clapped over her mouth. In the next instant, as she stamped her boot heel back into the driver�s knee, collapsing him, the horse reared because of the commotion in front of him and tried to run.

Jane danced out of the way as the horse brushed past her. The man on the wagon was desperately trying to retrieve the reins, which had fallen forward and were out of his reach. As the horse gained speed, the wagon lumbered forward and struck the driver, who was still writhing on the ground, holding his damaged knee. By the time the man in the wagon was able to stop the horse, the front wheel had passed completely over the driver.

Jane didn�t wait to see whether he was mortally injured or not. She gathered her skirts in her fists and sprinted down the lane toward Ashfield House, not stopping until the curses of the man on the wagon had faded in the distance. Breathless, she looked back along the lane and could just make out the specks of two individuals next to the horse and wagon. Summoning up her last reserves of energy, she began running again and didn�t stop until she reached the gate to the garden of Ashfield House.

Round Freddy stuck his hand in his coat pocket and fingered the vulcanite grips of the Webley and Scott WS Army model revolver. The six-inch barrel caused an interesting-looking bulge in the front of his coat, but he couldn�t worry about that now. The superintendent had gotten rid of all the police force�s old revolvers four years ago in 1906 and purchased an entire new lot of the WS Army models. The WS still came chambered for the same .455 caliber cartridges as the previous model, which meant the WS packed as much of a punch as ever. If you were on the receiving end of a Webley .455, Round Freddy thought, you were in a world of trouble.

The police cars pulled up in front of St. Philip�s vicarage in a precise line, as if the superintendent were going to appear and grade them on their neatness. Round Freddy motioned the fat sergeant over to him.

�Take two of the constables with the Webleys, along with another half dozen constables, and secure the garden and the rear entrance. I don�t want you to enter the vicarage from that direction, sergeant, do you understand? Just secure the back.�

�Yes sir. Anything else?�

�The man we�re looking for wears a black eye patch and may be armed with a double barrel shotgun. If he somehow makes it out the rear into the garden, I want him detained. You have permission to shoot him, but you don�t have permission to kill him. I want to talk to the man, so try not to hurt him too badly if the occasion arises.�

The sergeant stood straighter and a smile broke the corners of his mouth. �Yes sir. I assume that means we might also use the truncheons, eh?�

Round Freddy looked away to prevent the sergeant from seeing him smile. �Of course. If need be.�

While the sergeant deployed his men at the back of the vicarage, Round Freddy assembled the other two armed constables plus another half dozen men at the front. He looked over the expectant faces and exhaled a deep breath before speaking.

�Men, you are aware this is a dangerous situation. I want the two constables with the Webleys up front with me. The rest of you men bring up the rear and secure the entryway.�

He looked at them again and received murmurs of acknowledgment and saw the nodding of heads.

�If the man with the eye patch so much as points that shotgun in your direction, you have permission to shoot him. I prefer that he not be dead, but be sure that you protect yourself and your mates first. I�d rather have a dead criminal than a wounded constable. Now let�s get on with it.�

A burly constable with a belly that threatened to overflow his belt stepped up to the door and tried the latch. Shaking his head to the rest of the men, he stepped back and aimed a vicious kick just below the door latch. The heavy wood door shuddered, but held firm. The constable kicked a second time and then a third. The final kick sent the door slamming back against the wall as the constables crowded through the doorway and into the entry hall.

Round Freddy was at their head and pointed his Webley down the corridor toward the rear of the house. Another constable covered the open sitting room and the third the closed door to the study. The rest of the men stood ready behind them.

�Fletcher,� Round Freddy shouted. �Come out and surrender. There is no need for bloodshed.�

He held up his left hand for quiet, but received no response to his call.

�Fletcher, do you hear me? Come out now!�

The whining sound coming from the study caused the three armed policemen to swivel toward the doorway as a single unit.

�What was that, sir?�

�I don�t know. Billy. Try the door.�

�Locked, sir.�

�Kick it in, then.�

The burly constable stepped to the study door and put a well-aimed kick just above the latch, blasting the door open. Two armed constables charged into the room, their Webleys pointed directly at the vicar, tied to a chair in the center of the room.

Round Freddy came around his men and pushed the muzzle of the nearest Webley toward the floor. �Constables, check the rest of the rooms. Reverend, are you all right? Where is Fletcher?�

�He is long gone. Hours ago. Now get me out of here.� The reverend�s eyes blazed like hot coals in the night.

Round Freddy turned to his men. �Gentlemen, please disperse throughout the house and check everything. Be careful at the back of the house. You�re likely to find the cook in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Once you clear the house, report back to sergeant Wills in the entry hall. And close the study door on your way out.�

When the constables had left, Round Freddy turned to Reverend Elsworth. �Now you and I are going to have a small chat,� he said.

The reverend�s eyes bulged wider. �Untie me you idiot. Do you know who I am? Do you know what power I have? Let me loose, I say!�

Round Freddy pulled a straight backed chair in front of the trussed vicar and sat down heavily.

�I don�t think I can do that quite yet, reverend. You see, you still have to tell me about how you hired Fletcher, what you paid him to do, and how much money you embezzled from your niece.�

The reverend�s mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out.

�Speechless, eh? Well, we do have all day and night, as they say. Would you like something to eat or drink? I believe the cook is still in the building.�

The reverend�s eyes widened again, and then he hung his head until his chin touched his chest.

�I know,� Round Freddy said. �Admitting one�s wrongs is good for the soul.� He leaned closer to the vicar. �I�m listening.�

Round Freddy stood at the entrance to the narrow alley off Dudley Street, staring into the gloom created by the adjacent buildings. The smell of rotting garbage and sewage wafted out and stung his nostrils. Turning back toward the street he motioned for the constables to draw nearer. As they did, he hitched up his trousers around his considerable stomach.

�Men, I know we have run through this exercise once today to no avail at St. Philip�s vicarage. But put that visit out of your mind. This is the place where we must be at our best.�

He pointed down the alley. �Down there, inside of number three on the right, is a man who would do us harm. His name is Fletcher and he has killed once already. Fletcher is armed with a double gun, so this is no time to be a hero. I would dearly like to capture the man alive, but if it comes down to a choice of him or one of us, don�t hesitate to pull the trigger.�

Round Freddy looked each man in the eye in turn. �Any questions? Good. Sergeant Wills, take two men with revolvers and four other constables. Please secure the rear of the building. I shall give you five minutes to get in place.�

After Wills and the other constables left, Round Freddy studied the men in front of him.

�You four in the back, I want you to seal off both ends of this alley. The two of you with Webley revolvers, stay next to me on the way into the house. The rest of you, follow inside behind us. Got it?�

A murmur of assent went through the crowd of constables.

Round Freddy squeezed down the alleyway, stepping over dingy piles of material that he preferred not to think about. After thirty feet, the alley widened into a miniscule courtyard that had four doors fronting onto it.

�That one,� he said, stepping toward a weather-beaten wooden door. �The vicar said second on the right.� Round Freddy eased up against the door frame and checked the men behind him. Then he slowly grasped the door latch and moved it upward. To his surprise, it moved freely. He leaned against the door and it swung open slightly. It wasn�t even locked.

He twitched his head toward the door and the two constables with the revolvers went through one after the other, their Webleys held high, pointing toward the ceiling. Round Freddy followed them and halted inside the front room. It was empty.

The far wall held a plank wooden door that looked as if it had been built for a barn but installed here. Round Freddy tried the latch and pushed against the door, but it didn�t budge.

�Who�s there? Is that ye, Snow?� The voice was muffled through the thick door.

Round Freddy stood to the side of the doorway and raised his voice. �Mr. Fletcher. It is Sergeant Hume of the Hull Police come to pay a call on you. Would you unbolt the door for us?�

�Ye can bloody well bugger off. I ain�t opening no door.�

�Mr. Fletcher, I suggest you have a peek out the rear of the building. You will see that we have stationed constables in the rear garden, so you have no chance of escape in that direction. The only way out is through this locked door. Please consider the situation and unbolt the door.�

�I has a gun in here. There�s no way ye�ll get through that door alive.�

Round Freddy raised his eyebrows and looked at the constables behind him. �We are well aware of your twelve bore, Mr. Fletcher. Nevertheless, we do not think that you actually want to use it, for if you do, it means the end for you. My men will show you no mercy. They will shoot you down like a rabid dog.�

�Well, woof, woof, to ye then. I shan�t be unbolting the door. Me and Snow�s mum will sit in here, right comfortable.�

Round Freddy stepped back and ran his hand down over his face. Why hadn�t he considered the possibility that Fletcher would have another hostage? After all, he held the reverend and his housekeeper hostage. And the housekeeper had said Fletcher threatened to harm them, so there was no doubting what he might do with Snow�s mother.

Round Freddy needed time to think. He wanted to develop a plan to deal with Fletcher. He leaned toward the door. �Sit tight, Mr. Fletcher. We shall not trouble you at the moment. However, we will still be right outside in case you�d like to give up.�

�Tain�t no chance of that,� came the reply through the door.

�I didn�t think there was,� Round Freddy mumbled to himself as he stepped out into the courtyard. �Not a hope.�

The Dealer had done it to him again, Lund thought, only this time instead of meeting south of the river along the railway, he had to meet the man in front of the White Cross Mill on the Haxby Road, near the York Union Workhouse. As he trudged past Clarence Gardens he reviewed why he was taking this chance.

The detective sergeant had already instructed him how to proceed in order to trap the Dealer. Lund didn�t want to go along with what they wanted, but what choice did he have. They had enough evidence to put him in gaol for too many years. His only recourse was to cooperate with them and they promised to be lenient for his part in the embezzlement, especially if the money were returned to Jane Waddington.

Of course, the police wanted the Dealer to reveal his part in hiding the money that Lund embezzled so they could put the arm on him too. Lund had no quarrel with the Dealer being arrested. But something in the way the Dealer treated him ate at the back of his mind. Lund had decided that he would make an example of the Dealer first, and then set him up for the police. He owed it to himself to set things straight.

As he passed the football ground, Lund noticed a small knot of young men milling around the end of the pitch. He quickly ducked behind thick bushes at the side of the road and continued parallel to the road until he had left the noisy group behind. Just past Fountayne Street, he turned down a narrow lane and slowed his pace, studying the buildings that lined the road. Within a minute he was in front of the White Cross Mill, but could find no sign of the Dealer.

Grumbling to himself, Lund shuffled around the east side of the mill, running his hand along the rough stone as he turned the corner and nearly bumped into the Dealer, who stood a few feet out from the building with his hands on his hips.

�Mr. Lund. What a pleasure to see you.� The Dealer tipped a silver flask up to his lips and drank deeply. He capped the flask and put it in an inside coat pocket. �Tell me, my good man, what kind of investment did you want to discuss with me?�

Lund was startled by the Dealer�s sudden appearance and struggled to set his mind in order. �I � I- I wanted to commit more funds to your expertise,� he said, sidling away from the building and toward the open space at the rear of the mill. �I have some more money to place into properties.�

�Do you now? Perhaps you can tell me where a man of your limited means would get more money, more than you already have entrusted to me, to invest?� The Dealer still stood with his hands on his hips, staring intently at Lund. �And perhaps you have this money with you now?�

Lund hesitated too long and knew the Dealer had caught him in a lie. �Well, I am not prepared at the moment, that is, I do not have the funds on my person right now .��.��.��.�

�What is it you want from me?� The Dealer stepped closer to Lund, putting his face into a shaft of light that glinted off his teeth.

�Only the usual services.�

The Dealer cocked his head. �And what might those be, eh, Mr. Lund?�

Lund stepped back so he wasn�t so close to the Dealer. �Why safe yet unnoticed investments, I should think.�

The Dealer smiled and spread his palms outward. �Mr. Lund, I am unaware of what you had in mind here tonight, but I can tell you that I am sorely disappointed in you. I have a strong suspicion that you have something nefarious in mind for me.�

�N � n � nefarious? Me? That is absurd.�

�Absurd it may be and yet I think you have something else in mind other than more investments.� The Dealer looked left and right before continuing. �Let�s set this straight, eh. In terms of the commissions that I was going to charge you on the prior purchases, consider them wiped out.�

�You mean that, sir/� Lund said, grabbing a handful of the Dealer�s coat. �Really?�

The Dealer pulled Lund�s fingers from around the folds of his coat. �Yes, I mean what I say. I have now applied a second commission in place of the first, this one double the first. The commission is due in a week.�

�But that is a huge amount of money to pay for your services.�

The Dealer smiled. �Nevertheless, it is what you shall pay in order to have my protection. I expect to hear from you within the week, Mr. Lund.�

With that the Dealer turned and disappeared around the corner of the building.

When Lund peered around the corner, he saw the Dealer fading into the darkness of the lane to Haxby Road.

Round Freddy stopped pacing as a stout constable with a shock of red hair sticking out from under his cap skidded to a halt in front of him. The man wiped a ribbon of sweat from his brow and saluted.

�No need for that right now, Collins. What is it?�

�There�s a man out on Dudley Street who says he lives here in number three. Wants to get into his house.�

�The man�s name?�

�Says it�s Snow, sir.�

�Bring him along.�

When the constable herded Snow in front of Round Freddy, the man stood looking from the detective to the door of his house and back.

�Mr. Snow, I shall require your attention on me. I have questions for you.�

�Snow. It�s only Snow.�

�Very well, then. Snow. Are you acquainted with a Mr. Fletcher?�

Snow rubbed his chin and knitted his brows as if in thought. �Well, I knows a Fletcher, and he�s a man, so I suppose we could call him mister.�

�I assume that is a �yes?��

Snow bobbed his head.

�Do you have any idea why he might want to hold your mum hostage in your house?�

Snow started toward the house door, but Round Freddy put out a thick arm and restrained him.

�Fletcher�s a madman,� Snow blurted. �He killed that woman and now he�ll kill me mum.�

Round Freddy grabbed Snow�s shoulders and shook him until he looked him in the eye.

�We will not let any harm come to your mum. But you must tell me what you know about Fletcher and the woman he killed.�

Snow hung his head and tears tracked down his cheeks. �I told him I didn�t want to hurt anybody.�

Round Freddy took Snow�s elbow and led him to a corner of the courtyard where they talked quietly for several minutes. When they returned to the center of the courtyard, Round Freddy motioned to the two constables with the revolvers.

�I would like you to accompany me and Snow into the building where he will attempt to convince Mr. Fletcher to release his mum. Are you willing to volunteer to do so?�

Both agreed.

�Right. Let�s go then.�

Inside, standing at the side of the door, Round Freddy cleared his throat and raised his voice. �Mr. Fletcher. I have someone with me who would like a word with you. He will speak to you now.�

Round Freddy nodded to Snow.

�Fletcher, it�s me, Snow.� He waited, but there was no response. �Fletcher, you have me mum in there with you. You don�t need her and I don�t want her in there. Let her go.�

Round Freddy thought the ensuing silence meant that Fletcher would not consider the approach, but then he heard the man responding.

�Snow, is that really ye out there?�

�Aye, Fletcher, it is me.�

�Snow, it pains me to have your mum in here with me and with the coppers out there, but that is the way it has turned out.�

Snow drew a deep breath. �The coppers tell me that if ye let me mum go, they won�t break through the door while she�s coming out. They say that letting me mum out is good will for you.�

There was another lengthy silence and Round Freddy nodded to Snow to show his encouragement of what he had done. Just as Round Freddy thought that Fletcher was going to refuse the offer, Fletcher called out.

�Snow. Ye�ve been a good partner to work with. I has no business with your mum. I�ll let her out the back.�

Round Freddy interrupted quickly. �Mr. Fletcher, please give us a few moments to alert the constables in the rear that Snow�s mum is to be released. We do not want any mishaps to occur, do we?�

�Mishaps is me middle name, copper. But I�ll wait on ye.�

Round Freddy detailed a constable to advise Sergeant Wills at the back of the house of the situation, and as soon as he had gone, called out to Fletcher again.

�Mr. Fletcher, you are not planning to do anything foolish with that double when the door is opened, are you?�

He could hear Fletcher�s laugh through the door. �Worried about me, are ye? Don�t worry. I shall let the woman go.�

Within three minutes a constable returned from the rear of the house and said that Snow�s mother had been released unharmed and that the back door had been bolted again. Round Freddy again approached the door.

�Mr. Fletcher, we thank you for your consideration in releasing Snow�s mum. Now we must speak about how we can resolve this situation. I think the best thing that you can do for yourself is to lay down that double gun, unbolt the two doors, and come out with your hands raised.�

Round Freddy heard the loud laugh first and then the growl.

�Ye have Snow�s mum so she will not be on me conscience. But ye shall not have me. At least not while I�m breathing.�

Round Freddy heaved a sigh and turned back toward the courtyard. The days were getting longer and longer.

Night had fallen and Round Freddy still had not coaxed Fletcher out of Snow�s back room. The detective had spent the better part of the day talking to a wooden door and listening to Fletcher�s taunting responses from the other side. At one point, mental fatigue took hold and Round Freddy was on the brink of ordering the criminal burned out of the house. But before he could get the words to shift from his brain to his mouth, he pushed the urge back down and willed it to go away and not return.

Needing a breath of air, he stepped into the small courtyard and joined a group of constables jawboning in a corner. Someone from the police station had brought apple cider for the men to drink, and they stood there, holding Army-issue tin cups of cider, looking expectantly at him. Sergeant Wills, who apparently was taking a break from his duties at the rear of the house, raised his eyebrows and asked, �What news, sir? What�s our next move?�

Round Freddy accepted a cup of cider from a young constable and raised the tin cup to the men. �Cheers,� he said, and downed a large gulp of the sweet liquid. He smacked his lips and smiled. �Bigod, you men know how to live on the job, and here�s to you.� He raised the cup and drank again. When he lowered the cup, he caught the sergeant�s eye and nodded toward the opposite corner.

When they were away from the other constables, Round Freddy leaned close to Wills, his voice hardly above a loud whisper.

�I am concerned that Fletcher might feel that enough time has passed for him to make a move on us.�

Wills shook his head slowly. �You may be right, sir. The buggar has had enough time to think about the situation, sitting in there all day with that bloody shotgun.�

�Aye, that is exactly what worries me, sergeant. The 12 bore. But we have to do something to get the man out of that room. We can�t simply wait for him to come out shooting.�

�Are you thinking of going in after him?�

�That I am, but I can�t order unarmed constables to go after an armed man.�

�But we have four constables with revolvers, and I have a Webley too. That�s five revolvers to one shotgun.�

�Are you saying you think it is a wise move to break in on the man and take him?�

�I cannot tell you it�s wise, sir. I can only say the men are getting tired and restless. We should end this soon.�

Round Freddy leaned back against the wall of the house and pulled a hand across his mouth. �The men are for taking him, then?�

�Aye, sir. Ready and raring to go.�

�Right, then. Tell me what you think of this. You take the two armed constables at the rear and create a diversion. Make a racket as if you are trying to force the door. When I hear you begin the diversion, I shall give Fletcher enough time to react to you, and then break down the front door with my two armed constables and take the man.�

Wills nodded and looked Round Freddy in the eye. �Aye, sir. It�s the best we have right now.�

Round Freddy pushed away from the wall and strode toward the door to Snow�s house. �Let�s do it, then.�

As Wills disappeared down the alley on his way to the rear of the house, Round Freddy pulled the two armed constables aside and told them of the plan. Sergeant Wills was right, he thought. They�re raring to go.

The three of them assembled in the front room, backed up by three other constables crowding around the main door. Round Freddy held his finger to his lips and then turned to speak to the door.

�Mr. Fletcher. May I speak with you for a moment?�

Round Freddy could hear the scraping of a chair on the wooden floor as Fletcher shifted his position.

�What do ye want now?�

�I should like to discuss the possibility of releasing you from your forced confinement again.�

As Round Freddy finished speaking, he heard the sound of muffled pounding coming from the room beyond, obviously the handiwork of Sergeant Wills and his men.

�What the bloody hell is that?� Fletcher said at the sound of someone moving toward the back of the room.

That was all Round Freddy needed to hear. He motioned to the constables at the main doorway and two of them came running into the room and crashed against the bolted door, pulling its hinges from the doorframe and splintering the wood. The door and the two constables fell to the floor in the room. As they did, the two armed constables stepped into the room on either side of the door, their pistols raised. Round Freddy stepped into the center of the doorway.

�Mr. Fletcher, you are under arrest. Please lay the shotgun on the floor.�

Round Freddy saw Fletcher turn and begin to swing the long barrels of the 12 bore up and toward him. As the barrels came up and he saw the two huge openings facing him, looking like twin railway tunnel openings, he immediately thought his plan had a major flaw in it. Just as he screwed up his eyes and face, preparatory to being gunned down, he heard two shots, but felt no impact. He popped his eyes open and was startled to see Fletcher crumpling to the floor. The shotgun fell from his hands and he clutched his chest.

As Fletcher fell, Round Freddy saw, through the blue, sweet-cordite smell of the gunpowder smoke, the figure of Sergeant Wills standing in the back doorway, feet planted wide apart, the Webley held at shoulder level, and a curl of smoke coming from its barrel.

Round Freddy closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief as one of the two constables at his side moved forward and picked up the shogun. As Round Freddy bent over Fletcher, he could see the man was mortally wounded, as blood was pumping between his fingers clasped on his chest. Fletcher appeared like he was trying to say something and Round Freddy leaned down and put his ear close to Fletcher�s lips.

�The reverend is what did it,� he heard Fletcher say, before the man exhaled sharply and died.

Jane watched constable Phillips scowl as she passed him on her way into the walled garden. She had heard the sergeant dressing the constable down for allowing her to slip off Ashfield House�s grounds. Likely he wouldn�t forget the tongue lashing he received. She felt embarrassed that her actions caused the constable trouble, but was unsure how to address the issue. Stopping near the fountain tinkling softly in the center of the garden, she looked over her shoulder back at the house. The constable stood in a rigid pose alongside the doorway, looking away from her.

Deciding quickly, she moved back toward the house and drew up beside the constable.

�I think I owe you an explanation, constable.�

The policeman turned toward her, but said nothing. His eyes didn�t betray his feelings.

�I must apologize for my behavior in leaving the grounds. I know it was against the rules, but I could not help myself. I have been like a caged bird for so long. I only wanted to feel freedom again.�

The constable�s face softened. �The rules, they were put in place for your protection. Surely you must know that.�

Jane lowered her gaze. �I did know it, and I know it now. I simply did not realize what a dangerous position I put myself in, and in doing so, jeopardized you in your duties.� She hesitated. �I am truly sorry. It will not happen again.�

The constable relaxed his position and flicked his hand as if brushing away a fly. �It is done now and we cannot undo it. No sense in dwelling on it.�

�Then you are not in trouble with your sergeant?�

Phillips smiled. �No more than I am usually.�

Jane touched his arm. �Thank you. Thank you for understanding.�

Phillips shook his head and laughed lightly. �Understanding females is not something I know about. But I keep trying.�

Jane turned to move back toward the garden. But he is learning, she thought, smiling.

Round Freddy looked up from the paper he was studying to see Lund standing in his office doorway. He motioned the banker to a seat in front of the desk.

�Sergeant Hume, I have an important issue to discuss with you.�

Round Freddy leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. �This sounds as if it will be one of those tales with a sad ending.�

Lund winced and the detective knew he was right. �Please tell me the problem.�

�It is that damnable scoundrel, the Dealer,� Lund began. �Not only does he have my money, but now he has doubled the amount of the commission he seeks to extort from me.� Lund sat with a straight back and posed with a hand on his hip.

Round Freddy could see nothing but the humor in the situation. He was about to tell off the banker, but changed his mind when he thought of how pitiful the man was in his situation.

�Mr. Lund, I thought we had discussed how to handle the Dealer. Is there some reason why you chose to meet with him again?�

Lund nodded, but did not answer.

�And that reason would be what?�

�I wanted him to reduce the commission.�

Round Freddy threw his head back and laughed, rubbing his eyes with both hands. �Oh, the irony of the situation. You apparently do not share my view of it. Here you are, an embezzler who has been caught and is working to mitigate his guilt by helping us catch an even bigger criminal. But your greed is such that you can�t stomach the thought of being extorted for the commission money on your ill-gotten gains, so you attempt to lower the commission. The end result is that the other criminal doubles his take from you.� Round Freddy smiled at Lund. �You must see the irony of it.�

�I � I � I was trying to spend less of the money I took from the trust.�

Round Freddy shook his head again. Criminals were relatively stupid, he thought, which is why they usually ended up caught. �Mr. Lund, I will continue to allow you your liberty as long as you give me your word that you will not approach the Dealer again until I tell you to do so.�

Lund stood up and pulled down on the bottom of his waistcoat. �All right. I shall do as you ask.�

After the banker had left, Round Freddy wondered what he was doing, accepting the word of a common embezzler. Police work made strange partners, he thought.

Goodwin crossed his legs and sank back into the soft leather of the armchair in the member�s room at the Lendal Club. A waiter brought him a glass of whiskey and set it on an oak table at the side of the chair.

�Will you be having someone join you today, sir?� the waiter inquired.

Goodwin picked up the week�s copy of the Hull Spectator. �I expect so. In a short while.�

When the waiter left, Goodwin flipped open the newspaper and raised it to study the shares notices. He was deeply into the columns of figures when he heard the squeaking sound of leather being sat upon. He lowered the Spectator and stared into the wide smile of the Dealer sitting across from him.

�How goes it, son? Do we continue to make money?�

Goodwin picked up his whiskey and raised the glass to his father. �As ever. That five thousand quid from the vicar has grown already.�

The Dealer attracted the attention of a waiter and ordered a double whiskey. �That is precisely the thing that I wanted to hear you say. This relationship between the vicar and Lund is practically incestuous. Why the two of them have nearly stripped every farthing from the poor young girl�s trust fund. But enough of that. Tell me about our shares and how they are faring.�

Goodwin eyed the printed columns and murmured the shares prices, adding now and again information about whether the shares were up or down. He fell silent as the waiter brought the Dealer�s whiskey. When the man departed, Goodwin put the newspaper down.

�We must be coming to the end of this trail of cash, don�t you think?�

The Dealer took a long sip of the whiskey and then smacked his lips. �Gawd, don�t you simply love good whiskey,� he said. Then, looking directly at Goodwin, he took a larger swallow and continued. �There�s more to be gained from the banker than I first realized. I doubled the buggar�s commission on the investment yesterday. The man sputtered and sounded off, but agreed. Once we�ve wrung him out, we can turn to his position at the bank and convince him to allow us to tap its reserves.�

Goodwin leaned forward in his chair, his eyes wide. �You mean take money from the bank, like common robbers?�

The Dealer waved his hand in the air between them. �No, Goodwin. Of course not. I mean getting him to embezzle the money for us.� The Dealer raised his glass. �To crime. Long may it pay.�

Round Freddy stood at the iron-barred door of the jail cell, his head cocked, studying Reverend Elsworth sitting on a stool in the corner, his head bowed. The vicar was a pitiful example of a man of the cloth, he thought. Embezzled funds from his niece�s trust fund. Wrongly placed her in Bootham Park Insane Asylum, claiming she was a threat to her own life. Conspired with Fletcher to do away with the young woman.

He heaved a sigh and turned the key in the heavy lock, sending a loud click throughout the close space.

Reverend Elsworth looked up at him and then lowered his head.

Two other individuals occupied the jail cell with the vicar. The first was a toothless vagrant who had been arrested for breaking into a carriage house and making his home there. The owners of the building objected to the vagrant�s unlawful possession of their property, as well as to his propensity for building a fire in the inside corner of the structure. They were lucky the Fire Brigade hadn�t had to be called out.

The second prisoner was a long, lean man with a narrow oval face and a pointed skull. He had been arrested for stealing furniture out of a home on Harrow Place while the owners were away on holiday. A curious neighbor, looking over the back garden, had seen the man dragging heavy furniture to his ancient four-wheeled cart and called police. The constables had caught him red-handed. Thus far, he had refused to speak.

Round Freddy motioned the vagrant and the burglar to the side of the cell and then locked the door behind him. He moved across the flagstone floor to the back of the cell and stood over the vicar.

�Reverend, you have done some heinous things, to be sure, but it is not too late to admit your wrongdoings.�

The vicar looked up at Round Freddy, his face expressionless. �You should be after the real criminals, instead of trying to fabricate crimes for upstanding citizens.�

Round Freddy arched his neck, a smile on his face. �Are you serious, vicar? You call yourself an upstanding citizen?�

�That I am.�

�Please tell me, then, how you would explain embezzling your niece�s trust fund, colluding with the banker, Lund. There�s also the matter of arranging Miss Waddington�s incarceration and then abduction from Bootham Park. And finally, ordering her murder.�

�I will agree that the young woman is dead, but there is nothing that I can do about it, nor was I involved.�

�But Fletcher told me before he died that you were the one who ordered him to kill Jane.�

�I shall deny I did so until I die.�

Round Freddy chuckled. �As I thought,� he said. �The pious ones never admit anything.�

He turned back toward the doorway to the jail�s outer rooms and called loudly, �All right sergeant. Bring her in here.�

The sounds of heavy bolts being thrown on the other side of the oak door resounded in the close space. Presently, the door swung open and Jane Waddington stepped through the opening and walked up to the iron bars.

�Uncle?�

The vicar�s eyes rounded in surprise and he half raised off the stool. �Jane? It cannot be. You are dead.�

�Ah, but that is where you are in error, vicar," Round Freddy said. "You had been assured by Mr. Fletcher that she had been killed. We even thought so ourselves for a while when we found the other woman�s body with her bag on it. But we quickly learned Jane was only in hiding in order to keep herself from further harm. And here she stands now.�

Reverend Elsworth had stood up and was staring bug-eyed at Jane. He took two steps toward her, his arm extended, before he sputtered and coughed, and then clutched his chest. The vicar fell to the stone floor, cracking his skull as he did.

Round Freddy quickly knelt next to the quaking man and loosened his neckpiece, but the vicar only sounded worse. He gargled a series of breaths and then sucked in a large gulp of air, only to not exhale at all.

Round Freddy reached down and put his forefinger against the side of the man�s throat. There was no pulse. The vicar was dead.

Lund locked the vault door and stuck the heavy key in his waistcoat pocket, its looped end peeking out of the pocket. The iron and steel vault door in the cellar of the Royal York Banking Society was the old-fashioned type that required a special key to lock and unlock it, yet Lund had full confidence in the reliability of the arrangement. Had not the vault served its customers for nearly thirty years. There was no need to renovate the premises and install one of the new vault doors that could only be opened at certain times of the day.

Lund trudged up the stone staircase to the ground floor and emerged into the corridor leading to what the clerks jokingly called the �money room.� It was the place where citizens either came to deposit funds with the bank or remove money from their accounts. And it was the place Lund enjoyed being every day because it was the place that had made him rich.

He stopped at the entrance to the money room and pressed his hands against his temples, thinking hard. He had to figure out how to withdraw a considerable amount of cash, enough to keep him flush for a couple of years at least, and then disappear. He had no intention of going back to the detective sergeant and presenting himself to a magistrate. He planned on grabbing as much cash as he could, and then disappearing into the countryside. Perhaps go to France. Or maybe Spain.

Lund smoothed the sides of his slick hair to his head and then wiped his palms on his trouser legs. Then he stepped into the money room and was surprised to see Round Freddy standing in front of his desk, smiling at him.

Lund quickly looked back over his shoulder at the way he had come, when the detective�s voice reached him. �I would not suggest that you make a run for it, Mr. Lund. Constable Andrews here is considerably younger than you and is sure to apprehend you before you get very far down that corridor.�

Lund hesitated and began to step away, but stopped.

Lund looked from Round Freddy to Andrews to the corridor and back to the detective again. Sighing heavily, he walked forward and raised his arms, presenting his wrists to the detective.

�Snap the manacles on now, sir. I surely deserve what I shall get.�

Round Freddy took the canvas satchel from Lund and dropped it on his desk with a loud thump.

�Money is bleedin� heavy, eh?�

Lund gave him a fish-eyed stare. �I would much prefer that we not use the bank�s money to catch these thieves. Surely there must be another way.�

Round Freddy smiled at Lund as if he were dealing with a backward child. �There is another way to do this, of course. It involves clapping you in prison right now and forgetting about this entire escapade.�

Lund stepped back a pace. �Detective, there is no cause for you to toy with me.�

Round Freddy stared at Lund for a long moment. �I am as serious as death, Mr. Lund. If you back out now and refuse to help us capture these two men in the act of extortion, then you certainly shall pay for it. You know they are the key to getting Miss Waddington�s funds returned to her.�

Lund slumped into a chair and cupped his cheeks in his hands, causing his jowls to sag more. �It is not a matter of refusing to help. It is simply that � well � I am afraid of one of the men. Whenever I am with him I get the impression that he means to harm me.�

�You mean beyond stealing your money from you?�

Lund looked up at Round Freddy and sucked in the side of his cheek. �I mean physically. I worry that he might beat me.�

�Well you should not have such a worry much longer because we intend to trap the Dealer and his partner Goodwin with this money transfer. You did send the message about meeting with him and also Goodwin, on behalf of the vicar?�

Lund nodded. �It will be in the Hound and Hen. I am to give him the money there.�

�And once you do, the two of them shall be ours. I shall be in the background with two constables in street clothes. We shall put the arm on them.�

Round Freddy pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket and squinted at it. �Time to go, I should think. Are you ready?�

Lund stood. �As I shall ever be.�

They arrived at the Hound and Hen fifteen minutes before the one o�clock meeting time and split up. Lund entered through the pub�s front door, followed a minute later by one of the constables, while Round Freddy and the other constable entered through the rear. Round Freddy pointed out a corner of the bar where the constable could drink a pint of ale and not be conspicuous, and yet keep watch on Lund, who had settled into one of three wooden chairs surrounding a low, small table against the far wall.

Round Freddy got a pint for himself and moved into the shadow of a post that formed part of the entryway to the pub�s lounge. He leaned into the post and watched as Lund ordered from a heavy waitress whose bosom threatened to overflow the scoop-necked bodice she wore. Across the room, adjacent to the front door, the other constable had made himself comfortable on a three-legged stool, leaning back against the wall. They had the exits covered and once their quarry entered the pub, there was no escape.

By the time he had finished half of his pint, Round Freddy glanced at the front door and caught sight of a rotund smallish man entering, followed by a taller, more distinguished man with a mane of silver hair. They stopped inside the doorway and scanned the room, and then moved along the wall to the table where Lund sat sipping his ale.

Round Freddy tried to pull himself further behind the post to be less conspicuous, but his bulk prevented him. He glanced around the room and saw his two constables still looking as if they were part of the woodwork. Then he returned his attention to Lund and the two men.

Lund was saying something to the silver-haired man, and he abruptly shut his mouth as the man responded to him. The chubby man was chuckling, so some kind of joke must have been made. But Lund was not smiling. They talked back and forth for a few minutes and then Lund raised the satchel from the floor and handed it under the table to the silver-haired man. The man took the satchel and snapped it open, seemingly examining the contents for a long time. Then he snapped the satchel shut and lay it on the floor at his feet.

The silver-haired man said something to the rotund one and the two of them finished their pints in several long gulps. As they stood to leave, Round Freddy saw the constable by the front door stretch and stand up. The constable by the bar was already moving forward through the crowd.

As they left the table, the silver-haired man snatched up the satchel and began moving for the front door. When he got there, the heavy constable stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest.

�You�d best remove your hand, friend, before you lose it,� the Dealer said.

�I think you are the one who stands to lose something,� Round Freddy responded as he pulled up behind the pair. �Your liberty, if I am not far wrong.�

The Dealer turned to look at him with cold, blue eyes. �And who the hell are you?�

Round Freddy smiled and nodded a small bow. �Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume of the York Police. And you, sir, are under arrest for extortion, along with your colleague here.�

Goodwin started to struggle as a constable began to put the manacles on him.

�Easy, son,� the Dealer said. �This is only a minor inconvenience.�

�Indeed,� Round Freddy said, taking the satchel from the Dealer as the other constable put the manacles on him. �The inconvenience is that you shall have to speak to me about where you�ve hidden the funds given you by the vicar and Mr. Lund.�

The Dealer�s eyes widened. �The vicar? How would you know .��.��.��.� He shut up as fast as the words had spewed out.

�The vicar has given us a good accounting of what has transpired with Mr. Goodwin, as has Mr. Lund concerning his transactions with you. I expect we shall have a good chat back at the police station.�

Round Freddy nodded and the heavy constable gave the Dealer a shove between the shoulder blades. The Dealer stumbled through the front doorway, followed closely by Goodwin, Round Freddy and the other constable.

Round Freddy leaned against the stone doorframe leading into the iron-barred cell in the cellar of the police station, listening to the heated argument between Goodwin and the Dealer. He had been eavesdropping for ten minutes and the discussion seemed to be coming to a conclusion.

�But the police will go easier on us if we lead them to at least some of the money,� Goodwin said.

�Bloody hell, son. Can�t you see what they�re trying to do? They�ll promise us the world if they thought it would help them. I�m not saying a bloody word about the money.�

Round Freddy heard the scrape of a stool on the stone floor, and then Goodwin said, �I have listened to you for years and always stood with you. But this time I can�t. I refuse to spend the rest of my life in prison for a few thousand quid. I can always find more money. I can�t find more years in my life.�

There was silence for a few moments before the Dealer said, �Do what you will.�

The next thing Round Freddy heard was Goodwin calling for the jailer.

�You�re doing the proper thing, Mr. Goodwin,� Round Freddy said, laying a hand on the man�s shoulder. Goodwin sat in a wooden chair, nervously wringing his hands in his lap. Jane Waddington sat in a comfortable-looking upholstered chair at the side of a massive mahogany desk. They were in the office of the managing director of the York City and County Banking Company. Before long, a wizened gray-haired man with a deeply-creased face entered the room and introduced himself as the bank�s managing director.

Round Freddy shook the man�s hand, and then turned to Goodwin.

�I believe you have a key to the lock box?�

Goodwin nodded and dug in his waistcoat pocket. He held up a small iron key on a brass ring.

Round Freddy plucked it from his hand. Turning to the banker, he said, �You and I shall have a look at what is in the box. The constable will stay here with Miss Waddington and Mr. Goodwin. You realize that the entire contents of the box are being seized by the police as evidence of Mr. Goodwin�s wrongdoing.�

The banker nodded and led the way out of the office. The two of them returned to the office ten minutes later. The banker carried a large tin box, which he laid on the desk.

Round Freddy stepped forward and inserted the key into the box�s lock, and then slowly lifted the lid. Reaching inside, he pulled out three stacks of banknotes and held them out for Jane to see.

Turning to Goodwin, he asked, �How much?�

Goodwin shrugged.

Round Freddy pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at Goodwin. �I shall certainly count it, but you can make my job easier by simply telling me how much. You have come this far already. Surely that small bit of information cannot hurt you.�

Goodwin sighed loudly. �Seven thousand pounds. Five from the vicar and the rest from Lund.�

�And the freehold deeds that you gave to the reverend?�

�Worthless forgeries.�

Round Freddy dropped the cash back into the box. �I suspected as much.� Turning to the constable, he said, �Take Mr. Goodwin back to the station and lock him up separately from the others. He has proven a help to us and we shall respect our part of the bargain.�

When they had gone, Jane asked, �What will happen now?�

Round Freddy smiled and shut the lid on the box.

�Why the right thing shall be done. This money is rightfully yours. Goodwin has admitted as much. I see no reason why it should not be deposited in your name. I imagine Mr. Ellison here would be happy to arrange for such a transaction.�

The banker�s eyes brightened. �Why yes, of course. Miss Waddington, I think you will be pleased with the services that we can provide.�

Jane looked over at Round Freddy and smiled. �I have come a long way from Bootham Park, thanks to you. I do not know what to say, except thank you.�

Round Freddy cocked his head and smiled back. �I hope your life takes a more sedate turn in the future.� Then he chuckled. �Otherwise, I might not be able to keep up with the case work.�

Alan M. Petrillo is a Tucson, Arizona-based journalist; author of the historical mystery, Full Moon; several books on historical military firearms; and the nonfiction work, Ice Hockey in the Desert, all available on amazon.com. He's finishing work on his next novel in his Victorian Carriage mystery series.