Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

The Westphalian Ring by Jeffery Deaver

Jeffery Deaver is the modern-day master of the twist ending, but we should warn readers that there’s a sort of genre heresy committed in the twist in this one — quite intentionally and all in fun. Mr. Deaver’s latest novel, Garden of Beasts, is a thriller set in Berlin in 1936, just before the Nazi Olympics. Like many of his books, it will be released first in Europe, but is expected in U.S. bookstores by July. Just out in paperback: 2003’s The Vanished Man.

The Charing Cross burglary had been the most successful of his career.

And, as he was now learning, it would perhaps be the one that would permanently end this vocation.

As well as earn him a trip to a fetid cell in Newgate prison.

Sitting in his chockablock shop off Great Portland Street, wiry Peter Goodcastle tugged at the tuft of wispy hair above his ear and below his bald head and nodded grimly at his visitor’s words, just audible amid the sound of Her Majesty’s Public Works’ grimy steam hammer breaking up the brick road to repair a water main.

“The man you robbed,” his uneasy companion continued, “was the benefactor to the Earl of Devon. And has connections of his own throughout Parliament and Whitehall Street. The queen speaks highly of him.”

The forty-four-year-old Goodcastle knew this, and considerably more, about Lord Robert Mayhew, as he did all his burglary victims. He always learned as much as he could about them; good intelligence was yet one more skill that had kept him free from Scotland Yard’s scrutiny in the twelve years since he’d re-turned from the war and begun plying his trade as a thief. He’d sought as much data as he could about Mayhew and learned that he was indeed well regarded in the upper circles of London society and among the royals, including Queen Victoria herself: Still, because of the man’s massive wealth and obsession for amassing and hoarding rare jewelry and valuables, Goodcastle assessed, the rewards would be worth the risk.

But in this estimate he’d clearly been wrong.

“It’s the ring he’s upset about. Not the other pieces, certainly not the sovereigns. No, the ring. He’s using all his resources to find it. Apparently it was handed down to him by his father, who received it from his father. It’s of great personal value to him.”

It was, of course, always wiser to filch items to which the owners had no sentimental attachment, and Goodcastle had decided that the ring fell into such a category because he’d found it sitting in a cheap, unlocked box on Mayhew’s dressing-counter, covered by a dozen pieces of worthless costume jewelry and cuff links.

But the thief now concluded that the casual treatment was merely a clever ruse to better protect the precious item — though only from thieves less skilled than Goodcastle, of course; he had inherited the family antiquities business ten years ago and of necessity had become an expert in valuing such items as music boxes, silver, furniture... and old jewelry. Standing masked in Mayhew’s dressing chamber, he’d frozen in shock as he uncovered the treasure.

Crafted by the famed goldsmith Wilhelm Schroeder of Westphalia early in the century, the ring featured bands of gold alternating with those of silver. Upon the gold were set diamonds; upon the silver, deep-blue sapphires. So astonished and delighted was Goodcastle at this find that he took only it, a diamond cravat pin, a modest broach, and fifty gold guineas, eschewing the many other objets d’art, pieces of jewelry, and gold and silver coin cluttering Mayhew’s boudoir (another rule of thievery: The more modest the take, the more likely that weeks or months will pass before the victim discovers his loss, if indeed he ever does).

This was what he had hoped had occurred in the Charing Cross burglary. The incident had occurred last Thursday and Goodcastle had seen no reports of the theft in the Daily Telegraph, the Times, or other papers.

But sadly, such was not the case, his informant — a man well placed within Scotland Yard itself — was now explaining.

“What’s more,” the man whispered, fiddling with the brim of his homburg and looking out over the cool gray April sky of London, “I’ve heard that the inspectors have reason to believe that the thief has a connection to the furniture or antiquities trade.”

Alarmed, Goodcastle whispered, “How on earth can they have found that? An informant?”

“No, the coppers discovered in Sir Mayhew’s apartment certain clues that led them to that conclusion.”

“Clues? What clues?” As always, Goodcastle had been meticulous in leaving nothing of his own behind. He’d taken all his tools and articles of clothing with him. And he never carried a single document or other token that would lead the police to him or to Goodcastle Antiquities.

But his confederate now chilled the burglar’s blood further with the explanation. “The inspectors found bits of various substances on the ladder and in the bedroom and dressing room. I understand one was a bit of cut and desiccated horsehair, of the sort used in stuffing upholstered divans, sofas, and settees, though Mayhew has none of that kind. Also, they located some wax unique to furniture polishing and of a type frequently bought in bulk by craftsmen who repair, refurbish, or sell wooden pieces... Oh, and they discovered some red brick dust, too. It was on the rungs of the ladder. And the constables could find no similar dust on any of the streets nearby. They think its source was the thief’s boots.” The man glanced outside the shop at the reddish dust from the pulverized brick covering the sidewalk.

Goodcastle sighed angrily at his own foolishness. He’d replaced the ladder exactly as he’d found it in Mayhew’s carriage house, but had not thought to wipe off any materials transferred from his shoes.

The year was 1892 and, as the world hurtled toward the start of a new millennium, one could see astonishing scientific advances everywhere. Electric lighting, petroleum-driven vehicles replacing horse-drawn landaus and carriages, magic-lantern moving pictures... It was only natural that Scotland Yard, too, would seek out the latest techniques of science in their pursuit of criminals.

Had he known before the job that the Yard was adopting this approach, he could have taken precautions: washing his hands and scrubbing his boots, for instance.

“Do you know anything more?” he asked his informant.

“No, sir. I’m still in the debtors’-crimes department of the Yard. What I know about this case is only as I have overheard in fragments of conversation. I fear I can’t inquire further without arousing suspicion.”

“Of course, I understand. Thank you for this.”

“You’ve been very generous to me, sir. What are you going to do?”

“I honestly don’t know, my friend. Perhaps I’ll have to leave the country for the Continent — France, most likely.” He looked his informant over and frowned. “It occurs to me that you should depart. From what you’ve told me, the authorities might very well be on their way here.”

“But London is a massive city, sir. Don’t you think it’s unlikely they will beat a path to your door?”

“I would have believed so if they hadn’t displayed such diligence in their examination of Mayhew’s apartment. Thinking as we now know they do, if I were a Yard inspector, I would simply get a list of the queen’s public works currently underway or ascertain the location of any brick buildings being demolished and compare that with lists of furniture and antiquities dealers in the vicinity. That would indeed lead very near to my door.”

“Yes, that would make sense... Frightful business, this.” The man rose, putting his hat on his head. “And what will happen to you if they arrive here, Mr. Goodcastle?”

Arrested and imprisoned, of course, the shopkeeper thought. But he said, “I will hope for the best. Now, you should leave, and I think it wiser if we don’t see each other again. There is no reason for you to go to the dock at criminal court as well.”

The nervous man leapt up. He shook Goodcastle’s hand. “If you do leave the country, sir, I wish you the best of luck.”

The burglar gave the informant a handful of sovereigns, a bonus well above what he’d already paid him.

“God bless, sir.”

“I could most assuredly use His assistance in this matter.”

The man left quickly. Goodcastle looked after him, half expecting to see a dozen constables and inspectors surrounding his shop, but all he observed were the public-works laborers in their grimy overalls, carting away the shattered brick from the powerful chisel of the steam hammer, and a few passersby, their black brollies unfurled to fend off the sporadic spring rain.

The shop deserted at the moment and his chief craftsman, Boyle, in the back, at work, the shopkeeper slipped into his office and opened the safe hidden behind a Turkish rug he’d mounted on the wall and further concealed behind a panel of oak constructed to resemble part of the wall.

He extracted a cloth bag containing several pieces from recent burglaries, including the cravat stickpin, the broach, the guineas, and the magnificent Westphalian ring from Mayhew’s apartment.

The other items paled in comparison to the German ring. The light from the gas lamp hit the gems and fired a fusillade of beams, white and blue, into the room. The Frenchman to whom Goodcastle had arranged to sell it would pay him three thousand pounds, which meant, of course, that it was worth many times that. Yet Peter Goodcastle reflected that as marvelous as this creation was, it had no particular appeal to him personally. Indeed, once he’d successfully executed a burglary of an abode or museum or shop he cared little for the object he’d made off with, except as it provided income and thus the means to continue his felonious vocation, though even regarding his recompense, he was far from greedy. Why, receiving three thousand sovereigns for the ring, or its true value of perhaps thirty thousand, or merely a handful of crowns wasn’t the point. No, the allure to Goodcastle was the act of the theft and the perfection of its execution.

One might wonder how exactly he had chosen this curious line of work. Goodcastle’s history revealed some privilege and a fine education. Nor had he rubbed shoulders with any particularly rough crowds at any point in his life. His parents, both long deceased, had been loving, and his brother was, of all things, a parish priest in Yorkshire. He supposed much of the motivation propelling him to steal could be traced to his terrible experiences during the Second Afghan War.

Goodcastle had been a gunner with the famed Royal Horse Artillery, which was among the detachments ordered to stop an enemy force of ghazis intent on attacking the British garrison at Kandahar. On the searingly hot, dusty day of 27 July, 1880, the force of 2,500 British and Indian infantry, light cavalry, and artillery met the enemy at Maiwand. What they did not realize until the engagement began, however, was that the Afghans outnumbered them ten to one. From the very beginning the battle went badly, for in addition to overwhelming numbers of fanatical troops, the enemy had not only smoothbores, but Krupp guns. The ghazis pinpointed their weapons with deadly accuracy, and the shells and the blizzard of musket balls and repeater rounds ravaged the British forces.

Manning gun number three, Goodcastle’s crew suffered terribly but managed to fire over one hundred rounds that day, the barrel of the weapon hot enough to cook flesh — as was proven by the severe burns on his men’s arms and hands. Finally, though, the overwhelming force of the enemy prevailed. With a pincer maneuver they closed in. The Afghans seized the English cannon, which the British had no time to spike and destroy, as well as the unit’s colors — the first time in the history of the British army such a horror had occurred.

As Goodcastle and the others fled in a terrible rout, the ghazis turned the British guns around and augmented the carnage, with the Afghans using the flagpoles from the regiment’s own flags as ramming rods for the shot!

A horrific experience, yes — twenty percent of the Horse Artillery was lost, as was sixty percent of the 66th Foot Regiment — but in some ways the worst was visited upon the surviving soldiers only after their return to England. Goodcastle found himself and his comrades treated as pariahs, branded cowards. The disdain mystified as much as it devastated their souls. But Goodcastle soon learned the reason for it. Prime Minister Disraeli, backed by a number of lords and the wealthy upper class, had been the prime mover in the military intervention in Afghanistan, which served no purpose whatsoever except to rattle sabers at Russia, then making incursions into the area. The loss at Maiwand made many people question the wisdom of such involvement and was an instant political embarrassment. Scapegoats were needed, and who better than the line troops who were present at one of the worst defeats in British history?

One particular nobleman infuriated Goodcastle by certain remarks made to the press, cruelly bemoaning the shame the troops had brought to the nation and offering not a word of sympathy for those who lost life or limb. The shopkeeper was so livid that he vowed revenge. But he’d had enough of death and violence at Maiwand and would never, in any case, injure an unarmed opponent, so he decided to punish the man in a subtler way. He found his residence, and a month after the improvident remarks the gentleman discovered that a cache of sovereigns — hidden, not very cleverly, in a vase in his office — was considerably diminished.

Not long after this, a factory owner reneged on promises of employment to a half-dozen veterans of the Afghan campaign. The industrialist, too, paid dearly — with a painting, which Goodcastle stole from his summer house in Kent and sold, the proceeds divvied up among those who’d been denied work. (Goodcastle’s experience in his father’s antiquities business stood him in good stead; despite the veterans’ concern about the questionable quality of the canvas, done by some Frenchman named Claude Monet, the thief was able to convince an American dealer to pay dearly for the blurred landscape.)

The vindication these thefts represented certainly cheered him — but Goodcastle finally came to admit that what appealed most deeply wasn’t revenge or the exacting of justice but the exhilaration of the experience itself... Why, a well-executed burglary could be a thing of beauty, as much so as any hand-carved armoire or Fragonard painting or William Tessler gold broach. He tamed his guilt and began pursuing his new calling with as much vigor and cunning as was displayed by all men, in whatever profession, who were counted successful.

Once he inherited the familial shop on Great Portland Street, he found that he and his workers had unique access to the finest town homes in metropolitan London, as they collected and delivered furniture — perfect hunting grounds for a refined burglar. He was too clever to rob his own clients, of course, but he would listen and observe, learning what he might about these customers’ neighbors or acquaintances — any recent valuables they’d purchased, sums of money they’d come into, where they might secrete their most precious objects, when they regularly traveled out of London, the number and nature of grooms and waiting-servants and guard hounds.

A brilliant idea, and perfectly executed on many occasions. As on Thursday last in the apartment of Sir Robert Mayhew.

But it is often not the plan itself that goes awry, but an entirely unforeseen occurrence that derails a venture. In this case, the unexpected cleverness of Scotland Yard inspectors.

Goodcastle now replaced the Westphalian ring and the other items in the safe and counted the cash inside. Five hundred pounds. At his home in London he had another three thousand sovereigns, plus other valuable items he’d stolen recently but hadn’t yet found buyers for. In his country house was another five thousand quid. That would set him up easily in the southern provinces of France, where he spent time with Lydia, the raven-haired beauty from Manchester he often traveled with. She could join him there permanently when she’d settled her own business affairs.

But living forever in France? His heart sank at the thought. Peter Goodcastle was an Englishman through and through. For all its sooty air from the dark engines of industry, its snobbish elite, its imperialism, his shabby treatment after Maiwand, he still loved England.

But he would not love ten years in Newgate.

He swung the safe door shut and closed the secret panel, letting the tapestry fall back over it. Caught in furious debate about what he might do, he wandered out into his shop once again, finding comfort in the many fine objects offered for sale.

An hour later, having come to no decision as to a course of action, he was wondering if perhaps he’d been wrong about the prowess of the police. Maybe they had hit on some lucky initial conclusions, but the investigation had stalled and he would escape unscathed. But it was then that a customer walked into the shop and began to browse. The shopkeeper smiled a greeting, then bent over a ledger in concentration, but he continued to keep an eye on the customer, a tall, slim man in a black greatcoat over a similarly shaded morning suit and white shirt. He was carefully examining the clocks and music boxes and walking sticks with the eye of someone intent on buying something and getting good value for his money.

As a thief, Peter Goodcastle had learned to be observant of detail; as a shopkeeper he had come to know customers. He was now struck by a curious fact: The man perused only the wooden items on display, while the inventory consisted of much porcelain, ivory, mother of pearl, pewter, brass, and silver. It had been Goodcastle’s experience that a customer desirous of buying a music box, say, would look at all varieties of such items, to assess their value and quality in general, even if his intent was to acquire a wooden one.

Goodcastle then noted something else. The man was subtly running his finger along a crevice in the seam of a music box. So, his interest wasn’t in the wood itself but in the wax covering it, a sample of which he captured under his nail.

The “customer” was not that at all, the shopkeeper understood with dismay; he was one of the Scotland Yard inspectors his informant had told him about earlier.

Well, all is not lost yet, Goodcastle reasoned. The wax he used was somewhat rare, due to its price and availability only in commercial quantities, but it was hardly unique; many other furniture and antiquities dealers bought the same substance. This was not by any means conclusive evidence of his guilt.

But then the policeman took a fancy to a red overstuffed chair. He sat on it and patted the sides, as if getting a feel for its construction. He sat back and closed his eyes. In horror Goodcastle noted that the man’s right hand disappeared out of sight momentarily and subtly plucked a piece of the stuffing out of the cushion.

The substance was desiccated horsehair, which surely would match the piece found in Robert Mayhew’s apartment.

The inspector rose and prowled up and down the aisles for some moments longer. Finally he glanced toward the counter. “You are Mr. Goodcastle?”

“I am indeed,” the shopkeeper said, for to deny it would merely arouse suspicion at a later time. He wondered if he was about to be arrested on the spot. His heart beat fiercely.

“You have a fine shop here.” The inspector was attempting to be amiable but Goodcastle detected the coldness of an inquisitor in his eyes.

“Thank you, sir. I should be most glad to assist you.” His palms began to sweat and he felt ill within the belly.

“No, thank you. In fact, I must be going.”

“Good day. Do return.”

“I shall,” he said, and walked outside into the brisk spring air.

Goodcastle stepped back into the shadows between two armoires and looked out.

No!

His worst fears were realized. The man had started across the street, glanced back into the store, and, not seeing the proprietor, knelt, presumably to tie his shoelace. But the lace was perfectly secured already; the point of this gesture was to pinch up some of the brick dust from the construction currently being undertaken — to match against similar dust Goodcastle had left on the rungs of the ladder or inside the apartment in Charing Cross, he thought in agony. The policeman deposited the dust in a small envelope and then continued on his way, with the jaunty step of a man who has just found a wad of banknotes on the street.

Panic fluttered within Goodcastle. He understood his arrest was imminent. So, it was to be a race to escape the clutch of the law. Every second counted.

He strode to the back door of the shop and opened it. “Boyle,” he called into the back room, where the round, bearded craftsman was putting a coat of lacquer on a Chinese-style bureau. “Mind the shop for an hour or two. I have an urgent errand.”

Bill Sloat was hunched over his cluttered, ale-stained table at the Green Man pub, surrounded by a half-dozen of his cronies, all of them dirty and dim, half-baked Falstaffs, their only earthly reason for being here that they did Sloat’s bidding as quickly and as ruthlessly as he ordered.

The gang man, dressed in an unwashed old sack suit, looked up as Peter Goodcastle approached and pierced a bit of apple with his sharp toadsticker, eating the mealy fruit slowly. He didn’t know much about Goodcastle except that he was one of the few merchants on Great Portland Street who coughed up his weekly ten quid — which he called a “business fee” — and didn’t need a good kick in the arse or slash with a razor to be reminded of it.

The shopkeeper stopped at the table and nodded at the fat man, who muttered, “What’s brought you ’ere, m’lord?”

The title was ironic, of course. Goodcastle didn’t have a drop of noble blood in his limp veins. But in a city where class was the main yardstick by which to measure a man, more so even than money, Goodcastle swam in a very different stream than Sloat. The gang man’s East-End upbringing had been grim and he’d never gotten a lick of boost, unlike Goodcastle, whose parents had come from a pleasant part of Surrey. Which was reason enough for Sloat to dislike him, despite the fact he coughed up his quid on time.

“I need to speak to you.”

“Do you now? Speak away, mate. Me ear’s yours.”

“Alone.”

Sloat harpooned another piece of apple and chewed it down, then muttered, “Leave us, boys.” He grunted toward the ruffians around the table, and, snickering or grumbling, they moved away with their pints.

He looked Goodcastle over carefully. The man was trying his hardest to be a carefree bloke but he clearly had a desperate air about him. Ah, this was tidy! Desperation and its cousin fear were far better motivators than greed for getting men to do what you wanted. Sloat pointed toward Goodcastle with a blunt finger that ended in a nail darkened from the soot that fell in this part of town like black snow. “You’ll come a cropper if you’re ’ere to say you don’t ’ave me crust this week.”

“No, no, no. I’ll have your money. It’s not that.” A whisper: “Hear me out, Sloat. I’m in trouble. I need to get out of the country quickly, without anybody knowing. I’ll pay you handsomely if you can arrange it.”

“Oh, me dear friend, whatever I do for you, you’ll pay ’andsomely,” he said, laughing. “Rest assured of that. What’d you do, mate, to need a ’oliday so quick like?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Ey, too shy to share the story with your friend Bill? You cuckold some poor bloke? You owe a sack of lolly to a gambler?...” Then Sloat squinted and laughed harshly. “But no, m’lord. You’re too bald and too skinny to get a married bird to shag. And your cobblers ain’t big enough for you to go wagering more’n a farthing. So, who’s after you, mate?”

“I can’t say,” he whispered.

Sloat sipped more of his bitters. “No matter. Get on with it. It’s me dinnertime and I ’ave a ’unger.”

Goodcastle looked around and his voice lowered even further. “I need to get into France. Nobody can know. And I need to leave tonight.”

“Tonight?” The ruffian shook his head. “Lord love me.”

“I heard you have connections all over the docks.”

“Bill’s got ’is connections. That ’e does.”

“Can you get me onto a cargo ship bound for Marseilles?”

“That’s a bleedin’ tall order, mate.”

“I don’t have any choice.”

“Well, now, I might be able to.” He thought for a moment. “It’ll cost you a thousand quid.”

“What?”

“It’s bloody noon, mate. Look at the clock. It ain’t easy, what you’re asking, you know. I’ll ’ave to run around all day like a chicken without its ’ead. Blimey. Not to mention the risk. The docks’re lousy with guards, customs agents, sergeants at arms — thick as fleas, they are... So there you ’ave it, gov’nor. A thousand.” He skewered another brown apple wedge and chewed it down.

“All right.” Goodcastle said, scowling. The men shook hands.

“I need something up front. ’Ave to paint some palms, understand.”

Goodcastle pulled out his money purse and counted out some coin.

“Crikey, guv’nor.” Bill laughed. The massive hand reached out and snatched the whole purse. “Thank’ee much... Now, when do I get the rest?”

Goodcastle glanced at his pocket watch. “I can have it by four. Can you make the arrangements by then?”

“Rest assured I can,” Sloat said, waving for the barmaid.

“Come by the shop.”

Sloat squinted and looked the man over warily. “Maybe you won’t own up to what you done, but tell me, mate, just ’ow safe is it to be meetin’ you?”

The shopkeeper gave a grim laugh. “You’ve heard the expression ‘giving somebody a taste of their own medicine’?”

“I ’ave, sure.”

“Well, that’s what I’m going to do. Don’t worry. I know how to make sure we’re alone.”

Goodcastle sighed once more and then left the Green Man.

Sloat watched him leave, thinking, A thousand quid for a few hours’ work.

Desperation, he thought, is just plain bloody beautiful.

At five minutes to four that afternoon, Peter Goodcastle was uneasily awaiting Bill Sloat’s arrival.

While he’d made his arrangements to evade the law, Goodcastle had kept up the appearance of going through his business as usual. But he’d continued to observe the street outside. Sure enough, he’d noted several plain-clothed detectives standing well back in the shadows. They pretended to be watching the construction work on the street, but in fact it was obvious that their attention was mostly on Goodcastle and the store.

The shopkeeper now put his plan into action. He summoned Boyle and one of the men he regularly used for transporting furniture to and from clients’ houses. Purposely acting suspiciously, like an actor in a one-shilling melodrama, Goodcastle slipped the young deliveryman a paper-wrapped package, which contained a music box. He gave instructions to take it to Goodcastle’s own house as quickly as possible. Witnessing the apparently furtive mission, and probably assuming that the box contained loot or damning evidence, one of the detectives started after the young man as soon as he left the shop.

Goodcastle then dismissed Boyle for the day and gave him a similar package, with instructions to take it home with him and make sure the music box mechanism was dependable. The remaining detective observed Boyle leave the shop, clutching the parcel, and, after a moment of debate, appeared to decide it was better to pursue this potential source of evidence rather than remain at his station.

Goodcastle carefully perused the street and saw no more detectives. The workers had left and the avenue was deserted except for a married couple, who paused at the front window, then stepped inside. As they looked over the armoires, Goodcastle told them he would return in a moment and, with another glance outside into the empty street, stole into the office, closing the door behind him.

He sat at his desk, lifted aside the Turkish rug, and opened the secret panel and then the safe. He was just reaching inside when he was aware of a breeze wafting on his face, and he knew the door to the office had been opened.

Goodcastle leapt up, crying, “No!” He was staring at the husband of the couple who’d just walked into the shop. He was holding a large Webley pistol.

“Lord in heaven!” Goodcastle said, gasping. “You’ve come to rob me!”

“No, sir, I’m here to arrest you,” he said calmly. “Pray don’t move. I don’t wish to harm you. But I will if you give me no choice.” He then blew into a police whistle, which uttered a shrill tone.

A moment later, beyond him, Goodcastle could see the door burst open, and in ran two Scotland Yard inspectors in plain clothes, as well as two uniformed constables. The woman — who’d obviously been posing as the first inspector’s wife — waved them toward the office. “The safe is back there,” she called.

“Capital!” called one inspector — the lean, dark man who’d been in the store earlier, masquerading as a customer. His fellow officer, wearing a bowler, was dressed similarly, a greatcoat over a morning suit, though this man differed in his physique, being taller and quite pale, with a shock of flaxen hair. Both policemen took the shopkeeper by the arms and led him out into the store proper.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Goodcastle blustered.

The white-faced inspector chuckled. “I warrant you know right well.”

They searched him and, finding no weapons, unhanded him. The inspector who’d entered with the woman on his arm replaced his Webley with a notebook, in which he began taking down evidence. They dismissed the woman with effusive thanks and she explained that she’d be back at the police precinct station house if they needed her further.

“What is this about?” Goodcastle demanded.

The pale officer deferred to the lean one, apparently a chief inspector, who looked Goodcastle over carefully. “So you’re the man who burglarized Robert Mayhew’s apartment.”

“Who? I swear I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”

“Please, Mr. Goodcastle, don’t malign our intelligence. You saw me in your shop earlier, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“During that visit here I managed to collect a sample of furniture wax from several wooden pieces. The substance is identical to the wax we found traces of in Lord Mayhew’s dressing chamber — a material that neither he nor his servants had ever been in contact with. We found, too, a horse hair that matched one that I extracted from your chair.”

“I’m at a loss—”

“And what do you have to say about the fact that the brick dust in front of your store is the same as that which we found on the rungs of the ladder used to break into Lord Mayhew’s first floor? Don’t deny you are the thief.”

“Of course I deny it. This is absurd!”

“Go search the safe,” the chief inspector said to a constable, nodding toward the back office. He then explained, “When I was here earlier I tried to ascertain where you might have a hiding place for your ill-gotten gains. But your shop boasts far too much inventory and too many nooks and crannies to locate what we are seeking without searching for a week. So we stationed those two detectives outside on the street to make you believe we were about to arrest you. As we had anticipated, you led them off... I assume in pursuit of two parcels of no evidentiary value whatsoever.”

“Those deliveries a moment ago?” Goodcastle protested. “I sent one music box home for myself to work on tonight. Another, my man was taking with him to do the same.”

“So you say. But I suspect you’re prevaricating.”

“This is most uncalled for. I—”

“Please, allow me to finish. When you sent our men on a goose chase, that told us that your flight was imminent, so my colleague here and a typist from the precinct house came in as customers, as they’d been waiting to do for several hours.” He turned to the policeman who’d played the husband and added, “Capital job, by the way.”

“Most kind of you.”

The chief inspector turned back to Goodcastle. “You were lulled to incaution by the domestic couple and, prodded by the urgency of escape, you were kind enough to lead us directly to the safe.”

“I am, I swear, merely an antiques merchant and craftsman.”

The pale detective chuckled again, while the “husband” continued to take everything down in his notebook.

“Sir,” the constable said as he stepped from the office. “A problem.”

“Is the safe locked?”

“No, sir. The door was open. The trouble is that the ring is not inside.”

“Ring?” Goodcastle asked.

“What is inside?” the lean officer asked, ignoring the shopkeeper.

“Money, sir. That’s all. About five hundred pounds.”

“Are they guineas?”

“No, sir. Varied currency, but notes mostly. No gold.”

“It’s the receptacle for my receipts, sirs. Most merchants have one.”

Frowning, the head detective looked into the office beyond them and started to speak. But at that moment the door opened again and in strode Bill Sloat. The ruffian took one look at the constables and inspectors and started to flee. He was seized by the two coppers and dragged back inside.

“Ah, look who we have here, Mad Bill Sloat,” said the bowlered inspector, lifting an eyebrow in his pale forehead. “We know about you, oh yes. So you’re in cahoots with Goodcastle, are you?”

“I am not, copper.”

“Keep a respectable tone in your mouth.”

Goodcastle said uneasily, “By the queen, sir, Mr. Sloat has done nothing wrong. He comes in sometimes to view my wares. I’m sure that’s all he’s doing here today.”

The chief inspector turned to him. “I sense you’re holding back, Goodcastle. Tell us what is on your mind.”

“Nothing, truly.”

“You’ll be in the dock sooner than we have planned for you, sir, if you do not tell us all.”

“Keep your flamin’ gob shut,” Sloat muttered.

“Quiet, you,” a constable growled.

“Go on, Goodcastle. Tell us.”

The shopkeeper swallowed. He looked away from Sloat. “That man is the terror of Great Portland Street! He extorts money and goods from us and threatens to sic his scoundrels from the Green Man on us if we don’t pay. He comes in every Saturday and demands his tithe.”

“We’ve heard rumors of such,” the flaxen-haired detective said.

The chief inspector looked closely at Goodcastle. “Yet today is Monday, not Saturday. Why is he here now?”

The villain roared at the shopkeeper, “I’m warning you—”

“One more word and it’ll be the Black Maria for you, Sloat.”

Goodcastle took a breath and continued. “Last Thursday he surprised me in my shop at eight A.M. I hadn’t opened the doors yet, but had come in early because I had finished work on several pieces late the night before and I wanted to wax and polish them before I admitted any customers.”

The chief detective nodded, considering this. To his colleagues he said, “The day of the burglary. And not long before it. Pray continue, Goodcastle.”

“He made me open the door. He browsed among the music boxes and looked them over carefully. He selected that one right there.” He pointed to a rosewood box sitting on the counter. “And he said that in addition to his extortion sterling, this week he was taking that box. But more, I was to build a false compartment in the bottom. It had to be so clever that no one examining the box, however carefully, could find what he’d hidden in there.” He showed them the box and the compartment — which he’d just finished crafting a half-hour before.

“Did he say what he intended to hide?” the senior Yarder asked.

“He said some items of jewelry and gold coins.”

The villain roared, “ ’E’s a flamin’ liar and a brigand and when—”

“Quiet, you,” the constable said, and pushed the big man down roughly into a chair.

“Did he say where he’d acquired them?”

“No, sir.”

The detectives eyed one another. “So Sloat came here,” the senior man offered, “selected the box and got wax on his fingers. The horsehair and brick dust attached themselves to him as well. The timing would allow for his proceeding directly to Lord Mayhew’s apartment, where he left those substances.”

“It makes sense,” the third offered, looking up from his notebook.

The pale detective asked, “And you have no criminal past, Goodcastle? Don’t lie. It’s easily verified.”

“No, sir. I swear. I’m a simple merchant — if I’ve done anything wrong, it was in not reporting Sloat’s extortion. But none of us along Great Portland Street dared. We’re too frightened of him... Forgive me, sirs, it’s true — I did send the police across the street on a merry chase. I had no idea why they were present but they seemed like detectives to me. I had to get them away from here. Mr. Sloat was due momentarily and I knew that if he noticed the law when he arrived he would think I’d summoned them and might beat me. Or worse.”

“Search him,” the pale-visaged detective ordered, nodding toward Sloat.

They pulled some coins, a cigar, and a cosh from his pockets, as well as the money purse. The white-faced detective looked inside. “Guineas! Just like the sort that Lord Mayhew lost.”

The Royal Mint had stopped producing gold guineas, worth a pound and a shilling, in 1813. They were still legal tender, of course, but were rare. This was why Goodcastle had not taken many from Lord Mayhew’s; spending them could draw attention to you.

“That purse is not mine!” Sloat raged. “It’s ’is!”

“That’s a lie!” Goodcastle cried. “Why, if it were mine, why would you have it? I have mine right here.” He displayed a cheap leather pouch containing a few quid, crowns, and pence.

The constable holding the pouch then frowned. “Sir, something else is inside — hidden in a pocket in the bottom.” He extracted two items and displayed them. “The cravat pin, like the one Sir Mayhew reported missing. Most surely the same one. And the ruby broach, also taken!”

“I’m innocent, I tell you! Goodcastle ’ere come to me with a story of ’aving to get his arse to France tonight.”

“And what was the motive for this hasty retreat?” the inscribing detective asked.

“ ’E didn’t say,” Sloat admitted.

“Convenient,” the pale detective said wryly. It was clear that they didn’t believe the ruffian.

Goodcastle tried to keep a curious and cautious expression on his face. In fact, he was wracked by anxiety, wondering if he could pull off this little theater. He’d had to act fast to save himself. As he’d told Sloat, he was going to treat Scotland Yard to a taste of their own medicine — but not to forsake his homeland and flee to France, which he’d decided he could never do. No, he’d use evidence to connect Sloat to the burglary — through a fabricated story about the music box with the hidden compartment on the one hand and, on the other, making certain Sloat took the incriminating money purse from him at the Green Man.

But would the police accept the theory?

It seemed, for a moment, that they would. But just as Goodcastle began to breathe somewhat easier, the chief inspector turned quickly to him. “Please, sir. Your hands?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I will examine your hands. One final test in this curious case. I am not yet completely convinced the facts are as they seem.”

“Well, yes, of course.”

Goodcastle held his palms out, struggling to keep them steady. The detective looked them over. Then he looked up, frowning. After a moment he lowered his head again and smelled Goodcastle’s palm. He said to Sloat, “Now yours.”

“Listen ’ere, coppers, you bloody well ain’t—”

But the constables grabbed the man’s beefy hands and lifted them for the chief inspector, who again examined and sniffed. He nodded and then turned slowly to Goodcastle. “You see, the Westphalian ring is of a unique design — silver and gold, unusual in metal craft. Gold, as you know, needs no polishing to prevent tarnish. But silver does. Mayhew told us that the ring had been recently cleaned with a particular type of silver polish that is scented with perfume derived from the lily flower. It is quite expensive, but well within Mayhew’s means to buy liberally for his staff to use.” Then he turned toward Sloat. “Your hands emit a marked scent of lily and display some small traces of the off-white cream that is the base for the polish, while Mr. Goodcastle’s do not. There’s no doubt, sir. You are the thief.”

“No, no, I am wronged!”

“You may make your case before the judges, sir,” the light-haired policeman said, “from the dock.”

Goodcastle’s heart pounded fiercely from this final matter about the polish. He’d nearly overlooked it, but had decided that if the detectives were now so diligent in their use of these minuscule clues to link people to the sites of crimes, Goodcastle needed to be just as conscientious. If a burglar could leave evidence during the commission of a felony, he might also pick up something there that might prove equally damning. He thought back to the ring and Mayhew’s dressing chamber. He recalled that he’d recognized the scent of Covey’s Tarnish-Preventing Cream in the velvet-lined boxes. On the way to the Green Man, he’d bought some and slathered it liberally on his palm. Shaking Sloat’s hand to seal their agreement had transferred some to the ruffian’s skin. Before returning to his shop, Goodcastle had scrubbed his own hands clean with lye soap and discarded the remaining polish.

“Cooperate, sir, and it will go easier on you,” the hatted detective said to Sloat.

“I’m the victim of a plot!”

“Yes, yes, do you think you’re the first brigand ever to suggest that? Where is the ring?”

“I don’t know anything of any ring.”

“Perhaps we’ll find it when we search your house.”

No, Goodcastle thought, they wouldn’t find the ring. But they would find a half-dozen other pieces stolen by Goodcastle in various burglaries over the past year. Just as they’d find a crude diagram of Robert Mayhew’s apartment — drawn with Sloat’s own pencil on a sheet of Sloat’s own paper. The burglar had planted them there this afternoon after he’d met with the ruffian at the Green Man (taking exemplary care this time to leave no traces that would link him to that incursion).

“Put him in darbies and take him to the hoosegow,” the pale officer ordered.

The constables slapped irons on the man’s wrists and took him away, struggling.

Goodcastle shook his head. “Do they always protest their innocence so vehemently?”

“Usually. It’s only in court they turn sorrowful. And that’s when the judge is about to pass sentence,” said the pale officer. He added, “Forgive us, Mr. Goodcastle, you’ve been most patient. But you can understand the confusion.”

“Of course. I’m pleased that that fellow is finally off the streets. I regret that I didn’t have the courage to come forward before.”

“A respectable gentleman such as yourself,” offered the detective with the notebook, “can be easily excused on such a count, being alien to the world of crime.”

“Well, my thanks to you and all the rest at Scotland Yard,” he said to the chief inspector.

But the man gave a laugh and turned toward the pale detective, who said, “Oh, you’re under a misapprehension, Mr. Goodcastle. Only I am with the Yard. My companions here are private consultants retained by Sir Robert Mayhew. I am Inspector Gregson.” He then nodded toward the dark, slim man Goodcastle had taken to be the chief detective. “And this is the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.”

“A pleasure,” Goodcastle said. “I believe I’ve heard of you.”

“Indeed,” Holmes replied, as if a shopkeeper should most certainly have heard of him. The man seemed like a don at King’s College, brilliant but constantly distracted by complex thoughts.

Gregson nodded toward the man who had portrayed the husband and introduced Dr. John Watson, who shook Goodcastle’s hand cordially and asked a few more questions about Bill Sloat, the answers to which he jotted into his notebook. He explained that he often wrote accounts of the more interesting cases he and Holmes were involved in.

“Yes, of course. That’s where I’ve heard of you both. The accounts are often published in the newspapers. So that is you! An honor.”

“Ah,” said Holmes, managing to summon a look simultaneously prideful and modest.

Goodcastle asked, “Will this be one adventure you write about?”

“No, it will not,” Holmes said. He seemed piqued — perhaps because, even though a villain was under arrest, his reading of the clues had led to the wrong suspect, at least in his perception of the affair.

“But where, Holmes, is the ring?” Gregson asked.

“I suspect that that Sloat has already disposed of it.”

“Why do you think so?” Watson asked.

“Elementary,” Holmes said. “He had the other ill-gotten gains on his person. Why not the ring, too? I deduced from his clothing that the blackguard lives in the company of a woman; both the jacket and trousers of his sack suit had been darned with identical stitching, though in places that wear through at different rates — the elbow and the inseam — suggesting that they were repaired by the same person, though at different times. The conclusion must be that a wife or female companion did the work. His request of Mr. Goodcastle here regarding the secret compartment makes clear that he does not trust people, so he would be loathe to leave the ring in an abode where another person dwells and would have kept it on him until the special music box was ready. Since he doesn’t have the ring on him any longer, we can conclude that he has disposed of it. And since he has no significant sums of cash with him, other than Lord Mayhew’s guineas, we can conclude that he used the ring to settle an old debt.”

“Where did he dispose of it, do you think?”

“Alas, I’m afraid that the piece is on its way overseas.”

When the others glanced at each other quizzically, Holmes continued, “You observed, of course, the fish scales on Sloat’s cuffs?”

“Well,” said Gregson, “I’m afraid I, for one, did not.”

“Nor I,” Watson said.

“They were scales unique to saltwater fish.”

“You knew that, Holmes?” the Yarder asked.

“Data, data, data,” the man replied petulantly. “In this line of work, Gregson, one must fill one’s mind with facts, but only those that may perchance bear on a criminal venture. Now, the scales could mean nothing more than that he’d walked past a fishmonger. But you certainly observed the streaks of pitch on his shoes, did you not?” When the others merely shook their heads, Holmes sighed, his visage filled with exasperation. He continued. “You gentlemen know the expression, ‘devil to pay.’ ”

“Of course.”

“The figurative meaning is ‘to suffer consequences.’ But most people don’t know its literal derivation. The phrase has nothing to do with handing money over to fallen angels. The devil is that portion of a sailing vessel between the inner and outer hulls. To ‘pay’ it is to paint the outer seams with hot pitch to make them watertight. Obviously climbing between the hulls is an unpleasant and dangerous job, usually meted out as punishment to errant sailors. The pitch used is unique and found only around the waterfront. Because of the fish scales and the tar, I knew that Sloat had been to the docks within the past several hours. The most logical conclusion is that he owed the captain of a smuggling vessel some significant sum of money and traded the ring to him in exchange for the extinguishing of the debt.” Holmes shook his head. “The ring could be on any one of dozens of ships and all of them out of our jurisdiction. I’m afraid Lord Mayhew will have to look to Lloyd’s to make himself whole in this matter. In the future, let us hope, he will use better locks upon his windows and doors.”

“Brilliant deductions,” said Gregson of the white face and flaxen hair.

Indeed it was, Goodcastle noted, despite the fact that it was completely incorrect.

Holmes pulled a cherrywood pipe from his pocket, lit it, and started for the door. He paused, glanced around the shop, and turned back to Goodcastle, his eyebrow cocked. “Sir, perhaps you can help me in another matter. Since you deal in music boxes... I have been on the lookout for a particular box a client of mine once expressed interest in. It is in the shape of an octagon on a gold base. It plays a melody from ‘The Magic Flute’ by Mozart and was made by Edward Gastwold in York in eighteen fifty-six. The box is rosewood and is inlaid with ivory.”

Goodcastle thought for a moment. “I’m sorry to say that I’m not familiar with that particular piece. I’ve never been fortunate enough to come upon any of Gastwold’s creations, though I hear they’re marvelous. I certainly can make inquiries. If they bear fruit, shall I contact you?”

“Please.” Holmes handed the shopkeeper a card. “My client would pay dearly for the box itself or would offer a handsome finder’s charge to anyone who could direct him toward the owner.”

Goodcastle put the card in a small box next to his till, reflecting: What a clever man this Holmes is. The Gastwold music box was not well known; for years it had been in the possession of the man who owned the massive Southland Metalworks Ltd. in Sussex. In doing his research into Sir Mayhew’s life in preparation for the burglary, he’d learned that Mayhew was a major stockholder in Southland.

Holmes had asked a simple, seemingly innocent question, in hopes that Goodcastle would blurt out that, indeed, he knew of the box and its owner.

Which would have suggested that he might have delved, however subtly, into Mayhew’s affairs.

Surely Holmes had no such client. Yet still he knew of the box. Apparently he’d taught himself about music boxes just in case facts about such items came in useful — exactly as Goodcastle did when preparing for his burglaries. (“Data, data, data,” Holmes had said; how true!)

Goodcastle said to them, “Well, good day, gentlemen.”

“And to you, sir. Our apologies.” It was the amiable Dr. Watson who offered this.

“Not at all,” Goodcastle assured them. “I would rather have an aggressive constabulary protecting us from the likes of Bill Sloat than one that is remiss and allows us to fall prey to such blackguards.”

And, he added to himself, I would most certainly have a constabulary that is candid in how they pursue wrongdoers, allowing me the chance to improve the means of practicing my own craft.

After the men had left, Goodcastle went to the cupboard, poured a glass of sherry. He paused at one of the jewelry cases in the front of the store and glanced at a bowl containing cheap cuff links and shirt studs. Beside it was a sign that said, Any Two Items for GBP1. He checked to make certain the Westphalian ring was discreetly hidden beneath the tin and copper jewelry, where it would remain until he met with his French buyer tomorrow.

Goodcastle then counted his daily receipts and, as he did every night, carefully ordered and dusted the counter so that it was ready for his customers in the morning.