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 returned 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
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
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 Hamburg 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 not to leave anything 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 dusttoo. 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 millennia, 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 Yarders were adopting this approach, he could’ve 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 random 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 under way 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.” Theman 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, Markham, 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,
