More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

The villain shouted 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 Goodcastle 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, 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 jail,” 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.”