“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 and ruffians.”
“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 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
“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 of course observed 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
“Data, data, data,” the man replied petulantly. “In this line of work, Gregson, you must fill your mind with every fact it is possible to retain. 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 clientof mine once expressed interest in. It is in the shape of an octagon on a gold base. It plays a melody from
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
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,
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.
SURVEILLANCE
The knocking on the door not only woke Jake Muller from an afternoon nap but it told him
