More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

by Jeffery Deaver

  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, 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 as well. 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 3, 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 movers 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 s
ympathy 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 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 unforseen 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 Victorian 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 perhaps 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 Yarders 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 antiquity 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 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 the 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’s 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. “Markham,” 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 toad-sticker, eat
ing 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 the man 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.”