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

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.