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

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 millennium, 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 Yard was adopting this approach, he could have 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 fragments of 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 underway 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.” The man 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, Boyle, 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.