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

“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 him 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—”