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

But the constables grabbed the man’s beefy hands and lifted them for the chief inspector, who again examined and sniffed. He nodded and then turned slowly to Goodcastle. “You see, the Westphalian ring is of a unique design — silver and gold, unusual in metal craft. Gold, as you know, needs no polishing to prevent tarnish. But silver does. Mayhew told us that the ring had been recently cleaned with a particular type of silver polish that is scented with perfume derived from the lily flower. It is quite expensive, but well within Mayhew’s means to buy liberally for his staff to use.” Then he turned toward Sloat. “Your hands emit a marked scent of lily and display some small traces of the off-white cream that is the base for the polish, while Mr. Goodcastle’s do not. There’s no doubt, sir. You are the thief.”

“No, no, I am wronged!”

“You may make your case before the judges, sir,” the light-haired policeman said, “from the dock.”

Goodcastle’s heart pounded fiercely from this final matter about the polish. He’d nearly overlooked it, but had decided that if the detectives were now so diligent in their use of these minuscule clues to link people to the sites of crimes, Goodcastle needed to be just as conscientious. If a burglar could leave evidence during the commission of a felony, he might also pick up something there that might prove equally damning. He thought back to the ring and Mayhew’s dressing chamber. He recalled that he’d recognized the scent of Covey’s Tarnish-Preventing Cream in the velvet-lined boxes. On the way to the Green Man, he’d bought some and slathered it liberally on his palm. Shaking Sloat’s hand to seal their agreement had transferred some to the ruffian’s skin. Before returning to his shop, Goodcastle had scrubbed his own hands clean with lye soap and discarded the remaining polish.

“Cooperate, sir, and it will go easier on you,” the hatted detective said to Sloat.

“I’m the victim of a plot!”

“Yes, yes, do you think you’re the first brigand ever to suggest that? Where is the ring?”

“I don’t know anything of any ring.”

“Perhaps we’ll find it when we search your house.”

No, Goodcastle thought, they wouldn’t find the ring. But they would find a half-dozen other pieces stolen by Goodcastle in various burglaries over the past year. Just as they’d find a crude diagram of Robert Mayhew’s apartment — drawn with Sloat’s own pencil on a sheet of Sloat’s own paper. The burglar had planted them there this afternoon after he’d met with the ruffian at the Green Man (taking exemplary care this time to leave no traces that would link him to that incursion).

“Put him in darbies and take him to the hoosegow,” the pale officer ordered.

The constables slapped irons on the man’s wrists and took him away, struggling.

Goodcastle shook his head. “Do they always protest their innocence so vehemently?”

“Usually. It’s only in court they turn sorrowful. And that’s when the judge is about to pass sentence,” said the pale officer. He added, “Forgive us, Mr. Goodcastle, you’ve been most patient. But you can understand the confusion.”

“Of course. I’m pleased that that fellow is finally off the streets. I regret that I didn’t have the courage to come forward before.”

“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.”

“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 a 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.