More Twisted

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, 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 PeterGoodcastle 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 hadnot 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