More Twisted

in a terrible rout, the Ghazis turned the British guns around and augmented the carnage, with the Afghans using the flagpoles from the regiment’s own flags as ramming rods for the shot!
    A horrific experience, yes—twenty percent of the Horse Artillery was lost, as was sixty percent of the 66th Foot Regiment—but in some ways the worst was visited upon the surviving soldiers only after their return to England. Goodcastle found himself and his comrades treated as pariahs, branded cowards. The disdain mystified as much as it devastated their souls. But Goodcastle soon learned the reason for it. Prime Minister Disraeli, backed by a number of lords and the wealthy upper class, had been the prime movers in the military intervention in Afghanistan, which served no purpose whatsoever except to rattle sabers at Russia, then making incursions into the area. The loss at Maiwand made many peoplequestion the wisdom of such involvement and was an instant political embarrassment. Scapegoats were needed and who better than the line troops who were present at one of the worst defeats in British history?
    One particular nobleman infuriated Goodcastle by certain remarks made to the press, cruelly bemoaning the shame the troops had brought to the nation and offering not a word of sympathy for those who lost life or limb. The shopkeeper was so livid that he vowed revenge. But he’d had enough of death and violence at Maiwand and would never, in any case, injure an unarmed opponent, so he decided to punish the man in a subtler way. He found his residence and a month after the improvident remarks the gentleman discovered that a cache of sovereigns—hidden, not very cleverly, in a vase in his office—was considerably diminished.
    Not long after this a factory owner reneged on promises of employment to a half dozen veterans of the Afghan campaign. The industrialist too paid dearly—with a painting, which Goodcastle stole from his summer house in Kent and sold, the proceeds divvied up among those who’d been denied work. (Goodcastle’s experience in his father’s antiquities business stood him in good stead; despite the veterans’ concern about the questionable quality of the canvas, done by some Frenchman named Claude Monet, the thief was able to convince an American dealer to pay dearly for the blurred landscape.)
    The vindication these thefts represented certainly cheered him—but Goodcastle finally came to admit that what appealed most deeply wasn’t revenge or the exacting of justice but the exhilaration of the experience itself . . . .Why, a well-executed burglary could be a thing of beauty, as much so as any hand-carved armoire or Fragonard painting or William Tessler gold broach. He tamed his guilt and began pursuing his new calling with as much vigor and cunning as was displayed by all men, in whatever profession, who were counted successful.
    Once he inherited the familial shop on Great Portland Street he found that he and his workers had unique access to the finest homes in metropolitan London, as they collected and delivered furniture—perfect hunting grounds for a refined burglar. He was too clever to rob his own clients, of course, but he would listen and observe, learning what he might about these customers’ neighbors or acquaintances—any recent valuables they’d purchased, sums of money they’d come into, where they might secrete their most precious objects, when they regularly traveled out of London, the number and nature of grooms and waiting-servants and guard hounds.
    A brilliant idea, and perfectly executed on many occasions. As on Thursday last in the apartment of Sir Robert Mayhew.
    But it is often not the plan itself that goes awry, but an entirely unforseen occurrence that derails a venture. In this case, the unexpected cleverness of Scotland Yard inspectors.
    Goodcastle now replaced the Westphalian ring and the other items in the safe and counted the cash inside. Five hundred pounds. At his home in London he had another three thousand sovereigns, plus other valuable items he’d stolen recently but hadn’t yet found buyers for. In his country house was another five thousand quid.That would set him up easily in the southern provinces of France, where he spent time with Lydia, the raven-haired beauty from Manchester he often traveled with. She could join him there permanently when she’d settled her own business affairs.
    But living forever in France? His heart sank at the thought. Peter