More Twisted

Goodcastle was an Englishman through and through. For all its sooty air from the dark engines of industry, its snobbish elite, its Victorian imperialism, his shabby treatment after Maiwand, he still loved England.
    But he would not love ten years in Newgate.
    He swung the safe door shut and closed the secret panel, letting the tapestry fall back over it. Caught in furious debate about what he might do, he wandered out into his shop once again, finding comfort in the many fine objects offered for sale.
    An hour later, having come to no decision as to a course of action, he was wondering if perhaps he’d been wrong about the prowess of the police. Maybe they had hit on some lucky initial conclusions, but the investigation had perhaps stalled and he would escape unscathed. But it was then that a customer walked into the shop and began to browse. The shopkeeper smiled a greeting then bent over a ledger in concentration but he continued to keep an eye on the customer, a tall, slim man in a black greatcoat over a similarly shaded morning suit and white shirt. He was carefully examining the clocks and music boxes and walking sticks with the eye of someone intent on buying something and getting good value for his money.
    As a thief, Peter Goodcastle had learned to be observant of detail; as a shopkeeper he had come to knowcustomers. He was now struck by a curious fact: The man perused only the wooden items on display, while the inventory consisted of much porcelain, ivory, mother of pearl, pewter, brass and silver. It had been Goodcastle’s experience that a customer desirous of buying a music box, say, would look at all varieties of such items, to assess their value and quality in general, even if his intent was to acquire a wooden one.
    Goodcastle then noted something else. The man was subtly running his finger along a crevice in the seam of a music box. So, his interest wasn’t in the wood itself but in the wax covering it, a sample of which he captured under his nail.
    The “customer” was not that at all, the shopkeeper understood with dismay; he was one of the Yarders his informant had told him about earlier.
    Well, all is not lost yet, Goodcastle reasoned. The wax he used was somewhat rare, due to its price and availability only in commercial quantities, but it was hardly unique; many other furniture and antiquity dealers bought the same substance. This was not by any means conclusive evidence of his guilt.
    But then the policeman took a fancy to a red overstuffed chair. He sat on it and patted the sides, as if getting a feel for its construction. He sat back and closed his eyes. In horror Goodcastle noted the man’s right hand disappeared out of sight momentarily and subtly plucked a piece of the stuffing out of the cushion.
    The substance was desiccated horsehair, which surely would match the piece found in Robert Mayhew’s apartment.
    The inspector rose and prowled up and down the aisles for some moments longer. Finally he glanced toward the counter. “You are Mr. Goodcastle?”
    “I am indeed,” the shopkeeper said, for to deny it would merely arouse suspicion at a later time. He wondered if he was about to be arrested on the spot. His heart beat fiercely.
    “You have a fine shop here.” The inspector was attempting to be amiable but Goodcastle detected the coldness of an inquisitor in the eyes.
    “Thank you, sir. I should be most glad to assist you.” His palms began to sweat and he felt ill within the belly.
    “No, thank you. In fact, I must be going.”
    “Good day. Do return.”
    “I shall,” he said and walked outside into the brisk spring air.
    Goodcastle stepped back into the shadows between two armoires and looked out.
    No!
    His worst fears were realized. The man had started across the street, glanced back into the store and, not seeing the proprietor, knelt, presumably to tie his shoelace. But the lace was perfectly secured already; the point of this gesture was to pinch up some of the brick dust from the construction currently being undertaken—to match against similar dust Goodcastle had left on the rungs of the ladder or inside the apartment in Charing Cross, he thought in agony. The policeman deposited the dust in a small envelope and then continued on his way, with the jaunty step of a man who has just found a wad of banknotes on the street.
    Panic fluttered within Goodcastle. He understood his arrest was imminent. So, it’s to be a race to escape the clutch of the law. Every