More Twisted

inner and outer hulls. To ‘pay’ it is to paint the outer seams with hot pitch to make them watertight. Obviously climbing between the hulls is an unpleasant and dangerous job, usually meted out as punishment to errant sailors. The pitch used is unique and found onlyaround the waterfront. Because of the fish scales and the tar, I knew that Sloat had been to the docks within the past several hours. The most logical conclusion is that he owed the captain of a smuggling vessel some significant sum of money and traded the ring to him in exchange for the extinguishing of the debt.” Holmes shook his head. “The ring could be on any one of dozens of ships and all of them out of our jurisdiction. I’m afraid Lord Mayhew will have to look to Lloyd’s to make himself whole in this matter. In the future, let us hope, he will use better locks upon his windows and doors.”
    “Brilliant deductions,” said Gregson of the white face and flaxen hair.
    Indeed it was, Goodcastle noted, despite the fact that it was completely incorrect.
    Holmes pulled a cherrywood pipe from his pocket, lit it and started for the door. He paused, glanced around the shop and turned back to Goodcastle, his eyebrow cocked. “Sir, perhaps you can help me in another matter. Since you deal in music boxes . . . . I have been on the lookout for a particular box a client of mine once expressed interest in. It is in the shape of an octagon on a gold base. It plays a melody from The Magic Flute by Mozart and was made by Edward Gastwold in York in 1856. The box is rosewood and is inlaid with ivory.”
    Goodcastle thought for a moment. “I’m sorry to say that I’m not familiar with that particular piece. I’ve never been fortunate enough to come upon any of Gastwold’s creations, though I hear they’re marvelous. I certainly can make inquiries. If they bear fruit, shall I contact you?”
    “Please.” Holmes handed the shopkeeper a card. “My client would pay dearly for the box itself or would offer a handsome finder’s charge to anyone who could direct him toward the owner.”
    Goodcastle put the card in a small box next to his till. Reflecting: What a clever man this Holmes is. The Gastwold music box was not well known; for years it had been in the possession of the man who owned the massive Southland Metalworks Ltd. in Sussex. In doing his research into Sir Mayhew’s life in preparation for the burglary, he’d learned that Mayhew was a major stockholder in Southland.
    Holmes had asked a simple, seemingly innocent question, in hopes that Goodcastle would blurt out that, indeed, he knew of the box and its owner.
    Which would have suggested that he might have delved, however subtly, into Mayhew’s affairs.
    Surely, Holmes had no such client. Yet still he knew of the box. Apparently he’d taught himself about music boxes just in case facts about such items came in useful—exactly as Goodcastle did when preparing for his burglaries. (“Data, data, data,” Holmes had said; how true!)
    Goodcastle said to them, “Well, good day, gentlemen.”
    “And to you, sir. Our apologies.” It was the amiable Dr. Watson who offered this.
    “Not at all,” Goodcastle assured them. “I would rather have an aggressive constabulary protecting us from the likes of Bill Sloat than one that is remiss and allows us to fall prey to such blackguards.”
    And, he added to himself, I would most certainly have a constabulary that is candid in how they pursue wrongdoers,allowing me the chance to improve the means of practicing my own craft.
    After the men had left, Goodcastle went to the cupboard, poured a glass of sherry. He paused at one of the jewelry cases in the front of the store and glanced at a bowl containing cheap cuff links and shirt studs. Beside it was a sign that said, Any Two Items for £1. He checked to make certain the Westphalian ring was discreetly hidden beneath the tin and copper jewelry, where it would remain until he met with his French buyer tomorrow.
    Goodcastle then counted his daily receipts and, as he did every night, carefully ordered and dusted the counter so that it was ready for his customers in the morning.

S URVEILLANCE

    T he knocking on the door not only woke Jake Muller from an afternoon nap but it told him immediately who his visitor was.
    Not a polite single rap, not a friendly Morse code but a repeated slamming of the brass knocker. Three times, four, six . . .
    Oh, man, not again.
    Rolling his solid body from the