More Twisted by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page B

uncovered the treasure.
    Crafted by the famed goldsmith Wilhelm Schroeder of Westphalia early in the century, the ring featured bandsof gold, alternating with those of silver. Upon the gold were set diamonds, upon the silver, deep-blue sapphires. So astonished and delighted was Goodcastle at this find that he took only it, a diamond cravat pin, a modest broach and fifty gold guineas, eschewing the many other objets d’art, pieces of jewelry and gold and silver coin cluttering Mayhew’s boudoir (another rule of thievery: the more modest the take, the more likely that weeks or months will pass before the victim discovers his loss, if indeed he ever does).
    This was what he had hoped had occurred in the Charing Cross burglary. The incident had occurred last Thursday and Goodcastle had seen no reports of the theft in the Daily Telegraph, the Times or other papers.
    But sadly such was not the case, his informant—a man well placed within Scotland Yard itself—was now explaining.
    “What’s more,” the man whispered, fiddling with the brim of his Hamburg and looking out over the cool, gray April sky of London, “I’ve heard that the inspectors have reason to believe that the thief has a connection to the furniture or antiquities trade.”
    Alarmed, Goodcastle whispered, “How on earth can they have found that? An informant?”
    “No, the coppers discovered in Sir Mayhew’s apartment certain clues that led them to that conclusion.”
    “Clues? What clues?” As always, Goodcastle had been meticulous not to leave anything of his own behind. He’d taken all his tools and articles of clothing with him. And he never carried a single document or other token that would lead the police to him or to Goodcastle Antiquities.
    But his confederate now chilled the burglar’s blood further with the explanation. “The inspectors found bits of various substances on the ladder and in the bedroom and dressing room. I understand one was a bit of cut and desiccated horsehair, of the sort used in stuffing upholstered divans, sofas and settees, though Mayhew has none of that kind. Also, they located some wax unique to furniture polishing and of a type frequently bought in bulk by craftsmen who repair, refurbish or sell wooden pieces . . . . Oh, and they discovered some red brick dust too. It was on the rungs of the ladder. And the constables could find no similar dust on any of the streets nearby. They think its source was the thief’s boots.” The man glanced outside the shop, at the reddish dust from the pulverized brick covering the sidewalk.
    Goodcastle sighed angrily at his own foolishness. He’d replaced the ladder exactly as he’d found it in Mayhew’s carriage house but had not thought to wipe off any materials transferred from his shoes.
    The year was 1892 and, as the world hurtled toward the start of a new millennium, one could see astonishing scientific advances everywhere. Electric lighting, petroleum-driven vehicles replacing horse-drawn landaus and carriages, magic lantern moving pictures . . . It was only natural that Scotland Yard too would seek out the latest techniques of science in their pursuit of criminals.
    Had he known before the job that the Yarders were adopting this approach, he could’ve taken precautions: washing his hands and scrubbing his boots, for instance.
    “Do you know anything more?” he asked his informant.
    “No, sir. I’m still in the debtors’ crimes department of the Yard. What I know about this case is only as I have overheard in random conversation. I fear I can’t inquire further without arousing suspicion.”
    “Of course, I understand. Thank you for this.”
    “You’ve been very generous to me, sir. What are you going to do?”
    “I honestly don’t know, my friend. Perhaps I’ll have to leave the country for the Continent—France, most likely.” He looked his informant over and frowned. “It occurs to me that you should depart. From what you’ve told me, the