Free More Twisted by Jeffery Deaver Page A

tithe.”
    “We’ve heard rumors of such,” the flaxen-haired detective said.
    The chief inspector looked closely at Goodcastle. “Yet today is Monday, not Saturday. Why is he here now?”
    The villain shouted at the shopkeeper, “I’m warning you—”
    “One more word and it’ll be the Black Maria for you, Sloat.”
    Goodcastle took a breath and continued. “Last Thursday he surprised me in my shop at eight a.m. I hadn’t opened the doors yet, but had come in early because I had finished work on several pieces late the night before and I wanted to wax and polish them before I admitted any customers.”
    The chief detective nodded, considering this. To his colleagues he said, “The day of the burglary. And not long before it. Pray continue, Goodcastle.”
    “He made me open the door. He browsed among the music boxes and looked them over carefully. He selectedthat one right there.” He pointed to a rosewood box sitting on the counter. “And he said that in addition to his extortion sterling, this week he was taking that box. But more, I was to build a false compartment in the bottom. It had to be so clever that no one examining the box, however carefully, could find what he’d hidden in there.” He showed them the box and the compartment—which he’d just finished crafting a half hour before.
    “Did he say what he intended to hide?” the senior Yarder asked.
    “He said some items of jewelry and gold coins.”
    The villain roared, “’E’s a flamin’ liar and a brigand and when—”
    “Quiet, you,” the constable said and pushed the big man down roughly into a chair.
    “Did he say where he’d acquired them?”
    “No, sir.”
    The detectives eyed one another. “So Sloat came here,” the senior man offered, “selected the box and got wax on his fingers. The horsehair and brick dust attached themselves to him as well. The timing would allow for his proceeding directly to Lord Mayhew’s apartment, where he left those substances.”
    “It makes sense,” the third offered, looking up from his notebook.
    The pale detective asked, “And you have no criminal past, Goodcastle? Don’t lie. It’s easily verified.”
    “No, sir. I swear. I’m a simple merchant—if I’ve done anything wrong, it was in not reporting Sloat’s extortion. But none of us along Great Portland Street dared. We’re too frightened of him . . . . Forgive me, sirs, it’s true—Idid send the police across the street on a merry chase. I had no idea why they were present but they seemed like detectives to me. I had to get them away from here. Mr. Sloat was due momentarily and I knew that if he noticed the law when he arrived he would think I’d summoned them and might beat me. Or worse.”
    “Search him,” the pale-visaged detective ordered, nodding toward Sloat.
    They pulled some coins, a cigar and a cosh from his pockets, as well as the money purse. The white-faced detective looked inside. “Guineas! Just like the sort that Lord Mayhew lost.”
    The Royal Mint had stopped producing gold guineas, worth a pound and a shilling, in 1813. They were still legal tender, of course, but were rare. This was why Goodcastle had not taken many from Lord Mayhew’s; spending them could draw attention to you.
    “That purse is not mine!” Sloat raged. “It’s ’is!”
    “That’s a lie!” Goodcastle cried. “Why, if it were mine, why would you have it? I have mine right here.” He displayed a cheap leather pouch containing a few quid, crowns and pence.
    The constable holding the pouch then frowned. “Sir, something else is inside—hidden in a pocket in the bottom.” He extracted two items and displayed them. “The cravat pin, like the one Sir Mayhew reported missing. Most surely the same one. And the ruby broach, also taken!”
    “I’m innocent, I tell you! Goodcastle ’ere come to me with a story of ’aving to get his arse to France tonight.”
    “And what was the motive for this hasty retreat?” the inscribing