The Custom House Murders by Ashley Gardner

Author:Ashley Gardner [Gardner, Ashley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-951041-29-8
Publisher: JA / AG Publishing

“Fitzgerald is a congenial fellow,” Eden said as we walked from St. James’s Street to Piccadilly. Brewster strode behind us, having materialized from the shadows as we’d exited White’s.

“Indeed.” I had ended up liking Fitzgerald, as exuberant as he was. “I’ve unfortunately met other congenial men—and women—who turned out to be thieves, fraudsters, or murderers.”

“I am aggrieved to hear it.” Eden shook his head. “I’d like to think that a man’s character isn’t so easily disguised.”

I heard a breathy mutter behind me but ignored it.

“I hope Fitzgerald showing me the box was not to distract me from believing him a suspect,” I remarked.

“Interesting that he said the customs agents held it, just as they took my things,” Eden mused. “I didn’t notice at the time, but I was arguing with them about my own baggage.”

“Well, we shall keep an eye on him. I can always ask the customs agent—Mr. Seabrook—whether his story is true.”

“I’d rather not go back to the Custom House, thank you very much.” Eden shuddered. “Here is a hackney. I will leave you, Lacey, and walk the few steps home. Thank you for joining me on a most pleasant evening.”

He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. Brewster hovered a few feet away, and once I took leave of Eden, he fell into step beside me.

“Ye seem chuffed, guv.”

I waited for Brewster to approve the hackney driver, which he did, and I bade him ride inside with me. I told him briefly about the meal with Fitzgerald and what I had learned of him, and also about the magical painted box.

Brewster went thoughtful as I described it. “Sounds like one by van Hoogstraten.”

“Pardon?”

“Dutchman from far back. Painted pictures of wine goblets and lemons, that sort of thing, and these boxes with the peepholes. Wrote a book about the tricks of the perspective. Something with a long name, all in Dutch.”

I listened in mild surprise. Though Brewster appeared much of the time to be an illiterate ruffian, he was anything but. He could read perfectly well, and he’d learned much about art, rare books, and sculpture, mostly, I admit, by stealing them. He also had acquaintances who moved stolen art and others who forged it.

“It was most fascinating. Was that sort of thing well-known in its day?”

Brewster shrugged. “Could have been. But I do know those boxes are rare now and worth a powerful lot of money.”

“Are they?” I rested my hand on my walking stick as we rolled north to Curzon Street and around the corner to South Audley. “Then how did a hard-up Dutchman on St. Maarten get hold of one?”

“Maybe it was in his family, and when his money began to go he had to flog it. If Mr. Fitzgerald promised to find you another, he don’t know what he’s saying. Or maybe he does, and is trying to put you off the scent, like.”

“He might be correct that art dealers could have them lying about in their back rooms and not realize what they are.

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