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nicks were in a pile they were worth something. Barnard was the first director of the mint to recall nicked coins and melt them back down into gold ingots. This was the sort of care he took.
    “Impossible,” Lenox said.
    “I’m afraid it’s true,” said Edmund.
    “That changes things a bit.”
    Edmund laughed. “A pile of gold is slightly more important than Mrs. Shattuck’s serving fork.”
    Lenox couldn’t help but laugh, too. “But why?” he said.
    “The mint was no longer secure. There had been attacks.”
    “Who attacked it?”
    “We don’t know. There’s an ongoing investigation. A very threadbare rumor says the Hammer Gang, who run by the docks and control a good deal of the prostitution and robbery over there along Canary Wharf, but that may be false. Probably is.”
    “But then why not a bank? Or the Parliament?”
    “Neither is safe. Neither has half the precautions of the mint, and they’re both too public.”
    “But Barnard’s house?”
    “The attacks on the mint were persistent and very careful. Whoever did them would get past several guards, giving them a sleeping pill or too much gin or a blow to the head, and thenretreat when it became too dangerous. But they had penetrated farther and farther at each attack, and by the end they were close to the gold, no matter how many guards we put out.”
    “I see,” said Lenox.
    “Yes. We had to throw them far off the trail. Barnard also had a perfect room for it—difficult to get to, with only one access point, easily guarded. He is the director of the mint, Charles, and it is a closely guarded secret.”
    “That’s true.”
    “And Barnard cares too much for his position, and his reputation, to let anyone near the gold. He has men around it all the time who don’t even know what they’re guarding. He probably told them they were looking after a rare orchid.”
    “True too, I suppose.”
    “Perhaps that’s why he wanted the murder to be a suicide so much,” said Edmund. “Scared of an attempt on the gold.”
    “You may be right.”
    “At any rate, the gold will be there for the next two weeks, nearly two million pounds. Anyone who stole it would immediately become one of the richest people in the British Empire.”
    “Where in the house?”
    “In a secret room beneath his greenhouse.”
    Lenox whistled again, more loudly this time.
    “Well,” he said. “This is an entirely new case.”
    “It is, I think,” said Edmund. “But I hope you appreciate the utter secrecy which I must ask of you. For the next two weeks, that means the cost may rise as high as delaying the murderer’s arrest.”
    “I know,” said Lenox. “But you were right to tell me.”
    “You understand, needless to say, that the board of trade is having difficulties, and that our economy must hum along with regularity for the next year, for Lord Russell’s government to accomplish anything whatsoever.”
    “I understand. Though I am unused to hearing you speak so strongly about the government.”
    “We were both raised to serve, Charles.”
    They looked at each other.
    “Well,” said Lenox, “shall we have the trifle for dessert.”

Chapter 10
    E dmund’s revelation about the mint’s gold had rendered the source of the bella indigo no less important, and as soon as he left Parliament Lenox took a cab to Jensen’s. It had begun to snow again, and Lenox looked forward to five o’clock, when he could have his tea. It was more the pleasure of the ceremony and the comfort of his fireside that he looked forward to, for of course he was still full from lunch.
    Jensen’s was not the chemist whose name Thomas McConnell had given him—the sole apothecary in the city of London who sold bella indigo, to his knowledge—but Willie Jensen was a man Lenox knew and trusted and one with whom he had consulted before. His apothecary was on a corner somewhat close to Hampden Lane, in Brook Street, and Lenox often passed it when, as was his custom, he took long walks