Jackdaw (The World of A Charm of Magpies)
by K.J. Charles
Chapter One
Ben hated London.
He hated the shouting, the crowded streets, the smell. He hated the pinch-faced beggars, the flower girls with their paltry, wilted offerings, and the frock-coated men who strode busily by. He hated Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a pleasant garden square ringed with trees in the heart of the greatest city in the world. He hated the early blossom on those trees, hated it with a savage, glowering passion, as though it had done him a personal injury. He hated, more than anything else, the bitter misery that hung around him in a cloud that blotted out the springtime sun.
If he had smiled in the last few months, he could not remember the occasion. He didn’t suppose he was likely to smile again soon even if he achieved his aim here, but by God, he would wipe the smile off another face, and perhaps then the poisonous knot in his chest would loosen at last. Perhaps.
His destination was on the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Sardinia Street, an unimpressive red-brick building that gave no hint of its purpose in its appearance. The large wooden doors were locked. Ben knocked, a bit too loudly. The doorman who answered was sturdy, keen-eyed and unwelcoming.
“Yes?”
“Constable Marshall, Hertfordshire constabulary. I have an appointment with Mr. Peter Janossi.”
“Can you prove that?” asked the doorman.
Ben pulled out the letter from Janossi, a brief note simply setting their meeting time and this address. The paper was not of notable quality and bore a rather undistinguished crest, with no other heading.
“Wait here.” The doorman took it and retreated into the building, shutting the door. Ben waited. He had no other options.
It was a good five minutes standing on the step before the doors were opened again. Their guardian beckoned him in.
“All right, Constable, you can go through. Mr. Waterford, show him to Mr. Janossi, would you?”
The words were addressed to a pudgy young man with possibly the most badly broken nose Ben had ever seen, and as a once-keen rugby player, he had seen a lot of them. Waterford looked like he’d been kicked in the face by a mule. He gave the doorman a resentful glance and slouched off through the hallway, Ben following.
The hall was large and high-ceilinged, a little grander than the outside of the building suggested. It was hung with heavy, gilt-framed oil paintings, radiating wealth and history and privilege that made Ben bristle with instant dislike. These people were privileged all right, privileged in a way that was so unfair and unquestionable that his fists clenched.
His guide paused at a grand set of mahogany doors, firmly shut, to exchange a low word with a harried-looking man who waited outside, holding a large leather bag at arm’s length. It reeked of spice. Ben waited, staring at an engraving on the wall. It showed some vicious-looking aristocratic swine with a face that begged to have the sneer knocked off it, seated at a desk with a magpie in front of him.
Ben did not want to be here. Not in this building, not with these people, nowhere near. But it was far too late to run now, so instead he wished that the mannerless oaf would stop wasting his damned time and let him get on. He wished that he didn’t need to do this, that he had help, that he wasn’t alone.
Waterford was still talking. Ben waited politely for a few moments, then abandoned that to stare openly at the man. It had no effect. At last Waterford finished his conversation and jerked his head at Ben. “Well, come on. Mustn’t keep the justiciary waiting.” He loaded the word with dislike. The harried man rolled his eyes.
Ben followed as Waterford led him to a back corridor lined with much less impressive doors, and threw one open without knocking. “Hertfordshire police,” he snapped, turned on his heel and stalked off. Ben glanced after him, then looked into the room. A young man sat at the desk, glaring in the direction Waterford had taken.
“Peter Janossi?” Ben asked.
“Oh. Yes. And you’re the man from Hertfordshire, Constable, uh.” He waved his hand to indicate that his visitor’s name was on the tip of his tongue, and in no way forgotten. Ben didn’t help him. “Come in. Sit. That is…”
There was no seat. Every available surface was covered with piles of paper, dockets, files, and…things, bits of wood and metal, tiny bottles, what looked like a fur stole, and something like a broken umbrella made of leather. Janossi hauled himself to his feet with a grunt, picked this up with two fingertips and turfed it into a corner, onto a teetering stack of books and papers, revealing a chair.