Jackdaw (The World of A Charm of Magpies)

“They said there were four of you.”


“There were three, of them, and me,” Jonah said with precision. “I don’t join things, Ben. I don’t join gangs, or the justiciary, or trade unions, or the Quakers, or anyone else. Look, there was a warlock. A harpy of a woman named Lady Bruton, and she had a painter working for her. God, the painter. I hated that man. I’d have killed him if I could.”

“A painter?” Ben asked blankly. “Why?”

Jonah shuddered. “He was a murderer. He painted people and killed them by destroying the picture. He didn’t care who, or why, he just liked doing it. Really liked it, Ben, it made him hard. Lady Bruton gave him a series of victims, and he did whatever he was told.”

“As you did?”

Jonah’s lower lip jutted, mulish. “Lady Bruton had me by the short hairs. She needed a windwalker to carry out a chunk of her plan, and she found me. I didn’t want to work for her. She made me do it.”

“Oh, come on. Do you have any idea how often I hear that?”

Jonah swung round, face dark. “I’m not making excuses. Lady Bruton was hellish strong and I never even had proper training. She could have taken me apart on her own. For pity’s sake, she and the painter got Stephen Day on his knees—one of the senior justiciars, an absolute sod—and I shouldn’t like to meet someone more powerful than him in a dark alley. Or more tiresomely self-righteous,” he added, with feeling. “Ghastly little man, but strong as hell. If Bruton could get him down, I didn’t stand a chance.”

“What about the policemen? Who killed them?”

“The painter. Lady Bruton’s orders.”

“And you let them die?”

Jonah made a frustrated noise. “What was I supposed to do, run to the justiciary? You don’t understand, Ben. I was completely on my own—”

“Whose fault was that?” Ben snarled. “You were looking out for number one, even if it meant abandoning me and killing people.”

“I didn’t—”

“You might as well have done. If you stand by and watch while your employer commits murder and you don’t do a damn thing to stop it, that makes you guilty. In law, in common decency, in everything.”

“Oh, so I should have just sacrificed myself on the altar of virtue, should I?” Jonah said with heat. “Let Bruton destroy me for the sake of people I never even met? What the devil would a pack of coppers have done for me, except send me to prison with hard labour?”

“God, Jonah. You don’t decide whether you’re going to let someone die on the basis of how much use they are to you.”

“I look out for myself. Because nobody else does. And I’m sorry if you think I should have cared more about people I don’t know than people I do, but if you just let me tell you—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Ben turned on his heel, hurrying away.

“Ben!” Jonah sprinted after him. “Will you let me talk?”

Ben stopped and swung to face him, almost colliding. Jonah was a few inches shorter, just enough that he had to turn his face up and Ben to dip his head for a kiss. He glared down now as though they had never touched, never met except in anger.

“I don’t want to talk,” he gritted out. “I don’t want to hear this. You’re—” He glanced around swiftly but they were alone on the path. “You’re not the man I fell in love with. That was a lie, all along, your lie, because I’d never have loved such a self-centred callous swine as you. Go away.”

Jonah stood, speechless, expression raw, as Ben turned, striding down the path, he didn’t know where to. He cursed himself. He shouldn’t have gone, should have known it would be nothing but lies and excuses, but Jonah was like an open sore that he kept prodding, making the infection worse.

“Ben,” Jonah called from behind him. “I’ll come back. Here tomorrow, same time. I’ll wait for you.”

“You can wait forever,” Ben said aloud, to himself or the air, and strode on.





Chapter Four

Last autumn

They lasted a handful of blissful months, March to October, with long walks through the summer woods and fields, endless lovemaking, sometimes a drink in the pub where Spenser’s pal Pastern was now a casually accepted face—though never when drinking with his police colleagues—and Ben’s favourite thing of all, nights together downstairs in the little cottage, Ben in the big winged chair and Jonah on the floor, leaning against his legs, while Ben read to him. They read Bleak House and Dombey and Son and The Old Curiosity Shop, which made Jonah cry, and laugh at himself through his tears. It was the most joyous time of Ben’s life.

Then Jonah burned it all down.