Reddening, aware of the scornful glances cast at his shabby clothing, Ben took the letter the man held out. It was a tersely worded request for his attendance at eleven that morning from Peter Janossi, giving no detail of the reason.
He couldn’t imagine why the justiciary wanted him. He didn’t need them now, and he should be looking for work. But the fruitless search was draining, and this might be useful, and he was curious. He breakfasted on a stale roll and coffee from a street stall, and killed the time till the meeting in a church, for the sake of the seat and the quiet.
At eleven he was at the Council, being shown in to Janossi’s office. The justiciar had been joined by another man, a small, rather shabbily dressed fellow with a mop of dark red curls that needed cutting. He looked rather younger than Ben’s own twenty-six years, except for the lines round his remarkably vivid golden eyes. He stood, holding out a hand, and Ben was startled to see that he was no more than five feet tall.
“Stephen Day,” said the short man, and his fingers closed around Ben’s.
“God!” Ben recoiled at the electric crackle against his skin, snatching away his hand. It felt as though it had been bitten by a snake.
“Sorry,” said Day. “My hands do that. Are you Constable Marshall, of Hertfordshire?”
“Yes, sir.” Ben held himself straight. It seemed prudent. Day didn’t look like much, but he remembered Jonah’s words. Senior justiciar. Absolute sod.
“And you’re looking to arrest Jonah Pastern.”
“Sir.”
“Sit down.” Day waved him to a chair. “I’m very happy you’re here, Constable Marshall. Have you found any indication that Pastern’s still in London?”
Ben had thought about how he would answer that, sitting in the church. He had resolved that he would tell the truth. Jonah could not expect his protection, and what he expected didn’t matter anyway. He stood convicted out of his own mouth, and Ben could not mislead officers of the law.
That was what he’d decided. Now he said, “I’ve some useful leads, sir.”
“Oh, good. Well, we may be able to help you.” Day pulled over a manila folder that sat on the desk. “Has anyone told you about the painter?”
Ben couldn’t remember if Janossi had told him or not. He went for safety. “If you could, sir.”
“One of Pastern’s criminal associates. He drew people, and destroyed the pictures, and that killed them. He killed a man in front of my eyes.” Day’s voice was calm and level, but Ben found himself sitting straight, skin prickling. “He drew a friend of mine, and threatened to tear the picture up to force my obedience. Pastern was working under the same threat.”
He said that in an informative sort of way, as if it was just a simple fact, hardly important at all. “The threat of a picture?” Ben repeated. “A picture of whom?”
“Precisely,” said Day, seeming not to hear the last question. “Newhouse drew a picture and held that threat over Pastern’s head. I don’t think much of Jonah Pastern. A dangerous, amoral, self-centred piece of work.” There was quite a lot of feeling in Day’s voice. “But there is no doubt that he did Lady Bruton’s bidding because of the picture. When its threat was lifted he was off like a rat up a drainpipe.”
Ben nodded, numb.
“I’m sure you’re wondering how we know this,” Day went on. “In his hurry to save his skin, once he was sure the picture had been rendered harmless, Pastern left it behind. We picked it up and filed it, and Joss here, in a praiseworthy effort to help your search, actually found the file, which is impressive even for his powers of vision. Hence, we called you here. We thought it might be useful if you had a picture of the one person Pastern cares about who isn’t Jonah Pastern. You might be able to track the fellow down. Ask some questions about who he is and what he knows. That’s what I’d do.”
Ben’s mouth was sandpaper-dry and there was blackness at the edges of his vision. A man Jonah cared about. Could that be the excuse, the explanation for what Ben had been through? Another man?
No. Anything but that.
“Would you like to see it? It may be enlightening.”
Ben couldn’t speak. He managed a jerk of the head.
The justiciar opened a file, flicked out a sheet of thick artist’s paper. It was stained brown with what looked like dried blood, and torn in several places, with straight careful deliberate rips from the edge. Day turned it over to show the sketch, and put it on the desk.
Ben looked down at his own face.
There was a second’s total silence, then he sprang from his chair—