There was no bed. There was a blanket in the corner and, when it became apparent that he would not be moved that night, Ben arranged it over himself and settled to rest in the chair.
He spent a restive, uncomfortable night, thinking of Jonah, wondering if he’d made his escape. Jonah deserved arrest, he was well aware of that. Ben had, without doubt, been wrong to interfere with justice, and he had brought this latest disaster on himself. But Jonah had done things for Ben’s sake too, and he harboured the knowledge of that in his heart like the last ember of a dying fire.
He tried not to think of what would happen to him in the morning. There was, he supposed, a chance that they might just let him go. He had a feeling his luck wasn’t running that way.
He dozed fitfully and was wide awake, chill and bleary-eyed, by the time distant clocks struck five. Someone, thankfully not Waterford, brought him coffee and porridge, and he forced it down, then set himself to waiting.
At last the door opened once more, and Day slipped in, followed by the lumbering Mrs. Gold. She looked, if possible, even more pregnant than before. Ben stood to give her the chair, which she took with a nod of thanks.
“Spenser,” Day said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not really. And your man Waterford spits in prisoners’ drinks. Just so you know.”
Mrs. Gold made a face of unutterable weariness. “For heaven’s sake. Steph, would you mind?”
“Of course. Excuse me.” Day left the room. Ben waited for several minutes, not entirely sure what for. Mrs. Gold didn’t speak, sitting with her eyes closed, seeming to enjoy the rest. Ben wondered if she was asleep, if there was any chance he could slip out.
“Don’t try it,” Mrs. Gold said, without opening her eyes.
Day came back in with a jug of water and a cup. “Here.” He poured Ben a drink. “I’ve had a quick word with Waterford. Sorry about that, Spenser.”
“He’s going to have to get used to it,” Mrs. Gold remarked.
“Quite.” Day propped himself against the wall behind her. “We have an agreement with the Met, Spenser. We, practitioners, conduct ourselves discreetly, we govern ourselves to prevent magical crime affecting the rest of the population, and we ensure wrongdoers are punished. The Met were already furious at the dead officers and Pastern getting away scot-free. So it did not help when he and you windwalked out of a police raid on a molly house. And it really did not help that, yesterday, Pastern led Saint on an aerial chase all the way down Great Portland Street, over Oxford Street to Regent Street, and right through the Liberty Bazaar. That was not what they had in mind by discretion.”
“In fairness, it’s just as much Saint’s fault as Pastern’s,” Mrs. Gold observed. “I told you she’s grossly overindulged.”
“You may argue with her fiancé about that,” Day said. “I shouldn’t dare. And if we’re talking of fairness, Pastern made a damned good stab at destroying her life last winter. She’s got a grudge against him, and I don’t blame her for it. Though I do blame her for windwalking through Liberty’s, yes,” he added, as Mrs. Gold twisted round to give him a look. “In any case, the pair of them caused utter havoc, leaving us with an extremely angry police commissioner and a Council scrabbling for solutions, so…”
“So we’re handing you over,” Mrs. Gold told Ben.
“To whom?”
“The Met,” Day said. “Who intend to prosecute you as Pastern’s accomplice in the murders of four police officers.”
“But that’s nonsense,” Ben said. “I was in gaol. I knew nothing of it.”
“You’ve helped him escape justice twice. You’re conducting a criminal liaison with him. If the Met can’t get him, they’re going to have you instead. You’re a poor second, but you’ll do.”
“How is that fair?”
“I don’t think fairness is the concern here,” Mrs. Gold remarked dryly.
“I doubt the widows and orphans of the painter’s victims think it’s fair either,” added Day. “You chose your side yesterday, now you can take the consequences. I have several practitioners in uncomfortable situations with the law right now, and a lot of trouble on the streets because of the lack of police co-operation. If handing you over is going to buy us back that co-operation, it’s what we’ll do.” He shrugged. “I did tell you Pastern was a catastrophe. You should have listened.”
“But…” Ben needed to think, but he felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. He’d expected it to be bad, but a vengeful prosecution, as a policeman implicated in the murders of his fellows, a bent copper…
He’d thought the time he’d already served had been bad. He’d be lucky to survive this.
“This is justice, is it?” he managed.
“Your sort,” Day said. “As you pointed out to me, you’re not in my jurisdiction. I did try to help you.”
“Leave it, Steph.” Mrs. Gold stood, with some effort. “Let’s get him ready. I’ll send someone in with cuffs.”