She waddled out. Ben sat, heavily, head in hands. He wondered if demanding a lawyer would do any good. As if he could afford one.
“You know this isn’t right.”
“I do, yes.” Day sounded close to sympathetic. “But if we can’t give them Pastern, they’ll make do with you, and that’s all. Were I you, I’d stop sacrificing myself for him.” His eyes caught Ben’s, oddly intent. “Really, Spenser. Don’t sacrifice yourself for him again.”
As if he’d have the chance. Ben had no idea what sort of term he might expect, but a vengeful judge who chose to name him accessory to murder could send him down for more years than he’d survive.
Waterford came in a few minutes later. He was white-faced and sweaty, and Ben wondered what Day’s “quick word” had entailed. He cast Ben a look of intense dislike as he handed Day a rope.
“We can’t afford handcuffs?” Day enquired.
“There’s none in the cupboard, sir,” Waterford muttered. “Anyway, he’s not a practitioner.”
“Oh, well, then. Stand with hands in front please, Spenser. I will make you,” he added, not unkindly, when Ben didn’t rise at once. “I’d rather not.”
Ben stood, breathing deeply, and allowed Day to rope his wrists, which the man did with surprising deftness. Day walked with him to the main entrance, where three police constables waited. None of them made eye contact with him, their glazed expressions expressing their disdain.
“The prisoner Spenser,” Day said. “You’re taking him to Cannon Street, yes?”
“That’s right, sir. Are you intending to come, sir?” There was a definite note of hostility in the constable’s question.
“No, he’s not a practitioner. I’m sure you can manage. Off you go.” Day turned without a farewell and went back inside, as big hands closed on Ben’s arms.
“Right, Margery.” A harsh voice, breath hot and close on Ben’s ear. “Get your arse in the carriage. There’s a few people down the nick want a word with you.”
It was a short drive to Cannon Street. Ben stared at the floor, not wanting to antagonise his guards by meeting their eyes or to give them an excuse to call him aggressive. He’d learned that much. He felt nauseous anticipation of what was coming.
Hell, hell, hell. Why had he called out? It could be Jonah here now, not him. Jonah, who’d left him before…
But in the end, it hardly mattered what Jonah had felt, how many lies there had been. Jonah had betrayed him, and Ben had betrayed him right back, but they had loved each other once, and Ben would take this punishment now in memory of that, because there was nothing else left for him to do.
That didn’t make the prospect of what was coming any easier to bear.
The cab stopped. One of the constables stuck his head out of the window and pulled it back in with a scowl. “Some sort of disturbance outside the station. Nothing serious, it looks like. Let’s go.”
They stepped out of the carriage, police before and after Ben so that they could ensure he had no opportunity to bolt. He took a deep breath of the grimy air while he could, and looked around. Cannon Street was busy, with cabs rattling up and down, crowds of fast-striding office workers, flower girls and hawkers crying their wares. He could see the disturbance in front of the steps to the station door. A spilled barrow of herring, twinkling silver in damp heaps on the cobbles, a barrow of apples abandoned on the street, and a couple of enraged costers bellowing elaborate insults in each other’s faces, watched by a large and appreciative crowd, as a policeman attempted to calm them.
“Right, let’s get this one in,” remarked one of Ben’s guards, then gave a cry of fury as a fish flew out of the crowd and smacked his broad chest. There was a shriek of juvenile laughter from the crowd. “Hoi! Don’t you—” More fish flew. “Oi! You pack that in!” Another policeman gave a bellow of anger, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole younger section of the crowd decided that a fish fight was needed. Sprats flew. The fishmonger gave a yell of protest and lunged at a child.
A pebble flew down, its trajectory just missing Ben’s head, and rattled on the pavement at his feet. He looked up, instinctively, as another stone dropped. What damned fool…? Ben tilted his head back, and saw, silhouetted against the sky, the dark crouching shape of a man, hunched like a great black bird on the roof of the police station.
Jonah leaned forward, over the guttering, at an angle that made Ben’s stomach seize. He beckoned, and made a sort of tiptoeing motion with his hands, which Ben realised was meant to be the action of walking up stairs. He stared, confused, then understood what Jonah meant.
There was a constable on each side of him, but their grips were slack as they watched the chaos in front of the station. If he told them Jonah, the true accessory to murder, was on the roof…