The Apothecary Page 0,33

country.

“I see from your face,” Detective Montclair said, “that your parents might have a different story.”

I said nothing.

“You know, if Benjamin acted alone,” the detective said soothingly, “you can tell me that.”

I glared at him. I wanted to tell him that a German man with a scar on his face had probably killed the gardener, and that they should be looking for him right now, but I was afraid to contradict what Benjamin might say. And the gardener had told us not to trust the police.

“Why don’t you think about it for a bit,” the detective said.

He left the room, and I was alone. I guessed he was going to talk to Benjamin. I would go to jail for obstruction of justice at the very least, and maybe even for murder. I wondered again what we had touched, in the gardener’s cottage, and left prints on. The lantern, at least. I felt trapped and frightened, which I supposed was exactly what they wanted, but knowing that they wanted it didn’t help.

After half an hour, the stocky Officer O’Nan came to move me to a room with a door at each end and two cage-like cells along one side, right next to each other, separated by a thick concrete wall. It seemed improvised, added long after the original building. Benjamin was in the first cell, holding the bars helplessly. There was another boy with him, who looked small and ragged, but then the policeman led me past and put me in the next cell and I couldn’t see them anymore. The cell was cold and damp, with a low wooden bench.

O’Nan left, and I went to the bars.

“Benjamin?” I whispered, remembering the Shiskins’ bugged kitchen and telling myself not to say anything incriminating, or loud.

“What’d you tell them?” he whispered back, around the concrete wall.

“Nothing! They tried to get me to turn on you and say you did it. I hate them.”

“They did the same to me.”

I put a hand out through the bars to see how far away the other cell was, and met Benjamin’s hand reaching towards mine. An electric shock of surprise went through me. Our fingers interlaced and squeezed.

“It’s going to be all right, Janie, I promise,” he said.

Then the other boy’s voice chimed in, from Benjamin’s cell. It was high and clear, with an accent you didn’t hear at St Beden’s. “So, d’you two have a plan for gettin’ us out of here, or do I have to spring us myself?” he demanded.

We unlocked our hands.

“That’s Pip,” Benjamin said. “He’s a pickpocket. And a housebreaker.”

“Leastways I never murdered no one,” the boy’s voice said.

My heart started to pound, and I thought of jailhouse movies I’d seen, with snitches planted in the cells. “Benjamin,” I whispered. “They put him in there hoping you’d talk to him!”

“I thought of that already,” Benjamin said, in a full, loud voice. “Good thing I’ve got nothing to tell.”

“Oh, they’ll pin it on you anyways,” Pip said cheerfully. “They’re right good at that.”

I heard a scuttling noise and turned to see a long grey rat moving along the wall of my cell, beneath the low wooden bench. It seemed to be heading for my feet, and I screamed, in spite of myself.

“Janie?” Benjamin called.

“There’s a rat in here!”

It froze and crouched along the wall.

“Sounded like you was being murdered,” the other boy said.

I felt indignant, because I was not some shrinking violet. In the past twenty-four hours, I’d seen a man die, let a boy stay in my room, and been threatened with deportation. I thought I’d handled it all pretty well. But a fat, dirty rat running at your feet was horrible. It watched me with beady, curious eyes, waiting for my next move.

“I want to go home,” I said pathetically.

“Then lend me a hair grip,” Pip said, from the other side of the wall.

“What’s a hair grip?”

“It’s, y’know, a little wire folded in half, like. For your hair.”

“A bobby pin,” I said.

“That’s a silly name.”

“I don’t have one.”

“What?” Pip said. “You’re a girl, ain’t you?”

“I don’t wear them!” I said, still watching the crouching rat.

“She has American hair,” Benjamin’s voice explained.

“What’s American hair?” I asked.

“It’s—you know, there’s sort of a lot of it, and it’s not all pinned back.”

“You’re making that up.”

“No,” Benjamin said. “You can always tell Americans by their hair. And their shoes.”

“It’s true,” Pip’s voice agreed.

I looked down at my shoes and remembered my too-big skirt. “Wait!” I said. “I have a safety pin!”

“Well, why din’t you