Part 22 (2/2)
”The alternative is that I might have my throat slit in the rooming house across the street. With that as an option, I believe that the privy here is suitable.”
”But a guard would need to be a.s.signed to you,” the jailer objected, ”and the prison is understaffed.”
”You won't need to use a guard,” Becker offered. ”I'll stay with Miss De Quincey.”
”Highly, highly irregular.”
”But preferable to what the newspapers will say, and what Lord Palmerston will say, if I'm murdered because of negligence,” Emily noted.
”This gives me a headache,” Ryan said. ”Deal with it, Becker. I need to get back to the investigation.”
He opened a door and stepped onto the fog-obscured path that led to the prison's exit.
In that distraction, before the governor and the jailer had the chance to say another word, Emily entered the office and sat on the cot. She gave the sense that she had taken possession of it.
”Very well. I have important matters to attend to,” the governor said. ”We shall see how you enjoy a night in a prison.”
”And I must supervise the distribution of the evening meal,” the jailer said. ”We shall see how you enjoy being alone here.”
”She won't be alone,” Becker reminded them.
As the governor and the jailer departed through the door that Ryan had used, closing it more loudly than they needed to, Becker followed Emily into the office.
The room was small and cold, illuminated by a solitary gas lamp hanging from the ceiling. Other than the cot, the only furniture was a battered desk and chair. Truncheons and restraints hung on the walls.
On the cot, Emily's back was rigid. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders.
”The governor was right,” Becker said.
Emily didn't look at him.
”This isn't a proper place for you,” Becker continued.
”Wherever Father is, I belong.”
”Loyalty to a parent is admirable.”
”And?”
”And?”
Now Emily did look at him. ”I get the impression that you intend to add a qualification, such as 'But loyalty can be taken too far.' ”
”No. Not at all. Loyalty to a parent is admirable.” Becker sat behind the desk.
”That's it?”
”That's it.”
Emily considered him. ”You have nothing further to say on the subject?”
”Not a word.”
”You surprise me, Constable Becker.”
The outside door suddenly opened. The jailer entered from the cold, bringing three other guards who pushed carts upon which metal bowls were arranged.
”Still here, I see,” the jailer said. ”Here's your evening meal. I trust you'll find it to your liking.”
He set two bowls on the table. Seeming amused by something, the jailer left the room and unlocked a door in one of the corridors so that the guards could distribute the food.
The bowls had several dents from having been roughly handled for a long time. When Becker looked into them, he understood why the jailer had seemed amused.
Each bowl contained a meager potato. An inch of soapy-looking broth surrounded it. Flecks of what might have been meat floated in the broth.
”I need to determine if Father can tolerate the food,” Emily said.
She stood and came over to the table, where she a.s.sessed the contents of the bowls.
”This is what the prisoners normally receive,” Becker apologized.
”But this is perfect!”
”It is?”
”Father's stomach can't tolerate much more than this. Even so, I need to taste it to be certain it's bland enough.” Emily looked on either side of the bowl. ”The jailer forgot to leave utensils.”
”Actually,” Becker said, ”he didn't forget. For security reasons, the prisoners aren't given spoons or forks and certainly not knives.”
”They eat with their hands?”
”They raise the bowl to their lips and pour the food into their mouths.”
Emily nodded and picked up one of the bowls.
”What are you doing?”
”There's no other way.”
”Wait. I have something that might help. Please turn your head away.”
”But-”
”Please,” Becker repeated. ”I need to do something that might offend you.”
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