The sergeant talked with a constable about a horse race and the amount of spice his cook had used in a batch of pork pies. ‘Fair set my tongue on fire. Mind you,’ he added, ‘it was a good excuse for a drink.’ Jane was numb. Frozen. She had not been handcuffed, but the seat was like a very narrow shelf and she was thrown against the door at every turn. At Bow Street, she was spat on by three pickpockets, freshly caught and bleating their innocence, though their vast collection of gentlemen’s wallets told a different story. ‘Serious crime,’ the sergeant told the desk clerk, indicating Jane, and the pickpockets gave her a cheer. She was taken behind the counter and into a room at the back. It looked like a well-managed parlour. A fire was burning, a table was set with a fine lace cloth, and hanging on the wall was a portrait of the queen. ‘Do take a seat,’ the sergeant told her. ‘Mrs Fletcher will bring us some tea.’ ‘Tea, sir?’ Jane looked amazed. Why was the sergeant offering her refreshment when she had just been arrested and told she was a criminal?
