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“W hat are the charges against me?” Ezra demanded as the two bobbies escorted him out of the arena.

“You’ll find out at Scotland Yard,” one of them said.

But it was a lie. A pair of handcuffs was placed on his wrists. He was taken to Scotland Yard and placed in a temporary lock-up with a group of drunks, pickpockets, and other miscreants. At least there, the cuffs were removed from his wrists.

He tried to stay to himself, in a corner of the cell, but a drunk kept harassing him. “What you here for? Beat somebody up, you big lug?”

“If you aren’t careful I’ll do the same for you.”

“Oh, a Frenchie, are you? Big mouth for a foreigner.”

Ezra rose to his full height from the bench and flexed his arms. “If you know what’s good for you you’ll shut up and sit down.”

The drunk stumbled backward. “All right, all right. Just making conversation.”

He sat down again. Fortunately the bobbies had accompanied him into the locker room, so he was wearing street clothes instead of the shorts and singlet he wore into the ring. He pulled his cap down low on his head and shrunk into himself.

What had he done? He had been a good citizen. Except for his activities with Silas, he had broken no laws. And they’d kept their hands to themselves in public, only grappling with each other in private.

He’d been offered the chance to throw a match now and then, and always refused. And when he had the opportunity, he counseled other boxers to avoid such activities, providing the example of a man he had boxed against in Bristol who had been later discovered to be at the beck and call of a bookie. He had been banned from boxing after that, and forced to work as a stevedore.

Had one of the bookies taken his attitude against him and tried to get him out of the arena? Another boxer who was jealous of his skill and seeking to move up in the ranks? A dissatisfied bettor with a grudge against him?

Perhaps it all came down to his religion, as so many things did. Someone did not appreciate that a Hebrew, and a foreigner, could best native Englishmen, and wanted him out of the ring.

But until he knew what the charges were against him, he couldn’t figure out why he had been arrested, or what he could do about it.

It was several hours before his name was called. Before he was released from the holding cell, a pair of cuffs was slapped on him again.

He was led to an interrogation room where a tall, cadaverous-looking man awaited him. “I am Detective Sergeant Collins,” he said. “Have a seat.”

He pointed to a wooden table with a seat on either side. “Can you take these off?” Ezra asked, holding up his cuffed hands.

Collins shook his head. “And let loose those bruising fists of yours? Not a chance.”

“Why have you brought me here?” Ezra asked, as he sat. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Do you know a Mr. Nathan Walpert?”

At first Ezra was tempted to shake his head, but he thought for a moment. Walpert. Walpert? Why was that name familiar?

Finally he said, “I recognize it but cannot place it. The name sounds Hebrew to me. Does he attend the Bevis Marks synagogue in Aldgate?”

Collins nodded.

Ezra shrugged. “Then I might know him. Why is that important?”

Collins banged his fist on the table. “It is important because you slammed your fist into his belly last Friday night, hitting him so hard that he fell backwards against the paving stones.”

“That is not true. I have never hit a man outside the boxing ring.” In England, he added to himself. In France, as he was learning to defend himself, he had struck out many times, though almost always at boys of his own age, rather than men.

Collins ignored him. “Walpert hit his head so hard that he cracked his skull open and died almost instantly.”

Ezra stared at him in open-eyed horror. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“That’s exactly what we’re here to find out,” Collins said. “Why did you do it?”

“But I didn’t.”

For the next hour, Ezra denied knowing Walpert beyond a possible connection through the synagogue. He denied hitting the man. “What reason would I have to hit a stranger?”

Finally Collins gave up. “If you will not cooperate, Mr. Curiel, then I have little choice but to send you back to your cell to await a judgment before the grand jury.”

“What about bail?” Ezra asked. “My wife can raise the necessary funds.”

“That is highly unlikely, as it is her evidence that has led us to arrest you,” Collins said drily. “In any event, murder is an indictable offense. The question of bail cannot be considered until after the grand jury examines the evidence against you. They will issue an indictment and indicate whether you should be allowed bail.”

Ezra was reeling from the idea that Rebecca could have provided evidence against him. What kind of evidence? How?

“You are still a French citizen, aren’t you?” Collins asked.

“I still hold a French passport, yes, but I consider myself a resident of London now.”

“The court will take that into account in deciding to approve bail.”

Collins stepped up to the door and opened it. “You can take him back to the cell now,” he said to an officer in the hallway.

Ezra rose and was taken back to the same holding cell. Throughout the night, men were brought in and out of the cell. Some returned; others did not.

He despaired of ever leaving the fetid cell. The food was terrible and he could barely drink the water. All the men had to use the same pot to piss and shit. Collins never called him back and there was nothing he could do but try to sleep.

Then on Saturday morning, his name was called again. A gaoler took him into another interview room. “You had some money when we brought you in,” he said. “As you’re going to be in police custody for a while, you have the opportunity to transfer to the Queen’s Bench prison in Southwark.”

“What does that mean?”

“Eight of the better cells are set aside for those who can afford them. Half-a-crown a-week to rent one of those. At the end of the prison is a kind of market, consisting of several sheds, occupied by butchers, poulterers, green-grocers. So you can buy yourself your own food, not the slop we serve here.”

“I’ll do it,” Ezra said. “Where do I sign?”

“No signing necessary. I’ll arrange for your transport. Course there’s a fee for that.”

“You can take it out of the money of mine you’re holding. And take an extra shilling for your trouble.”

“With pleasure,” the gaoler said.

The accommodations at the Queen’s Bench were certainly better than the holding cells where he’d been. He had a room to himself, large enough so that he could exercise. But even so, he remembered that he was a prisoner, and he didn’t know how he could ever be released. Eventually his money would run out, or he’d be convicted, and he’d be locked up for the rest of his days.