Fortunately, station security arrived on the scene. Mike Benson took one look and hauled Kynan to his feet. Benson cuffed the Welshman’s hands behind him, then, in a quick maneuver that was anything but gentle, put him face-down on the floor and hobbled his legs. A strangled sound of pain escaped him.
”Better have someone look at him,” Kit sighed. “I think I broke some of his ribs.”
Mike Benson grimaced. “Serves him right, I’d say. Where’d this bastard get a weapon?”
”Hell if I know.” Kit handed over the croquet mallet. “I’d check the outfitters’ stores, see if any of ’em are missing part of a set.”
Robert LI spoke up from the doorway of his antiquities shop. “I think he stole it from a group of grad students practicing for the spring garden parties in London. I heard a couple of them talking about a mallet missing out of their set the other day.” He glanced at Kit. “I’m sorry, Kit. I had no idea the theft would turn out so serious. I just thought it was part of a practical joke or something. You all right?”
Kit nodded. curtly. “I’m fine.” Hell would freeze before he admitted to broken ribs. He’d bribe Rachel Eisenstein, if necessary, to keep it quiet.
Benson ordered his men to take Kynan to a holding cell. The Welshman looked as though he’d considered struggling, then glanced at Kit and settled down to trudge away in his hobbles.
”You’re standing mighty funny, Kit.” In his late fifties, Mike Benson was solidly built, with thinning grey hair and cold blue eyes that had seen everything, sometimes twice. “How’re your ribs?”