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About fifty years before, the Bath authorities had organized and patterned their guardians of the law after the London Metropolitan Police. The idea of an official police department had initially been met with resistance from the street vendors because of the police’s ‘move along’ policy. However, citizens who were anxious for a dependable form of protection were happy to see the bobbies on the streets.
Within minutes the officer returned. “Please follow me.”
Marcus assisted Lizbeth to stand and placed his hand on her lower back as they followed their escort. The touch of his warm hand caused shivers. She wasn’t quite sure if it was pleasurable shivers or please don’t touch me shivers.
She couldn’t help but wonder what his kiss would have been like had she not turned her head. When she’d had her two customers at the brothel, she had refused kisses on the mouth. Had she only been able to refuse all the rest.
For some strange reason she had felt that if she did not allow kisses then she could survive. Luckily for her the men had honored her request, since it could have very well ended in another beating, which she would have endured if it meant a reprieve for another week or so while she healed and devised a plan to escape.
In her twisted sense of survival, she reasoned if she ever reached a point where she was comfortable with a man’s touch, at least she could offer some part of herself that hadn’t been soiled.
That led her to recent thoughts she’d had about Marcus. He seemed to be far more interested in her beyond just helping. Although the thought was there, she’d yet to give herself time to consider what that meant.
Her meanderings came to an end as they entered a room that was apparently used to conduct interviews. A battered wooden table stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by several chairs in not much better condition.
Two men stood as they entered and nodded to them. “Mr. Mallory? Miss Davenport? Please have a seat.”
“I am Inspector Lewis,” he waved in the direction of the other man, “and this is Constable Pemberton.” The second man nodded and pushed his spectacles further up on his nose. They all murmured the expected responses and once settled in chairs the inspector drew a pad of paper to him and picked up a pencil.
“We have a report here from the London Metropolitan Police that you believe you were kidnapped.”
Lizbeth’s jaw dropped. What nonsense was this? “Believe I was kidnapped? I was indeed kidnapped.”
The inspector did not look up but began to write. “Where were you taken from?”
“The boarding house where I lived. I was taken from my bed in the middle of the night and transported to a place I didn’t know.”
The man nodded and continued to write. Lizbeth had the desire to pull the pad away so he would look at her.
“I see. Why did you allow them to take you from your bed?”
“I didn’t allow them. I was abducted.”
He looked up. “Did someone threaten you with a weapon?”
She hesitated. “No.”
“Did they tie your hands and feet?”
“No.”
He continued to write. “Did they use any force at all on you?”
Lizbeth sat forward, growing more agitated as the man continued. “I was drugged.”
The inspector looked over at the constable and then back at her. “I see. How were you drugged. Was it put into your food?”
“No.” She gritted her teeth. “Mrs. O’Leary gave me a tisane to drink before I went to bed that night.”
“Ah, Mrs. O’Leary.” He flipped back pages on the pad and looked up at her. “The landlady?” he asked.
Whatever was wrong with this man? She began to feel as though she was the one under suspicion. “Yes.”
“Did she do that every night?”
Lizbeth sighed. “Do what?”
“Give you a tisane to drink.” The inspector offered her a tight smile. “Did you not think it odd that she decided to give you a tisane? Did you request it?”
