“Excuse me, Sir Mark,” the lad said.
He looked up from the stack of paperwork that had somehow managed to multiply in the hour he was gone. “Yes, what is it?”
“There was a messenger whilst you were out—from the Metropolitan Police.”
What on earth would the police want with him? Mark waited for the young man to elaborate.
“Your presence is requested at Bow Street, sir.”
“Is it indeed?” he asked. “No, I cannot be bothered. If the police have need to speak with me, they must come here.”
“Well…they did, sir, whilst you were out.” The clerk stepped into the office, his voice lowered to a whisper. If the Bank had not been so quiet, Mark might not have heard him. “I’m told it is of a sensitive nature…regarding a lady.”
Oh no. Oh dear. He knew only one ‘lady’ who would find herself involved with the police.
He stood and buttoned his jacket. “At Bow Street, you say? Fetch my hat.”
The clerk handed Mark his hat.
“I’ll be gone for the remainder of the day,” he said, fixing it atop his head. He plucked up his umbrella and strode purposefully from the office, down the endless labyrinth of corridors.
The young man followed at his heels. “You’ve a meeting in an hour. What is to be said of your absence, sir?”
“That it cannot be helped.”
Outside on the pavements, he shouldered his way through the crowd of pedestrians rushing about their daily business. The City was always hectic. On any other occasion, he’d have sent a clerk to hold a hansom for him, but he had dashed out of the Bank without thinking.
Mark stood at the kerb and hailed a cab. When the hansom slowed to a stop, he hauled himself in and shouted, “Bow Street!”
The drive to the police station was not far, but traffic moved slowly. Not even the rapidly expanding network of Underground lines could ease the congestion.
Mark shifted and sighed in the dingy hansom. He watched every street, every building, creep by. He checked his pocket watch. It would have been faster to walk the distance.
At last, the cab pulled in front of the Bow Street Police Station. Mark dug in his pockets to pay the fare. “Will you wait? This shouldn’t take long.”
“Aye, guvnor,” the man said, doffing his tattered cap. “I’ll wait for ye.”
Satisfied, Mark stepped inside the building. Other than a few belligerent women and some petty criminals waiting to be booked, the station house was calmly efficient. He walked up to the desk sergeant and gave his name.
“Good afternoon, I am Sir Mark van Bergen. I believe I am expected.”
The desk sergeant nodded. “Yes, Sir Mark. If you would please follow me.”
He guided Mark through the lobby and down a low, narrow corridor. He’d never been in a police station before, and could not resist peering through the open doorways to glimpse the offices, interrogation rooms, and storage closets.
In one area—a private waiting room of some sort—a woman quietly wept into her handkerchief. Two sunken-eyed, filthy children clutched to her skirts.
Bad news, he supposed.
At the end of the hallway, the desk sergeant paused to knock upon a door. He pushed it open and gestured for Mark to pass through.
Eliza waited inside.
She was dirty and disheveled, but that was to be expected. He was shocked, however, to find her bruised and bloodied, with her right hand wrapped in bandages. She’d been fighting. She’d also been crying.
She sniffled and wiped her nose with her bandaged hand. “Mark…”
He crossed the room without a care for the sergeant at the door. He crouched before her as she sat slumped on a hard wooden bench. “My God, Eliza, have they done this to you?”
