Eliza Dunwidge was woken by a noise from the rooms below, the rooms that housed those wonderful books. Many of the most valuable were now packed in boxes, safely stored for transportation, and she and her father would have the rest ready to be moved within the next twenty-four hours. Well, they would if, and when, her father returned. He should have been back by now, but he was a man of nocturnal habits, and she was not about to begin worrying about him at this stage of her life. The sound came again: the faint shifting of a weight against leather, the creaking of wood. Perhaps her father had come home unbeknownst to her, but he always made a point of telling her that he was back, whatever the hour. No, there was someone else downstairs. She removed a baton from beneath her bed. It had once belonged to a Liverpool policeman who was dismissed from the force during the 1919 police strike and died soon after. His uniform he had surrendered; his baton he had not. Eliza Dunwidge had acquired it from his widow, along with a small library of occult volumes that had been bequeathed to the officer by his grandfather, and of whose value he and his family were ignorant.
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