London's Calling. Elysabeth Williams
with her. No one had seen them together. Her alibi was failing. Her hopes slipped away with her ability to breathe.
“Could we find the Lord and ask him?”
“Sure, sure, Miss Knightly. We’ll get right on it.”
The two laughing men shoved her out of the chair from behind, causing her to cry out in pain as her arms stretched behind her in an awkward position. They didn’t believe her. It was apparently more believable that a former employee of a burlesque was brash enough to kill a man in cold blood than to have an encounter with a lord.
She relaxed, accepting the position for now and all but whispered to them. “Can you please speak with Miss Johnsworth before you take me away? I’m begging you. She knows my story.”
“We’ll leave a note for her to come down to the Yard, dearie. Let’s go.”
* * * *
The trip to Tower of London was the longest, most miserable time of her life–next to, of course, sitting in the stone cell. The bars across her small window weighed heavily on her mind as she sat on the tattered, stained mattress. She listened to the snores of the man who was next door and wondered how in the world he could sleep at a time like this. Perhaps he was drunk. Crazy? Who knew? She obviously didn’t.
Delilah wasn’t usually interested in drinking, but today was quite different. Her whole life was now defined by this one moment in time. Suddenly, she wished she had a vat of booze in which to drown herself. A lifetime of numbness seemed far preferable than this hell.
“No good deed shall ever go unpunished,” she whispered to no one, remembering the man she’d stopped to help the night before. The man who didn’t tell the police he’d been attacked and therefore the man who might as well be imaginary. Why hadn’t she traveled another way? Why didn’t she stay with Charles and his family? Her destiny seemed flawed.
The time dragged with no contact from anyone. Delilah hoped Miss Johnsworth would at least stop by and give a testimony. Living in a world without family or friendship never seemed as lonely as it did at this moment. Having to hope people she barely knew would think enough of her to help her was draining.
She shifted on the cot and glanced down at her boots. The heels and soles were coated in dried blood. Artie McGinnis’ blood.
The dinged and cracked armor Delilah had built around her emotions crumbled and she began to scream. She tore at the leather with her fingers until the buckles cut and tore into her fingertips. Finally managing to unsecure the laces, she kicked them onto the floor away from her. She then noticed the blood on the bottom of her skirt. She grabbed the hem and began to yank on it, her heart pounding and her breath coming in short gasps. With a handful of material, the first noise from the ripping shook her from the hysteria. There was no other clothing here–the police would surely suspect something now if they had any inkling of her actual innocence. Panic would get her no sympathy. She dropped her skirt and wrung her hands.
Delilah curled her legs up on the cot and wrapped her arms around her knees. Somehow, she calmed down enough to drift almost to sleep. Perhaps that’s how the snoring neighbor achieved success–total and complete mental breakdown.
Chapter 5
Jillian returned to her office to find it empty. She closed and bolted the door. Seeing nothing particularly out of place, she sat down behind her desk and pressed a brass level down on the underside of the wood. A muted click sounded in the room and the desktop flipped up to reveal something akin to a typewriter, with a screen above it that displayed flashing lights in the shapes of the alphabet.
Twisting a hand sized crank on the side, lights flashed in unison, and the screen cleared. Using the typewriter keys, she produced a letter.
Dear Colonel,
It is perhaps not the most opportune time for communication due to your busy schedule of late, but we do have an issue which may require your assistance. A young lady in my employ has been accused of a heinous crime, and I do not believe she is the criminal responsible. There is someone else involved and I intend to figure it out.
I am writing to suggest calling upon the Six to help sort things. If it is possible to reach the rest in a timely manner, please advise.
I patiently await your reply.
Sincerely,
Jillian Johnsworth
She proofread the note on the screen and pressed a button marked ‘send’ on the keyboard. In a flash, the screen went blank. A bell toll emitted from the device and words returned to the screen.
Your message has been delivered.
With a curt nod, Jillian turned the crank once more and closed the lid.
* * * *
Somewhere in a California desert…
Six shots of a pistol rang out into the warm night sky. The ping of cracking glass was heard after each shot. Eliza’s throaty laughter eclipsed the echoing gunfire.
“Eliza Willoughby, your shot is positively wicked.” Silas Willoughby laughed as he handed over a gold coin to her.
With a grin, she snatched it from his fingertips and deposited it in her cleavage.
“And as always, your shot isn’t the only thing wicked.”
“I had a fantastic teacher,” she smiled and winked, reloading the pistol.
“Of shooting or of being wicked?”
“Both.”
Silas laughed and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. Her bronze skin–a fresh tan from riding horses through the area–shone in the moonlight. He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “California suits you.”
She smiled at him as he pulled away. “I love the sun, the sand and the warmth. Yet oddly enough, I miss my rainy, dreary, cold days.” Eliza sighed.
Silas walked a few hundred yards to replace the glass whiskey bottles with new ones and returned. “My turn,” he said, holding his hand out to Eliza. She handed the pistol over to him and he palmed it, ready to aim.
He closed one eye, extended his right arm which held the gun out, and fired. Six more shots rang out, only five pings of broken glass responded. “You beat me again, Mrs. Willoughby.”
“Hooray!” Eliza jumped up and down, clapping and laughing.
Silas stuck his tongue out at her, which only caused her to laugh harder. He holstered the gun inside his brown leather duster and offered her a hand.
“Shall we go home, then?”
Eliza took his hand and he pulled her close, wrapping her into an embrace.
“Hmm…California home or England home?”
“I will follow you anywhere, remember?”
“It’s rather late for England home at the moment.”
Silas looked to the clear sky. Millions of stars speckled the black canvas. “Very true. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” Eliza returned, kissing his chin.
He stood, still holding her, wondering what they would do when they returned home. Of course they’d go home to England, Silas had no doubt about it. It was just a matter of time. Mounting his horse, he offered her a hand again, and she took it. She sat on the saddle, nestled between his thighs and leaned into him. He wrapped his arm around her waist. She sighed and he kissed her hair.
Silas knew he’d miss it out here in the vast nothingness, but it would be nice to visit England.
They rode over the sand until it began to turn into a grassier terrain, and approached a smallish log cabin in the midst of a few trees.