Читать книгу London's Calling - Elysabeth Williams - Страница 8

Chapter 4

“I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. I’m innocent.” Delilah wailed as two officers held her arms behind her back and handcuffed her.

“Sure ye didn’t, Miss. Just come down to the station and we’ll discuss it further. No need to fight us if you’ve done nothing wrong, eh?” The officer’s words dripped with sarcasm. It was obvious he didn’t believe her. She could feel it in her bones as he hauled her from the leather chair in Jillian’s office. Jillian had left earlier to interview the last of the witnesses to the argument from the night before and while she was gone…the vultures descended. She knew in her rational mind they were just doing their job, but something seemed so wrong.

“Where did you go after the alleged assault?” they’d asked, standing too close to her. She scrunched her nose at the smell of unwashed body.

“I was outside with Dante Heller.”

“The newly named Earl?” The heavy-set man laughed loudly. “Now there’s a right interesting story to tell there. Why would he be spending time with you?”

“He was assaulted and unconscious in the alleyway between Miss Merriweather’s side exit and the hotel. I was helping him.” The words flew from her mouth, but it all seemed for naught.

“Right. Patrick? Have you heard of a mugging in the alley last night? Most specifically the Earl of Heller?”

The other tall and lanky officer shook his head. “No, sir. Not heard of such.”

Perfect. He hadn’t reported the incident, so there wasn’t any way of proving, other than meeting him in person that he’d been 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.