Simon stared down at his finger as he rubbed it over the leather arm of the chair. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, but Timms could be trusted with the truth. He let out a long sigh before looking up.
“My sister was a victim of it.”
Timms looked into his eyes, assessing him without speaking, and Simon let him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Simon shrugged. “Would you have told me if it was your sister?”
Timms leaned his head and thought for a moment. “I don’t know, but I can understand why you kept it under your hat, and you can trust that it won’t leave this room.”
“Thank you.”
Timms breathed in deeply. “Well, it looks like the sun is thinking about coming up, so we might as well go collect him. Better to be early to the train station to keep things as calm and organized as possible.” He stood and looked down at Simon. “You will be able to restrain your anger, right?”
Simon huffed out a breath. He was going to make some kind of facetious retort, but Timms needed to know he could count on him. He stood and looked him in the eye.
“You can trust me, Timms.”
A short time later, they escorted Warwick out of the jail, his wrists and ankles both shackled, Timms on one side, Simon on the other.
“I should warn you,” Timms said as they walked. “If you try to run, he will kill you.”
“Don’t warn him, then he might not do it. Nothing would make my day better than ending the life of this piece of filth.” He looked at Warwick. “I beg you to give me a reason.”
People stared as they escorted Warwick onto the train, but fortunately the Intelligence Services had managed to reserve them a private compartment, so it didn’t last.
Disappointingly, he didn’t put up even a little bit of a fight.
“Everything alright?” Timms asked.
“Everything is perfect.” That wasn’t quite true. Not killing him would be the hardest part of this entire journey. This was the man who had performed the sham ceremony that had damned his sister to years of hell.
Warwick shifted in his seat and he eyed him.
“The only thing that would make this better is if he tries to run.” He gestured toward Warwick with his chin, and the man sank back. At least there was a shimmer of fear in his eyes now.
Timms looked over at him. “I’m afraid you might be out of luck. He doesn’t seem very inclined to make an escape attempt.”
“Resigned to his fate, it would seem.” Simon shrugged.
“We should make a wager.” Timms suggested. “The loser buys the winner a pint.”
“I’m in,” Simon said with a smile.
“I’ll even let you choose. Hard labor or the noose?”
“I have to go with the noose. I’ll enjoy watching him swing, like his brother.” Simon pictured it as he spoke.
“Why do you find so much joy in torturing me?” They were the first words Warwick had uttered since they’d collected him.
Simon was out of his chair in an instant, his fist gripping the man’s shirt, his face barely an inch away. He spoke in a low growl. “Do you have any idea the hell you sentenced those women to?”
Warwick cowered. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Simon roared. Timms pushed him back into the seat. “Easy,” he warned.
Simon’s entire body trembled, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He wouldn’t cut this man’s throat. That was far too quick and easy. If he ever did get the opportunity to end his life, he’d make it painful and as drawn out as possible.
“I suggest you keep your mouth shut, Warwick,” Timms said quietly.
