Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  There was an interval of silence, interrupted shortly after as the Workshop door cracked open and Bill rushed inside, out of breath, pale.

  “Find it?” Marion asked him.

  “What?”

  “The thing you left in the auditorium?”

  “Oh. No, no, I didn’t.”

  Marion frowned and turned back to the professor, whose gaze was still vacantly hovering over the cloth-wrapped object. It was news of the murder, she supposed, that had everyone behaving so oddly this morning.

  Bill frowned as he, too, cast his attention to the object on the workbench. He craned his neck. “Is that blood?”

  An awkward beat followed. The professor looked torn between wanting to answer and hoping not to. But Bill and Marion’s interest had piqued and neither was now able to dismiss the definite red stains on the cloth.

  “You’ve heard the news? About Michelle?” the professor asked.

  “Yes, it’s terrible,” Marion said, though somehow it didn’t sound quite as compassionate as she’d intended.

  The professor removed his beret, bringing it to his chest. His eyes glistened. “I knew Michelle from the beginning. She was just a little younger than you two are when she was recruited. I was her mentor in the beginning. She liked gadgets.” He smiled weakly. “A bit like you do, Marion.”

  Marion was caught a little off guard by the reference. She’d met Michelle White only a few times before. Even through their brief encounters, however, Marion got the impression that she was a snide, solitary and frankly unlikable woman.

  The professor crossed and uncrossed his arms. His unease was blatant. “I must tell you, though. I saw Michelle on Thursday morning,” he said, his words strained but rapid. “She came to my office for ten o’clock tea, our tradition every Thursday. But there was something wrong—there had been for a few weeks, actually. I just wish I’d asked her what it was. Maybe I could have helped. Maybe she’d still—” He shook his head. “I wish I’d comforted her. I don’t think she had anyone else, you know. People misunderstood her, I think.”

  Odd sounds filled the silence—the occasional clink of a tool or grind of metal as the professor’s assistants continued their duties in the shadowy recesses of the hall.

  After a time, the professor seemed to pull himself from whatever dark thoughts had consumed him. He spoke quickly and softly. “It was David, I think.”

  Bill flinched at Marion’s side. She looked at him. He averted his eyes. She turned back to Uday Bal, contemplating whether to discourage him from whatever he was about to say next. The professor’s oversharing made her uncomfortable—surely such sensitive information should rather be passed on to Nancy? But before she could voice her apprehension, Bill spoke.

  “What do you mean it was David?”

  “The thing that was worrying Michelle,” the professor explained hastily and in a low whisper. “She said there was something bothering her. She didn’t say what exactly, something about someone looking for it. And I think she must have been talking about David because he’d—” He stopped again, apparently coming to some private conclusion, perhaps that he’d said too much. He sighed, relaxing somewhat. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Unexpected death, it makes us second-guess everything, analyze. The meaning behind words and actions. What if we missed something? What if we could have prevented it?”

  “Jesus!” Bill interrupted, something dawning on him. He pointed at the cloth-covered object. “That’s it, isn’t it? The murder weapon?”

  The professor hesitated, but only for a second. And Marion’s stomach lurched as he unwrapped a bloodied steel pole, about seven inches in length and two in diameter, its one end shattered into a spear of broken metal.

  The professor held the object up to the light—a Herald Stethoscope. And it was then that Marion understood the notice pinned at the end of the Grand Corridor. All Herald Stethoscopes had been upgraded to Schedule 3: potential to inflict serious harm with improper use.

  “It was found protruding from her throat,” the professor said carefully, a professional note of detachment to his tone—a coping method, Marion presumed. “It pierced her voice box, and several blood vessels nearby. I think it killed her instantly.”

  A Herald Stethoscope, one of the agency’s many intricate gadgets, was designed to pick up sound through almost any barrier—walls, doors, windows and floors. It was a thin pole with a flexible inner lining of rubber and sturdy outer coating of metal. At one end was a powerful bell-shaped resonator for picking up sound, at the other, an earpiece for hearing it.

  While the earpiece remained undamaged, the other end (where the resonator should have been) was broken into jagged extensions of bloodstained metal, turning the once-innocent gadget into three ragged yet efficient blades. It was the most unusual murder weapon Marion had ever seen, but it would have had little trouble slicing through flesh, there was no doubt.

  “Why is it here?” Marion asked. And why are you showing it to us? A cold sweat was building on her skin.

  From a drawer underneath, the professor pulled out a bottle of disinfectant and roll of cotton wool. He slipped on a pair of gloves, briefly closed his eyes, as if to mentally prepare himself yet again, then went about wiping the pole clean of blood, taking a break only after he’d extracted a piece of flesh from inside the hollow tube. “Nancy wants me to tell her how it was broken,” he said solemnly. “Whether it had been dropped, slammed against the wall, cut with some tool. The problem is, this stethoscope is not like the others.” He shone a penlight into the depth of the tube.

  Marion shifted on her feet. “With respect, Professor, I really don’t think you should be showing us this.” She felt a spasm of guilt when Uday frowned. “I just mean...it’s against protocol. Surely?”

  The professor looked at her incredulously. “But you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

  “Well, no, of course not, but...” She sighed.

  The professor nodded, satisfied, then went on. “I made this one just for Michelle, you see. It was her favorite gadget, right from the first day she arrived as an apprentice. But the brass from which a Herald Stethoscope is usually made is delicate, easily broken if dropped. It shatters. Not like this. She broke three before the end of her first year. So I made her a special one for her twenty-seventh birthday. Much stronger, but if broken it will not shatter like the others, but break into large shards, like this. I made this one out of stratified steel and I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is what ended up killing her...” His words trailed off.

  “My God,” Marion said. She glanced around the hall. The professor’s assistants loitered nearby, some of them focused on tasks, some casting the occasional eye toward the Herald Stethoscope. A knot formed in her stomach. She knew why he’d revealed the murder weapon, and why (as usual) he’d said more than he should. During the countless hours she’d spent working with the professor, she’d come to realize that his most admirable trait was also his greatest flaw—unquestionable faith in the integrity of those he surrounded himself with. But clearly, considering Michelle White’s recent demise, not everyone at Miss Brickett’s should be trusted.

  “Perhaps we should put that away now,” she said hastily, pointing at the weapon.

  The professor seemed to arrive at a similar conclusion. He acted swiftly, placing the stethoscope back in the box. “Well,” he added on a sigh and a little awkwardly. “I suppose we must get on with the day, despite it all.” He lifted a box onto the bench, filled to the brim with mounds of gray-steel cords. “I suspect you know what to do with those. I will be in my office if you need anything.”

  * * *

  “Jesus, what a morning,” Marion said to Bill as the two of them got to work.

  Bill grunted. Something about a bloody mess. Marion decided not to ask him to elaborate. She didn’t want to think about what the professor had showed them, the murder weapon or a
ny of it. “And now this.” Bill gestured to the box, overflowing with knotted coils of Twister Rope—cords composed of sections of magnetically charged iron filings that could bind and strangle anything they came into contact with, including themselves, and thus had a habit of becoming tangled into impossibly convoluted clumps. He looked down at his watch. “That lot’s going to take us all day to get through.” He slammed his forearms against a particularly mobile strand of rope, pinning it to the table until, like some dying beast, it settled into stillness. Careful not to recharge the filings (which, according to the Basic Workshop Manual was likely to occur with brisk maneuvers), he slowly untangled the rope, lifted it into the air, strode across the hall and hung it up in the rubber-lined storage cabinet. “Great, one down, approximately two hundred to go.”

  Marion extracted a length of cord from the box and attempted to unwind it. She watched Bill do the same, his face knotted in concentration, or perhaps it was frustration. After completing several more intricate untying procedures, he sighed and looked up. “How was your weekend, anyway?”

  “The same as ever. I spent most of it preparing for my case presentation in Intelligence today. And Dolores was at me again. Did I tell you about Mr. Smithers?”

  “You future husband?” Bill snorted.

  “He’s still sending me letters. I couldn’t really appear any less interested. Will he ever get the message?”

  “Mari,” Bill said with a note of levity, “you do realize it’s not Smithers you’ve got to dissuade?”

  Marion frowned.

  “It’s Dolores,” he explained. “You told me yourself she selected him for you, which means she’s probably coercing him behind the scenes. If he gives up on you, he’ll have her to deal with.”

  “God help him, then.”

  They laughed.

  “What about you?” Marion said after a time. “Anyone on the horizon?” Bill was striking in his own way—tall, clear-skinned, soft featured—Marion imagined he’d have little trouble in the realm of romantic pursuits. And yet something caught in her chest as she imagined him finding a wife, settling down, moving off. Marion and Bill’s relationship had always been platonic, but it was also symbiotic and bilaterally dependent. As selfish as it was to say, if Bill’s attention shifted elsewhere, away from Marion and on to someone else, she wasn’t sure how she’d cope.

  “How exactly am I supposed to meet someone when I spend all my time underground?”

  Marion laughed. “I don’t know, but apparently Jess does.”

  “Hah, right. Roger from maintenance. Do you even know who that is?”

  Marion imagined someone burly and gruff—Jessica’s type—though she couldn’t say she’d ever met Roger from maintenance. “Not really.”

  Time moved slowly, stiffly, as the two battled in silence with their respective coils of rope. But with each passing minute, Bill became more impatient, agitated, cursing and grunting under his breath.

  “You all right?” Marion asked.

  He appeared not to have heard. “Do you know where David is stationed this afternoon?”

  “David?” Marion prickled. “Why would I know that?”

  Bill shook his head. No reply.

  Here we go again.

  Marion watched a rise of unease in his features, the tic that caused a subtle tremor in his hands. She’d seen it only once before, the first time they’d met—the day of Marion’s recruitment, when Bill had risked his job in order to cover for her. He’d been anxious then, lying, although he’d have preferred not to.

  Bill picked up another coil of Twister Rope. But he was too distracted now—a dangerous mistake when dealing with Twister Rope.

  The strand he’d chosen slipped from his unready grip. It uncoiled itself, straightened out, then wrapped itself around his left arm. Before Marion could comprehend what was happening, the other side coiled around his neck. The two oppositely charged ends drew themselves together, forcing Bill’s neck into his shoulder, his arm to his neck. “A little help?” he groaned as the coil swiftly tightened.

  Marion grabbed the opposing ends of rope and yanked them apart at the same time, an act which would demagnetize the strands for a split second, thus allowing a moment in which Bill could slip from its grasp. It worked, and only just in time.

  “Christ’s sake...” he spluttered, rubbing the ring of bright ruby bruising on his neck. “What next...”

  Marion deposited the offensive coil in the rubber-lined wardrobe, careful to hang it up perfectly straight. She then looked up at the clock on the wall. Somehow, it was already fifteen minutes into their lunch hour. “Come on,” she said, sealing the box of rope and pushing it aside. “We can finish these later.”

  But the second they’d left the dank hall, Bill paused. He gripped the back-strap of his bag and glared up at the long stone staircase. Someone was standing right at the top, the outline of their figure partly visible in the dim light.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ll see you at lunch. Or later.”

  “Later when? Where are you going?”

  “Just need to run through some work for this afternoon.” The tic in his hand was more obvious now. “See you later.”

  As Bill made his way upstairs, the figure at the top of the staircase stepped farther into the light. David slipped his right hand into his coat pocket. Words were exchanged and the two disappeared together down the corridor.

  Marion felt a resurgence of irritation as she watched Bill and David move off into the dimness. She’d have to confront him properly next time, force him to tell her what all of this was about.

  5

  THE SNITCH

  In the time it took Marion to reach the cafeteria, just as she’d feared, word of the bloodied and shattered Herald Stethoscope used to murder Michelle White had leaked, and an outbreak of speculation flooded the corridors.

  “Clean through. In one side of the head, out the other,” pronounced third-year apprentice Patrick Castle to his friend and fellow third-year Howard Yon as they settled at a table next to Marion.

  “Nearly decapitated,” said Howard.

  The two looked over. “You saw it, didn’t you, Lane?” asked Patrick.

  Marion ignored him and served herself a plate of lunch.

  Howard drew his chair over to her table. “Reckon it was premeditated?” he asked without any reluctance.

  Patrick slid over next. “Come on, Lane,” he urged, his deep brown eyes flashing with excitement. “You spend all your time down there with Bal. Reckon he had something to do with it?”

  Patrick smiled at Howard. “Stratified steel, nice and sturdy for a weapon, don’t you think?”

  This, Marion could not ignore. “I’d think twice about making accusations like that. This isn’t a joke and I hardly think—”

  “Yeah, yeah, we know, Lane,” Patrick interrupted. “Relax. Just pulling your leg. Never expected a word from you, anyway.”

  “Hobb, on the other hand...” said Howard, grinning. “He saw it, too, didn’t he?”

  Patrick slapped his knee. “Dammit! You’re bloody right. Why didn’t I think of that? Give Hobby a pint or three and he’ll sing like a bird in a tree.”

  The two laughed, Patrick coming close to tears as they repeated the jibe under their breath: give Hobby a pint or three and he’ll sing like a bird in a tree.

  “So, where is he, then?” Patrick asked.

  Marion looked across the cafeteria, preferring to ignore the two.

  Howard leaned into Patrick for dramatics, though he made no attempt to lower his voice. “Actually, didn’t we see him with Eston just now? They were arguing, weren’t they?”

  Patrick nodded, his grin growing. “All looked a bit suspicious, if you’re asking me. Wonder what they—” He stopped midsentence.

  “Yon, Castle,” said a commanding female voice from behind
, instantly wiping the smiles off Patrick’s and Howard’s faces.

  Marion looked up to see senior Inquirer and head of the Intelligence Department Aida Rakes. Though only in her midthirties, Rakes was a formidable woman and at six-foot-two the Senegalese-Brit was easily the most revered individual at the agency—second only to Nancy.

  “I thought you two were stationed with Simpkins in the library this afternoon?” Rakes asked, her voice smooth and easy, though Marion knew it took little to turn.

  “We were just on our way.” Howard gathered his things.

  Rakes looked at her watch. “It’s 12:53. It takes at least ten minutes to get down there and if you’re late again Simpkins will make a note of it on your assessment reports.”

  Howard and Patrick got to their feet and disappeared without further word.

  Rakes turned to Marion. She looked at her untouched plate of lunch. “You’re having a lunch break?”

  “Well, yes, I was hoping to.” Marion was confused and slightly annoyed. This was the first moment of peace she’d had all day. With everything else going on, she’d been hoping for just thirty minutes to eat her lunch without any distractions. It wasn’t looking likely.

  Rakes seemed contemptuous. “You remember you’ve got a presentation with me this afternoon?”

  Marion checked her watch. It wasn’t even one o’clock. “Yes.” Of course I remember. “At two-thirty.”

  Rakes didn’t reply for a while, which Marion knew was her way of expressing the warning—you better not be late and you better be prepared. “I’ll see you there.”

  But by the time Rakes had left, Marion had lost her appetite. She pushed her plate away and got to her feet—all hope of having a normal day long since dissolved. There was only one person who could calm her agitation now.

  She knocked three times on Frank’s office door. It opened a sliver. “Marion?” He looked disturbed, as if she’d caught him in the middle of something. He didn’t invite her in.