Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I was just hoping to have a word.”

  He hesitated, which brought a flush of red to her cheeks. She cringed at the idea of forcing her company on anyone, even someone she considered family. Sensing this, perhaps, he stepped aside. “Of course, come in.” His office was untidy—books and files and stacks of paper strewn across the desk and floor. “Excuse all this,” he said as he caught her staring at the mess. “Just some rearranging.” He perched himself on the edge of his desk, perhaps because all three chairs in the room were covered in office paraphernalia, or perhaps because he was hoping to hurry the conversation along. “What is it?”

  She decided to get to the point. “I overheard something outside the staff office this morning. You and Nancy.” She left it there. He’d fill in the blanks.

  He looked at the floor. “It’s an awful thing that’s happened.”

  “Should I be worried? About the agency, I mean. I heard Nancy say she was concerned the police would have to get involved.”

  “No, of course not,” he said immediately. “It’s very much under control.” He rubbed his knees, then stood. “Was there anything else?”

  Marion opened her mouth. There was a lot more about the murder she wanted to ask—who he suspected the killer was, or what he thought the motive might’ve been—but she knew he wouldn’t answer those questions, not in the heat of the investigation. Frank wasn’t pedantic about rules and policies, but he was nothing if not sensible. Unless there was something about the case she really needed to know, he’d—sensibly—refrain from telling her anything about it, unlike Professor Bal. Thus she decided to steer the conservation toward the other thing that had been bothering her. “Something’s going on with Bill and David.”

  Frank’s expression eased instantly. “Oh?”

  “It’s been going on for a while. Some sort of disagreement they’ve been having. But Bill won’t talk to me about it. He changes the subject whenever I bring it up.”

  Frank looked genuinely interested. Or perhaps he was just relieved they were no longer talking about the murder. “And why does that bother you?”

  Marion thought for a moment. “Because we tell each other everything.”

  Frank inclined his head questionably. “Really?”

  Marion frowned. What was that supposed to mean? Bill knew everything about her, didn’t he? “Yes, really.”

  “Have you told him how Alice died? The truth, I mean.”

  A lump formed in her throat. She crossed her arms. No, was the answer. She’d told Bill her mother had died of cancer, the same story she’d told everyone. Except Frank, of course. He knew the truth.

  “I’m not suggesting you should’ve done,” he said kindly. “We all have our secrets, Marion. Bill has his, you have yours. It doesn’t mean you don’t trust each other. Some truths are private, and they should remain that way.”

  Marion nodded, though she wasn’t sure what she was agreeing with. She didn’t really know why she found it hard to speak of her mother, and how she’d died. Maybe it was because she despised the pity that came along with such a tragic story—a mother choosing to leave behind her only daughter. Or maybe it was more the scrutiny she hoped to avoid, the probing looks and subtle questions, assessing the damage and resultant character flaws such an event was sure to cause.

  Frank waited for her to stir, to emerge from her thoughts. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever it is, Bill will tell you when and if he’s ready.” He smiled, then guided her toward the door. Once at the threshold, he spoke in a less assured tone. “I know these are uncertain times. But keep to your work and—” He looked over her shoulder and down the corridor. She turned around, but there was no one there. “Look after yourself, all right?”

  * * *

  Marion met Aida Rakes in the library half an hour later, just in time for her case presentation.

  “It’s not just the apprentices talking about the murder weapon,” Rakes said as she and Marion made their way down a small staircase into the library basement. “Whole bloody agency’s gossiping like a bunch of schoolchildren.”

  Marion sighed. Her chat with Frank had eased her mood a fraction, but now she was back to thinking about that awful Herald Stethoscope and what it had been used for.

  “I know Bal showed you the weapon,” Rakes continued. “One of the Workshop assistants told me.”

  “Yes, I assumed they would,” she said under her breath and then, more loudly, “I haven’t said anything to anyone about it, though.”

  Rakes seemed to accept this. “I just hope Nancy doesn’t find out—she’ll be livid. She’s trying to handle the case with discretion. She doesn’t need any interference. Am I clear?”

  “Of course.” Of course. Despite the fact that Marion found herself—like everyone else—unable to ignore the alarming news of Michelle White’s demise, interfering with the investigation was the last thing on her mind. Especially considering the apprenticeship assessment reports due the following week, she didn’t have much time to regain her focus, but she was going to have to try.

  Assessment reports were to be filed by heads of departments and senior staff members for every apprentice every three months. Not only was a collection of favorable reports by the end of the probationary period a surefire way to acquire an offer of full-time employment at the agency, but apprentices with gleaming reports were occasionally permitted to select their own shifts and duties—a privilege Marion hoped for as it would allow her to spend even more time in Gadgetry.

  “Shirley.” Rakes nodded at a petite blonde who’d been waiting at the base of the stairs—Amanda Shirley, the seventh and oldest first-year apprentice in Marion’s group. Amanda’s sharp features and pale, deep-set eyes were disconcerting (to put it kindly) and she constantly gave Marion the impression she was teetering on the verge of a rage-induced meltdown.

  Amanda handed Rakes a file without returning the greeting and paying no attention to Marion. “Just three cases for the week. All category two. I suggest you assign them to Barnes, Appleton and Patterson.” Although Amanda was an apprentice just like Marion and the others, in the five months since she’d been recruited she’d somehow managed to claw her way to an additional part-time position of assistant case manager in the Intelligence Department. Frank said she was given the role on account of her organizational skills, sharpened during her time as postmistress for the Royal Mail. Unfortunately for everyone she worked with, the position only served to amplify her already heightened sense of self-importance. At times Marion found her almost unbearable. But she wasn’t the only one.

  “Thanks for the tip,” Rakes said as the three of them passed under a small arched doorway beyond the stairs.

  Amanda quickened her pace to keep up with Rakes’s lengthy strides. “Everyone’s struggling to concentrate, you know. After Nancy’s announcement in the auditorium. And they’re all saying the killer must be an agency employee. I suggest you have a word with them before the gossip gets out of control.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

  “Actually,” Amanda went on, “I was going to suggest we freeze operations until the case is solved.”

  Rakes stopped. “Freeze operations? You’ve clearly no idea what it takes to run this place. If we did that even for a few days we’d be backlogged for months.”

  “I don’t agree,” Amanda said. “There’s hardly anything coming through the receivers, anyway.”

  Rakes closed her eyes for a moment. “And what good would that do? If the killer is one of us, and I do mean if...then I believe it’s best to let them think they’ve got away with it. Let them relax, take some risks, make a mistake.”

  “A risk like striking again? Killing someone else?” Amanda crossed her arms.

  Marion smiled just a fraction as she watched Rakes’s mood sour. Amanda was treading on dangerous ground, continuing to be s
o insubordinate. Rakes didn’t mind well-constructed criticism or opposing viewpoints, even if it came from apprentices. But Amanda’s incessant disagreements and interruptions often overstepped the line and it was a pleasure to watch Rakes put her in her place.

  “If you really have a problem with the way things are being run here, Shirley,” Rakes went on—sharp and quick, “then I suggest you take it to the highest level. I’m sure Nancy would love to hear your thoughts.” She turned to Marion. “Something amusing, Lane?”

  Marion quickly frowned. “No, nothing.”

  “Good. Shirley, I’ll see you in my office at five for the filing report. Lane, let’s go.”

  * * *

  Forever stuffy and crammed with lofty towers of paperwork, the drab Filing Department left much to be desired. The same could not be said for the wall that formed its northern boundary. Hundreds of steel receiver boxes hung from a vast concrete panel, fitted directly beneath their numerically corresponding pneumatic pipes. The pipes connected the receiver boxes in the Filing Department to letter cases concealed in a multitude of locations throughout central London—within street walls or tube stations, or even under bridges.

  They passed through filing and stepped into the neighboring, much larger Intelligence Department—an open hall filled with rows of office desks, low-burning lamps and lines of filing cabinets. It was here that all Inquirers (who were not out in the field) would spend their days, pouring through suspect files, evidence and tip-offs that had made it through the Filing Department’s first checkpoint.

  Marion had worked in the department many times before, though she’d never seen it so crammed with Inquirers. And as Rakes (and Amanda) had recently pointed out, most appeared to be doing more gossiping than work. Rakes shook her head as they passed, a losing battle, perhaps. “Unbelievable,” she snapped. Some of her colleagues shifted uncomfortably, most didn’t even notice, and Marion was sure she heard the words throat and stethoscope mumbled several times before they’d reached the other side. “You’d think they’ve never come across a murder case before. Right,” she concluded as they reached an office marked Special Case Officer. “Ready?”

  Marion nodded. She’d prepared for her presentation for days and even with Dolores’s interruptions and Mr. Smithers’s delivery of love letters, she’d recited and revised it at least three times over. Admittedly, case presentations were not her strength. But she was ready to prove herself.

  She removed a file from her bag marked SI 0087. The Scorch.

  “Just remember to mention the tracking device we discussed last week,” Rakes said. “And for God’s sake, don’t give Swindlehurst any reason to doubt you, or my decision to include you in the investigation. He’s already insinuated I’m using apprentices to do my dirty work.” She glowered and rapped her knuckles against the door.

  “Come in,” said a low voice from inside.

  Edgar Swindlehurst had been recruited nine years ago at the age of thirty-three and was one of the first group to start at Miss Brickett’s. As one of the most brilliant minds at the agency, he quickly rose to the department head. But for reasons no one quite knew, Swindlehurst was ousted from the position just last year, when it was handed over to Rakes instead. Marion wasn’t certain why the switch had happened, but it was obvious to everyone at the agency that Swindlehurst and Rakes were swimming in bad blood.

  Marion hung back a moment. A flicker of trepidation crossed her mind as she tried to judge the expression on Rakes’s face. The Scorch case was the agency’s lead investigation. Marion had been assigned to shadow Rakes and record each step as it unfolded. While it had been a matter of luck that she’d been selected for the task, she was well aware that—like everything she did at Miss Brickett’s—her future prospects at the agency greatly depended on how she handled it. If Swindlehurst and Rakes were impressed with her, she’d score higher on her assessment report. But it wasn’t as simple as that. Marion knew that everything she reported to Swindlehurst on Rakes’s handling of the investigation could ignite a dispute between them, Marion caught in the middle. If she wanted positive reports from both of them, she’d have to play a cautious game.

  “Afternoon, Swindlehurst,” Rakes began, sharp and curt.

  Swindlehurst nodded. No reply.

  “Lane to present a report on the Scorch case,” Rakes went on in spite of the silence, gesturing for Marion to take over.

  Marion greeted Swindlehurst and took a seat at his desk. She was often intimidated by his sheer stature and handsome features, amplified by his unsettling reluctance to speak unless entirely necessary. She cleared her throat and began, opening with a summary of the case.

  Two weeks previously, the agency had received a letter from a man by the name of Norman Tucker. Mr. Tucker’s letter had been short and to the point, unlike the lengthy ramblings that were the norm. The letter, sent with a return address and several alternative contact details, had quite simply stated, Me wife’s been getting it from the Scorch. Follow her, you’ll find him. Normally, a tip-off such as this would be deposited directly in the rubbish bin. Miss Brickett’s Investigations and Inquiries just didn’t have the time or the resources to deal with London’s ever-growing throng of cheating spouses.

  But the Scorch, as he was known to the confused and terrified citizens of London, had been on the agency’s radar for nearly two years. A man shrouded in mystery, he stalked the city streets by night, peering up at windows, listening through crossed telephone lines, carefully picking his next victim. Although many people had claimed to have seen him watching them, no one seemed able to describe him, name him or even note the color of his hair. It was the fear, of course, that silenced them, for the Scorch was ruthless in his attacks—nearly every fortnight he would strike, launching gasoline-laden torches through his chosen window. The attacks would come in the early hours, and with his victims sound asleep, the blaze would ravage their homes before they had a chance to escape. To date, twelve young men had been killed or severely disfigured.

  Up until last year, no one had understood the Scorch’s motivation. But several survivors had eventually come forth to explain a theory that the agency now knew to be true: the Scorch was a violent, merciless homophobe and his only goal was to rid London of what he saw as a dreadful plague.

  “...we placed a tracking device in Tucker’s wife’s handbag last week,” Marion said, coming to the end of her report. “Unfortunately, she hasn’t left the house all week so it’s not been of much use.”

  Swindlehurst looked annoyed. It made Marion anxious. Had she said something she shouldn’t have? He glanced at the file before him, a draft of Marion’s report, then seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, almost as if he were trying to calm himself down. “And what do you suggest next?”

  She looked tentatively at Rakes. “I discussed this with Rakes on Friday,” she went on, “and I believe this is a case that warrants cooperation from the Met Police Force.”

  Rakes said nothing, though Marion knew her opinion on the matter. Interacting with law enforcement was risky. Even the few external relationships the agency fostered had to be approached with caution. As ever, risk of exposure was a major concern and the greater the number of individuals on the outside who knew of the agency’s existence, the more likely it was that one day one of them might turn against Miss Brickett’s. Since its establishment, only six members of the force—four detective inspectors, one constable and one officer—had ever been entrusted with the secret. And while these individuals were provided with only the most essential facts—the agency is privately run from a concealed location somewhere in London, specialized surveillance equipment is occasionally used in investigations—most eventually became too curious to be kept in the dark and were sooner or later recruited as Inquirers. Most notable of such cases was that of Frank Stone—previously a DI for the Dorset Police.

  “They might have some information we’re missing,” Mario
n added. “Perhaps Frank could advise us on whom to speak to?”

  Swindlehurst leaned back in his chair with an air of superiority. He glowered at Rakes. “I suppose I’m expected to ask your opinion on this?”

  “I don’t like it,” Rakes said categorically, ignoring whatever subtext Swindlehurst had been hinting at. “And they’ve got nothing, I’m sure of it. No one on the outside is interested in this case—they’re indifferent, really. I actually overheard that idiot Constable Redding say at least he’s given himself a good name. For Christ’s sake...”

  Swindlehurst considered his notes. “All right, then I suppose the best option is to continue to keep an eye on Tucker’s wife. She’s bound to make a move soon enough, even if she thinks she’s being watched.”

  Rakes nodded, exhaling with relief.

  “In the meantime, Lane,” Swindlehurst went on, “I’d like you to write up a full character profile on both Tucker and his wife. To be delivered to me by Wednesday the twenty-third.”

  “Wednesday. Next week?” Marion said with alarm. She looked at Rakes pleadingly. Character profiles were arduous to complete, requiring hours of research, note-taking, typing. She did a mental calculation in her head: two character profiles in just over a week—was that even possible?

  “Do you have something more important to be doing?” Rakes asked. It was a challenge, not a question. But the answer was yes. She still had mountains of work to complete with Professor Bal in Gadgetry, including fixing the Distracter—which the professor was sure to follow up on once he’d recovered from the shock of Michelle White’s murder.

  Swindlehurst had grown impatient. “I’m very happy to hand the case over to Shirley if you’re not up to it.”

  “No,” Marion said quickly. The only thing worse than being overworked was giving Amanda another reason to feel superior. “I’ll manage it.”

  Rakes nodded. “She’ll have the report to you by two p.m. next Wednesday. You have my word.”