Swindlehurst looked as if this assurance meant very little. “That’ll be all, Lane.” He gestured to the door. “Rakes, if you can spare a moment, there’s something I’d like to discuss.”
“Regarding?”
Swindlehurst breathed; again it seemed he was trying to calm himself down. “The state of the department.”
Rakes looked at Marion. “Take over from Perry in filing for the afternoon. I’ll meet you there later.”
Marion started for the door, leaving behind the tense atmosphere. Swindlehurst and Rakes had already engaged in some hushed debate by the time she’d closed the door, though she was sure she caught the phrase pause of operations.
Was Swindlehurst about to suggest what Amanda had earlier? A halting of internal operations as a result of White’s murder? Perhaps Amanda had a point, as painful as this was to admit. It was all very well keeping everyone busy with paperwork and distractions, but no matter the extent of the Scorch’s evil, surely the Inquirers really did have a more pressing problem on their hands. And as Marion crossed the Intelligence Department, she was convinced of a single chilling truth: the most urgent and deadly threat now no longer wandered the dirty London City streets—it lived down here, locked in this twisted, sunless labyrinth.
* * *
She arrived at the Filing Department and stepped up to the first of two tiny, miserable-looking cubicles. One of which had been for Michelle White and now stood vacant, the other for her colleague John Perry.
“Afternoon.” She nodded at Perry. “Rakes said to take over from you for the afternoon.”
John Perry stared at her for three long seconds before seemingly comprehending what she’d said. “And you know what you’re doing, Miss...?”
“Lane. And yes. Anything that comes through the receivers gets sorted and filed accordingly. I’ve been on duty before.” She knew she sounded terse, but she was reaching the end of her tether with everything.
Perry blinked. He looked exhausted and Marion knew why. Because the receiver boxes had to be monitored all hours of the day and night, the duty had historically been split between Michelle White and Perry—White taking all shifts from 6:00 p.m. to midnight and Perry or the apprentices all those in between. Now, of course, Perry was forced to double up, and by the looks of it, he’d not slept in days.
“Right, then, all yours,” he said hastily, perhaps before Marion could change her mind.
Moments after he’d left, a bell chimed from across the office indicating that a letter had come through one of the receiver boxes. A light flashed on the dashboard above.
Marion located receiver box one hundred and one, flipped it open and removed the letter inside.
Don’t know if you care, but there’s someone suspicious-like living in the Clapham Common. Sleeps under that big birch tree (you know the one). Seen him steal a handbag once, almost took mine the other day. Also has two street dogs, very nasty rabid things and one of them killed me cat. Can’t go to police, don’t ask why. And don’t come looking for me, neither.
Thanks, Harriet
Harriet’s handbag thief could surely be handled by the most inexperienced of Inquirers—a few days of surveillance at Clapham Common, a couple of photographs of the criminal in action and, finally, an anonymous package sent to the local police station: the handbag thief himself, bound and unconscious along with an envelope encasing the photographs.
She flipped open the register file and began to fill in the details. It was then that she noticed the entry made just above, at 11:45 p.m., Friday, April 11. The entry appeared to be incomplete. The time, date and the receiver box number had been recorded, but the category listing had been left blank. As was customary, the entry had also been initialed by the staff member who’d collected it. This one was initialed in hurried script: M.W.
* * *
“Shirley’s bloody gone and done it, spoken to Nancy about pausing operations,” Rakes said to Marion as she met her in the Filing Department nearly an hour later. “Can you believe that? She actually went behind my back. And worst of all, she must have done it this morning before she even spoke to me.” She pulled a cigarette from her handbag, slumped her boots on Perry’s desk and lit up. “Now Swindlehurst’s in a rage because Nancy thought the idea came from him. Jesus Christ, what a mess. I’ll tell you what, Lane. You better get those character profiles to him on time or he might explode...”
She went on, but Marion was hardly listening, distracted by what she’d seen on the register file—Michelle White’s initials—made the very night she was murdered. Had Perry noticed it? Surely someone would have checked the file by now, all things considered.
“...and at this rate we might as well all go home, since nothing’s getting done around here, anyway,” Rakes went on in the background. She stopped to glare at Marion. “Say it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Something’s on your mind. Spit it out.”
Marion hesitated, but the look on Rakes’s face was one of severe impatience. “It’s just that I saw White’s signature in the register. It looks as if a letter came through a receiver box the night she was murdered. I wondered if Perry had reported it to anyone?”
“You’re as distracted as the rest of them.” She shook her head. Instead of irritated, however, she now looked defeated, resigned. “Nancy checked the register first thing after the murder. Of course she knows about the signature.”
“Right, obviously.” She dared not ask what the letter said.
Rakes sighed, her expression softening somewhat. “But no, it wasn’t Perry who reported it. God knows he wouldn’t lift a finger to help the investigation.”
“Why’s that?”
Rakes shrugged. “He just doesn’t care.”
“You mean he and White didn’t get along?”
“Of course not. White was Perry’s superior. She was also younger than him. He hated taking orders from her.” She grinned. “I know what you’re thinking—Perry sounds like the perfect suspect, eh? Thing is, if you’re going on personality clashes, you’d have to suspect the whole agency.”
“What do you mean?”
Rakes blew a trail of smoke into Marion’s face. It was unintentional, she hoped.
“There were very few people who did actually like Michelle. I was one of them. Professor Bal and Nicholas were just about the only others.”
Marion looked around. She was probably imagining it, but it seemed that the chatter of the Inquirers next door had paused. Were they listening in?
“As I say,” Rakes went on, “I liked her guts. She didn’t give a damn what people thought of her and she got right up in everyone’s business whenever she felt like it. But that was the thing, you see. That was what got on Perry’s nerves. His and nearly everyone else’s.” A small smile played on her lips. “You must have figured it out by now, the reason everyone’s so interested in this news of the murder weapon. Tell me, Lane, what’s the old name for a Herald Stethoscope?”
“I didn’t know it had an old name.”
“The Snitch,” Rakes said. “Same as White’s nickname when she was an apprentice. Ironic, isn’t it? If anyone ever had something to hide in this place, Michelle was the one who’d know about it. Whatever she found out this time, well, I reckon it cost her her life.”
6
THE MEMORY
It was a clear and concise memory. In light of Aida Rakes’s and Uday Bal’s recent revelations, an incident that had once seemed barely significant now carried a more chilling implication.
It had rained all morning, that cold Friday in February. A torrent of icy rain pelted down relentlessly, rattling the bookshop windows, flooding the gutters in the street outside and turning the cul-de-sac into a grimy river. And so it was of no particular surprise that at five o’clock most of the apprentices were still at the agency, either taking their time to complete their duties, or l
ounging over a game of cards. Anything to delay their journeys home until the weather improved.
But for Marion, who’d been stationed in the Gadgetry Department that afternoon, delaying the daily rush home had nothing to do with the weather. Through trial and error, she’d discovered the trick was simply to appear busy. Every afternoon without exception, she’d hang around the agency, offering her assistance wherever it was needed for as long as reasonably possible.
Fortunately, that Friday, despite the relative calm throughout the rest of the agency, the apprentices stationed in Gadgetry were burdened with such a plethora of tasks that by lunchtime, Marion didn’t have to offer extra help; Professor Bal had begged for it.
Marion’s task was relatively simple—place five test wires on the workbench in front of her, turn them on, say something, then retrieve the recording for analysis. Perfectly easy, except for the fact that Professor Bal had forgotten where he’d left the defective batch of button microphones and Marion had therefore spent the first half of the afternoon scouring the Gadgetry Department for twelve wonderfully undetectable tiny black discs.
Then she was set the chore of cleaning and refilling Professor Bal’s ever-increasing stock of halothane-emitting hip flasks. This was fiddly, tedious work—five small mesh-covered halothane-filled balls having to be cleaned, then squeezed through the hip flask’s narrow aperture, which almost always resulted in an accidental rupture or two and thus a swift trip to the infirmary for all those close enough to inhale the gas.
At six thirty that evening, after depositing the last flask, filled and ready for use, on Professor Bal’s workbench, Marion left the department and made her way up to the cafeteria. She’d planned to slip in an early dinner before the inevitable return to Number Sixteen Willow Street. Dolores would surely be waiting for her, probably with a pot of cold vegetable stew and a list of questions related to her lateness. She wouldn’t have to eat the stew at least.
Her evening would take a strange turn, however, for on her way to the cafeteria Marion was forced to take a detour.
The shortest route from Gadgetry went past Mr. Nicholas’s office, merging with the corridor that ran past the main library entrance and eventually down toward the cafeteria.
But as Marion neared the bend in the corridor outside Nicholas’s office, she heard something that made her pause. At first it sounded like an argument between Frank and Nancy. She couldn’t see them, as they were standing just on the other side of the bend, but recognized their voices.
“...you can hardly blame the boy,” said Frank. “He’s only—”
“I don’t care what he is, Frank,” Nancy said. “And your sympathy for his situation changes nothing. What was he doing there out of office hours? And what was he doing with a Skeleton Key?” She paused. There was the sound of shuffling feet, then nothing.
Frank sighed. “You can’t fire him. Please, Nancy. I’m sure Rupert has the situation under control, and if not, I will speak to him myself.”
Marion heard the sound of Nicholas’s office door swing open and two sets of boots rush out. She took a step forward and peered around the corner.
Mr. Nicholas, Nancy and Frank were standing cross-armed in front of David Eston, who looked furious.
Nicholas smiled wearingly. “Not to worry,” he said, rather out of breath, “everything is well and sorted. I was just assuring Mr. Eston that he will soon come to realize everything we’ve done has been in the best interest of...well, everyone. Now, have you two come to a decision?”
Nancy looked sternly in Frank’s direction. There was a long hesitation and eventually she spoke. “Yes. I have decided to take Mr. Stone’s advice in the matter. You may remain at Miss Brickett’s, Mr. Eston, so long as you assure us that we will not have a repeat of this situation.”
David’s cold expression did not change.
“An assurance is needed, Mr. Eston,” Nancy repeated, holding out a sheet of paper.
David didn’t take it from her. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“The assurance, in writing. You will not go down there or anywhere near the Gadgetry Department out of office hours or unaccompanied. Sign it,” Nancy demanded.
David sneered. “You can’t be serious?”
“I will explain this to you one last time, Mr. Eston.” Nancy had turned on her coldest, most severe voice, one she reserved for occasions such as this. As she spoke, her words were clear and sharp, so much so that even David, even then in his most brutish state, did not dare interrupt. “I have run this agency for ten years on inflexible principles, implemented to protect all those for whom I am responsible. You were not forced to join us, and you are free to leave should you wish to do so. But as long as you are under my care, so long as you work within these walls, you will abide by each and every policy and regulation I have put in place. Or you will suffer the consequences without question. Now, sign it.”
It must have been at least five minutes that David stood there, staring at the document in Nancy’s hand. Nobody spoke, nobody even seemed to breathe. Eventually and with great hostility, David received the piece of paper (and a pen swiftly provided by Nicholas) and scratched a signature at the bottom.
The party began to disperse and Marion to panic. She could not risk being seen, as it would have been quite plain that she’d been eavesdropping. Fortunately, and just in time, she noticed a crevice in the wall behind where she was standing. She dashed toward it and wedged herself into the tight space. As she edged farther inside she realized that the space was larger than she’d expected—a decent-size oblong room whose north-facing wall was also the outer boundary of Nicholas’s office.
She waited in the darkness and quiet until certain the party outside was long gone. The incident she’d inadvertently witnessed had left her uneasy, though David was just the sort of person she’d expect to end up in Nicholas’s office within the first two months of his apprenticeship. He’d obviously been found trying to steal something from the Gadgetry Department, and had been rightfully threatened with dismissal should he be caught doing so again. She didn’t spend any time theorizing what he’d been attempting to steal, or why he seemed so reluctant to sign Nancy’s document.
She heard a shuffle of movement behind her, from farther within the crevice. She turned around to find Michelle White standing in the shadows.
Michelle smiled curiously as they locked eyes. “I see...” she said softly, taking a step forward.
Marion froze. She’d been so sure the crevice was empty. “Miss White, I was just—”
Michelle nodded knowingly. “Don’t worry, my dear, a little eavesdropping never harmed anyone.” She looked down at the leather handbag hanging over her shoulder. And there, poking out from the center compartment, as if rapidly shoved inside, was her trusty Herald Stethoscope. Michelle caressed the exposed end of the stethoscope as if it were a beloved pet, then marched off, her stride confident, triumphant even. There was no doubt in Marion’s mind, Miss White was very happy with what she’d just overheard.
7
A NOTE OF DESPERATION
Tuesday morning, Marion left Number Sixteen Willow Street for work earlier than usual. Dolores had not yet woken, nor had Marion seen her the evening before. Thank heavens. After the Monday she’d just had, the last thing she felt like doing was concocting a plausible excuse for her exhaustion that had nothing to do with murder, stethoscopes or agency gossip.
She pulled on a brown swing coat and stepped into the biting spring air, nearly colliding with the rag-and-bone man who’d deposited himself on the pavement outside her front door. He grunted and cursed as she passed, but Marion hardly noticed. As with the rest of her journey to the bookshop that morning, something else was occupying her thoughts.
As much as she tried not to, over and over she found herself replaying the memory of David’s rebuke. Whatever he’d been reprimanded for, Michelle White had known about
it. Marion realized now that as a known snitch, Michelle likely harbored a number of agency secrets, but perhaps David’s in particular interested her more than usual.
She thought back to what Professor Bal had said the day before—Michelle had seemed disturbed, worried. Something about someone looking for it. Something about David. So, was the thing Michelle said someone was looking for the same thing David had been trying to steal in February? Had Michelle caught David looking for it, or trying to steal it, again? Had she got in his way?
A vile, yet credible thought naturally followed: Was David Eston then capable of murder? But perhaps this was foolish to ask. Marion had known David just four months, a minute space of time, surely not long enough to unravel the layers and intricacies of another’s character. Of course, if she hadn’t known David long enough to decide whether or not he were capable of murder, was the same not true for everyone she’d crossed paths with at Miss Brickett’s?
* * *
Despite her early start, Marion arrived at the bookshop just before eight—the tube ride toward Fulham Broadway had been a mess of bodies and soot, taking longer than expected.
She unlocked the bookshop door, stumbled through the darkness, through the trapdoor and down the staircase to the lift. She pressed her silver apprentice badge against the wall and waited.
The trapdoor creaked open above her. Someone was coming down the stairs.
“Hold the lift.” David appeared on the staircase. He paused, appearing almost as surprised to see Marion as she was to see him.
They stared at one another in the dim light; neither greeted the other.
The lift arrived, groaned, shuddered and slid open. They stepped inside. Marion pressed herself into the corner, unnerved by his presence—the residue of the memory fresh in her mind. The doors rattled shut and the lift began to move. Tension choked the cramped space as the silence between the two occupants continued.
Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder Page 7