Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  Marion glared at her; she was sure her eyes had turned black with rage.

  “And don’t forget,” Dolores pressed on, “I have had a hard life, too...it hasn’t been easy, you know. Looking after you all these years. I didn’t have to. But I did, out of the goodness of my heart. I’ve never asked for a thing in return, not a thing.” She stopped. Reginald and Erin looked awfully uncomfortable. Dolores looked embarrassed. “You think you’re special, don’t you?” she went off again. “You think you deserve more? Well, let me tell you something. You’re just like the rest of us, bound to the very same fate—hardship and toil.”

  Rage was beating inside Marion but she held it there. She nodded a polite goodbye to Erin and Reginald and gave Dolores a ten-second stare before leaving. Without giving herself a chance to think twice about it, she pulled a suitcase from under her bed and began to fill it with the few belongings she had left. Dolores’s voice drifted up from downstairs, Reginald’s, too. They were talking about her, about how ungrateful she was, how rude she was.

  She slammed her suitcase shut, gave her room one last look and dragged herself downstairs.

  “Where do you think you’re—” Dolores said, screeching from the kitchen the minute she caught sight of Marion. “Don’t you dare walk out of that door. I won’t be here when you come back.”

  Marion whipped around. Hot fury bubbled up inside of her. “Good. I hope I never see you again. Goodbye.”

  Reginald had now pushed his way past Dolores and was trying to follow Marion into the street. “Please, Marion. Just hold on,” he said gently as he caught up with her. “It’s difficult for your grandmother, she’s only—”

  “Only what? Trying to help? Please don’t say it again.” Reginald’s face had lost all its color. Dolores looked pained. But Marion didn’t care. For too long she’d respected boundaries. Held her tongue. Compromised. And for what? Dolores had done nothing for her, just as she’d done nothing for Alice.

  She looked at her grandmother. Long and hard. When she spoke, her voice was even and low. “I’m leaving now. And I won’t be back. Don’t ever try to contact me again.” Her eyes stung but no tears fell.

  Dolores stood in the doorway looking out, arms crossed. Erin stood just behind her, cowering in her shadow. Marion had nothing left to say to any of them. She pulled her suitcase off the ground, and up to her side. It was light; there hadn’t been much to pack. Without saying goodbye, or even a second look at Dolores Hacksworth, Marion walked away. And then the tears came.

  * * *

  She stood outside Miss Brickett’s. The gentle rain that had started halfway through her journey from Number Sixteen Willow Street was now bucketing down in veritable waterfalls. Her hands shook. Her eyes were blurred with tears.

  But in her haste to leave Dolores and the others behind, Marion hadn’t quite had time to think her next step through. It was all very well to come to the bookshop, but what then? Rooms were provided at the agency only for Inquirers and senior staff members. Nancy might be willing to make an exception, but for Marion, admitting she was homeless, completely alone and desperate for help—especially to someone as self-assured as Nancy—was an acknowledgment of vulnerability, something she’d worked her whole life to conceal.

  When her mother died, Marion had cried and screamed and cursed only in private. When she lost her job at Felix’s auto repair shop, she’d told everyone she was bored of the work and needed a change, anyway. And since Frank had stepped into her life, she’d gone to lengths to disguise how desperately she needed him—his approval, his acceptance, his protection.

  But she remembered what Alice had always proclaimed—vulnerability demonstrated courage, not weakness. And despite the turmoil and fear and uncertainty, Marion knew something had shifted inside her the moment she’d left Dolores and Number Sixteen Willow Street behind. She was proud of herself for walking away, for finally confronting her grandmother. And maybe that spark of courage could now be coaxed into a flame.

  She took a breath, pulled out the new set of keys Nicholas had given her and the rest of the agency the day before and unlocked the bookshop door.

  * * *

  As she rounded the last bend in the corridor that led to Nancy’s office, she paused.

  Kenny Hugo, the newly inducted private detective from New York, emerged from a room to her right. He nodded, as if he’d been expecting her. They stared at one another for a moment, then Kenny began to smile.

  “What are you doing here?” Marion blurted out, pushing her hands into her pockets.

  Kenny looked offended. He came closer. His eyes were deep brown and alluring. Marion made a point of focusing on his forehead instead. “That’s a stupid question, Lane. I work here.”

  Marion opened her mouth. How did he know her name? She was going to ask but the words lodged in her throat. What was it about this peculiar man that both enticed and infuriated her?

  Kenny looked at her handbag. Then at the suitcase at her feet. “Going somewhere?”

  “You’ve been following me,” she said, thinking out loud—the library bar, the cafeteria. Why was he always watching her so intently?

  Kenny grinned more broadly and threaded his fingers through his hair. “Not you, in particular.”

  Marion raised an eyebrow. “So everyone?”

  Kenny shrugged. “You seem agitated.” He stepped closer. His aftershave enshrouded her—cinnamon and musk and sandalwood. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  Yes. She pulled her handbag tighter across her shoulder. “You’re making me late.” She picked up her suitcase. “Now, if you’d excuse me—”

  “It’s the weekend. You’re an apprentice. Shouldn’t you be at home?”

  Marion clenched her jaw—Kenny Hugo could do with a lesson in etiquette. She decided not to answer. “Have a good day, Mr. Hugo. I suppose I’ll see you around.” She pushed past, feeling his eyes bore into the back of her head as she marched off toward Nancy’s office door. She looked over her shoulder as she arrived. The tunnel was dim and empty.

  “Miss Lane?” Nancy said as Marion entered. “This is a surprise.” Her eyes surveyed Marion’s suitcase. “What can I do for you?”

  Marion hesitated, breathed, then began to explain her situation—Dolores had sold her house without compensation; she had nowhere to live and no money to afford rent. “I was hoping there is some way I could stay at the agency for the time being?”

  Nancy’s face wasn’t exactly soft or comforting but she seemed to be doing her best not to look irritated at least. “Is there really no other option? We’re rather overwhelmed with...other things at the moment.”

  Marion’s cheeks burned a little. “Well, no, I’m afraid not.” A lump formed in her throat. “I really don’t know what else to do.”

  Nancy pulled a file from the drawer behind her and began to page through it silently. “We could provide you with a room in the residence quarters, though the cost will come off your salary. A thirty percent deduction.”

  “Fine, that’s fine,” Marion said quickly, not that thirty percent deduction was a good thing, but she’d take what she could get.

  “Very well. There’s a small office in the residence quarters that’s vacant. Number twenty-six. I’ll have Harry show you the way.” She closed the file. “Is that all?”

  Marion stood up. “I was wondering about that new Inquirer, Mr. Hugo?”

  Nancy already looked impatient. “Yes?”

  Marion shifted on her feet. She wasn’t sure how to phrase the question: Why was he always loitering around? Was he watching her, or everyone? “What exactly is his role here?” was the best she could manage.

  “He’s an Inquirer, Miss Lane. He’s here to solve cases. As I explained at the Induction Ceremony.” Nancy stared at her without flinching, without giving anything away. It was hopeless.

  Marion nodded. “Right, of course.” Sh
e’d have to ask someone more forthcoming. “Is Frank in his office, by the way?”

  Nancy’s eyes flashed with alarm. “Frank is not available. He’s very busy. And no,” she added, “he’s not in his office. Now please, if that’s all?” Her tone implied the conversation was over and, from experience, Marion knew it was thus pointless to argue.

  * * *

  Marion followed Harry to the residence quarters and a small room on the second floor. It was grim and cold, furnished only with a single bed, a side table, two armchairs and a washbasin.

  She waited for Harry to leave, then unpacked her things, finishing with the framed photograph of her mother that she placed on her bedside table. She’d have liked to visit Frank before the evening. Not really to talk about Kenny Hugo, though that would’ve been her excuse. She wanted to talk about Dolores and the house and how the whole thing made her feel. Frank knew what her grandmother was like. He’d know what to say.

  But instead she was here, alone in a cold room that felt so unfamiliar. With the adrenaline of the day slowly receding, a wave of exhaustion returned. She rubbed her watch strap absently as she considered her current reality. Miss Brickett’s had always been a refuge, the one place to which she truly belonged. But now—with Number Sixteen Willow Street sold—the agency really was all she had left. If anything went awry with Michelle White’s case and Miss Brickett’s had to be closed down, Marion’s destitution would reach a new and all-time low.

  She closed her eyes and, for the first time in her life, prayed.

  12

  THE SMOKING CLOCK

  “Well, at least you’ll save yourself the tube ride every morning,” Bill remarked in response to Marion’s tale of Dolores’s ultimatum and her newly appointed room as they sat down together in the Gadgetry Department the following Monday morning.

  Marion smiled, but it didn’t feel natural. Since her relocation to the residence quarters, she’d been overwhelmed with claustrophobia and uncertainty. The memories of Number Sixteen Willow Street still haunted her—the last tangible link to her old life now ripped away.

  “Mari?” Bill was staring at her, a copy of the Basic Workshop Manual spread out in front of him, a dismantled Distracter to his left. “You all right?”

  Marion breathed deeply and picked up the Distracter. She wasn’t all right, far from it. “Have you heard anything more about White’s case?”

  Bill looked confused. “No...have you?”

  She said nothing as she adjusted the Distracter’s pendulum. She hadn’t heard anything more and that was the problem. What was going on? Who had the agency found guilty and why hadn’t they told anyone about it?

  “Mari?”

  She sighed. “I was just thinking what will happen if the police really do have to get involved? What if we’re shut down?”

  “That’s not going to happen, come on.”

  “You don’t know that. White has a family, doesn’t she? A life outside the agency. What if people start asking questions?”

  “Then they’ll do what they did with Asbrey. Lie, say it was an accident, and if that doesn’t work they’ll pay them off. Don’t worry, I’m sure Nancy has more at stake than you do. She’ll handle it.”

  Marion reassembled the clockwork bird in silence. She wasn’t quite sure Bill was right this time. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, forcing her mind to quieten, driving the unease into the shadows and focusing instead on the task before her.

  The malfunctioning batch of Distracters Professor Bal had tasked her with fixing had turned out to be even more challenging than she’d initially imagined. It seemed that no matter how many parts were rearranged and replaced, the bird never did anything other than fly a few feet into the air and peter out. She’d dismantled and reassembled the device countless times, while Bill scoured the library for further resources. Nothing seemed to be working. And over the past four days, whenever she asked Professor Bal or his assistant for advice, she was met with the same response: “Sorry, we’re too busy. You’re on your own this time.”

  What they were too busy with, she later came to understand, was an exciting but highly classified assignment, something to raise agency morale after Michelle White’s murder. Marion might’ve pressed the professor for assistance, anyway, but she realized quickly enough that this assignment—whatever it turned out to be—was the only thing keeping Uday Bal from falling apart after the trauma of his friend’s passing. Thus the task of the malfunctioning metal sunbird had fallen to Marion and Bill alone.

  But now, despite her utter exhaustion and frustration, as she studied the bird’s innards for the hundredth time—she realized she’d finally figured it out.

  “It’s a sizing issue,” she blurted out, suddenly excited.

  Bill looked down at the Workshop manual. He began to thumb through, bewildered. “Sizing of what?”

  “The phonograph. There, pass me that one. The smallest.” She pointed hurriedly at the box of parts, then replaced the bird’s old phonograph with a new, much smaller version. She tightened the wings and screwed the head in place. “Right, hold thumbs.” She wound up the key under the bird’s wing and released it from her grip. Immediately it fluttered upward and came to rest on the top of the glass display cabinet.

  Bill glanced at her in apprehension. He looked at his watch. If the new phonograph was going to work, they’d know about it in exactly fifteen seconds. “Five, four, three, two, one...”

  An enormous bang thundered through the Workshop—something similar to a pane of glass shattering.

  “Bloody brilliant!” Bill slapped Marion on the back. “You think the fault is the same for the entire batch?”

  Marion beamed. “Yes, yes, definitely. So as long as we keep the parameters the same.”

  Bill smiled as they packed up their tools. “You’re really good at this stuff, you know. You should apply for a position here at the end of the year. Assistant mechanic or something. Pull an Amanda.”

  Marion shrugged. The end of the year seemed an impossibly long way off. She’d have to get through the next week first.

  “What’s he doing here?” Bill asked, gesturing to the Workshop entrance. Edgar Swindlehurst was standing at the door, a large satchel slung over his shoulder. He started toward them.

  “Oh... Christ,” Marion’s heart thumped. How could she have forgotten? With everything that had happened lately—her trip across the Border, Dolores and the house—the matter of completing the Tucker character profiles (which were due that afternoon) had slipped her mind.

  “What? Mari?”

  “Is he coming over here?” she asked urgently, not daring to look across the hall.

  “Eh, yeah.”

  “Miss Lane, Mr. Hobb.” Swindlehurst reached the workbench seconds later.

  “Afternoon, sir,” Marion and Bill said together. Marion forced herself to make eye contact, expecting Swindlehurst’s full wrath to come down upon her any minute. She inhaled, preparing an excuse in her head—she’d been so busy, so distracted, she was sorry, she’d explain it all to Nancy herself.

  But Swindlehurst spoke first. “Where is the professor?”

  Marion swallowed, confused. “I’m sorry?”

  Swindlehurst looked over her shoulder, to the back of the Workshop, to Professor Bal’s office. “Is he in his office? It’s urgent. I need to speak with him.”

  Bill glanced at Marion. Then, realizing she wasn’t going to answer, he said, “Bal’s taken the afternoon off. He’ll be back in the morning.”

  Swindlehurst clenched his jaw. Once again, Marion was reminded of just how handsome, almost disturbingly so, his features were. “He’s on leave? For Christ’s sake, at a time like this?” He rubbed his neck and breathed. His eyes then focused on Marion; they flickered as if he were trying to remember something. She stiffened. Was there a chance he’d actually forgotten about the character profiles,
too? “Right,” he said, turning to leave. “Well, if he comes back unexpectedly, tell him to meet me in my office.” He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment.

  Bill turned to Marion as soon as Swindlehurst had left the department. “What was all that about?”

  “Just something I forgot to do for him.” She threw her tools into her suitcase and slammed the lid shut. “He seems to have forgotten about it, though, which will buy me some time. Thank God.”

  Bill frowned. “Right, but I meant what do you think Swindlehurst wants with Bal? He looked pretty riled about something.”

  True, she thought. Swindlehurst never seemed to be in a good mood, at least not when dealing with apparent delays and perceived inadequacies. He was obviously a perfectionist, which made Marion shudder, considering the very imperfect character profiles she was going to have to present to him that afternoon. “He always is.”

  “But why’s the professor taken leave, anyway? I thought he was supposed to be swamped with work.”

  “He is. And he’s not on leave. He’s gone off to fetch some parts from Berlin.”

  “Huh.” Bill looked intrigued, but not enough to continue the topic. “Any plans for tonight? I was thinking we could have a drink somewhere outside after work. Get out a bit. Maybe some dinner, too?”

  “Sorry, I can’t. I’ve a meeting with Frank.”

  “Tonight? What about?”

  Marion felt a chill run through her as she recalled Frank’s odd behavior the night of the Induction Ceremony, the urgency with which he’d told her about the meeting, the way he’d phrased it all. She shrugged, hoping she appeared less anxious than she felt. “He didn’t say.”