Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  There was another long pause, this time broken by Mrs. Spragg.

  “Are we absolutely certain the camera was not tampered with? Don’t we have some gadget that can—”

  Nicholas looked impatient as he interrupted. “Professor Bal has assured me that he has never produced a device that would interfere with a security camera. Therefore, if a gadget was used for such purposes it was not produced here. In addition, and as I already mentioned, the professor is quite confident that neither the lens nor the recording device was tampered with.”

  “Then it’s a matter of logic,” Mrs. Spragg said conclusively. “I must agree with Edgar. I simply can’t see what other explanation there is.”

  There was a low murmur from the council members.

  Frank shifted in his seat. “What type of camera is it, Nicholas?”

  Nicholas appeared put out by the question. But it was Nancy who answered. “A passive infrared intrusion sensor.” She paused. “In other words, it detects body heat, and when it does, it turns on.”

  Again, though perhaps more certainly this time, Frank’s gaze shifted upward to Marion. Then he spoke. “And is there no means by which someone might override such a camera?”

  Mr. Nicholas was fiddling with the piece of paper in his hand, the report from Professor Bal. He was reluctant to answer. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Nancy interrupted. “There is a way.”

  The council looked at her, confused.

  She explained. “It’s not impossible, just highly improbable as one would have to find a way of disrupting the infrared emission from their body.”

  Mr. Nicholas’s eyebrows all but reached his hairline.

  “Oh, yes,” chimed in Miss Simpkins. “I heard a story about something like that once. A thief covered themselves in foam boards and managed to get past—”

  “Please, dear Lord!” Mr. Nicholas groaned. “I think if someone had waltzed through the agency covered in foam boards, we’d have noticed.”

  Miss Simpkins looked offended.

  Nancy quickly intervened. “Yes, thank you, Barbara. I think the council gets the idea. As I said, there is a possibility someone found a way to override the camera’s sensor and we should keep that in mind.”

  “But it’s beside the point,” Mr. Nicholas urged. “Because no one knew the camera was there. And certainly not what type of camera it was. Am I correct?” He looked at Nancy.

  “I can’t answer that for certain. As I said, I put the camera there many years ago. I never told anyone about it, but if someone searched hard enough, as you’ve done, Rupert, they would have found it. And as it stands, I’m afraid that the only thing we are able to prove is that Frank was the only other person in the lock room that night. It is now up to us, the High Council, to decide if this is enough to convict him of murder.” She phrased it as a question, though Marion wondered if perhaps she meant it more as a statement.

  “Before you answer that,” Frank intervened, his tone somewhat hopeful, “I have something I’d like to mention. When I entered the lock room that night, it was dark. I could hardly see Michelle, not until I was standing right above her. But it was not just the lack of light that affected my vision. There was something off that night. I don’t know what it was but...it was as if there was something in the air, something cold.” He paused to survey the council’s reaction. They looked shocked, mostly, perhaps confused.

  At last Mr. Nicholas spoke. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, what utter nonsense!” He stood up.

  “Please, Rupert,” Nancy said. “Everyone is permitted to have their say. And I think it’s safe to say that as longtime members of Miss Brickett’s, we’ve all experienced happenings down here that seem to bend reality and logic.” She turned to Frank. “Is there anything else you can tell us about that night, about the atmosphere?”

  “I just felt disorientated. I couldn’t see anything clearly.”

  Mr. Nicholas looked as if he had something to say to this but changed his mind.

  Nancy looked defeated. “In that case, Frank, I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do.” Her words were soft, as if meant only for him. “According to our official policy booklet, if a crime is committed on Miss Brickett’s property, it falls to the High Council to identify those responsible and penalize them accordingly. This code was put into place not only to protect our staff and members but also our secrecy. The enforcement of this, our very own system of justice and punishment, is imperative if we are to continue to evade the ever-prying eyes of the outside world.

  “Now, according to official decree number thirteen,” Nancy went on, her voice having regained its sharpness and strength, “the crime of murder is classed as a category five transgression and comes with two additional notes. The first is that the accused must be given a fair trial in front of the High Council, and a chance to oppose their conviction. Which, I believe, we have now done. The second states that should the head of the council, that is to say me, believe there is reasonable doubt of the accused’s guilt, a ten-day extension period may be implemented before the final sentencing. This extension serves to provide the council with a chance to examine the possibility of a secondary suspect.” She adjusted her spectacles. Marion’s heart thumped with the smallest flicker of hope. “Should this happen, and another suspect is brought before the council, a new trial will be undertaken, the outcome of which will determine the final verdict. However, should no new suspect be brought forward, sentencing of the first accused will go ahead as planned.”

  Mr. Nicholas looked as if he might explode with indignation. “Outrageous! Another ten days? You might as well set him free!”

  Mr. Swindlehurst and Mrs. Spragg nodded vehemently.

  Nancy closed her file and the seven council members sat in silence. The room was so still all Marion could hear was her own breathing.

  Nancy spoke at last. “This trial is hereby on hold for ten days, or until such time as a new suspect is brought forward.”

  Mr. Nicholas shook his head. “Outrageous!” he said for the second time and no less aggressively.

  “I have made my final decision, Rupert,” Nancy said. “The council will meet again on May 1 where, if Frank is indeed found guilty of this crime—” she breathed “—he will be transferred to the Holding Chambers for life.”

  Marion didn’t realize it until then, but she had been holding her breath. She exhaled, just as she felt as if she were about to faint.

  Mr. Nicholas cleared his throat and stood up. “Nancy, I think you have overlooked something,” he said, holding up the policy document and pointing to a particular sentence he had underlined. “It says here that the accused must be kept in complete isolation during this extension period to ensure any new evidence brought forward will not be tainted by his influence.”

  Nancy, it was clear, had hoped this small detail would have been overlooked. “Indeed,” she said uncertainly, “I’m just not sure where we can keep Frank.”

  “Lock him in his office,” Miss Simpkins suggested coldly.

  Mr. Swindlehurst laughed. “How comfortable and convenient.” He stood up in a hurry. “I’ve had enough of all this nonsense. Quite unbelievable that after all these years, after all we’ve worked so hard to achieve at Miss Brickett’s, that one of our very own turns into a cold-blooded killer and we’re now perfectly happy to let him wander around as a free man!”

  Professor Gillroth raised his hand. “I have an idea...what about chamber number forty-eight? Far away from everyone, isolated, quite safe and sound.”

  “That will do, thank you, Professor,” Nancy said quickly. “Meeting adjourned.” Without giving anyone the chance to contend, she stood up and strode away to the other end of the office where she busied herself with loudly opening and slamming shut a line of filing cabinets.

  “Well, then,” said Mr. Nicholas, “I suppose we’re done.” He got up, followed
by a highly disgruntled-looking Mr. Swindlehurst.

  Marion turned down the volume on the clock and sank to the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t think. All she felt was a sickening cold. When eventually she managed to stand, she glanced again at the clock.

  Though the council had adjourned, Nancy and Professor Gillroth remained behind. They stood together directly below the camera’s eye. Gillroth looked withdrawn, perhaps even frightened. Nancy looked furious. They appeared to be having an argument.

  Marion adjusted the volume.

  “...to have known it then, what a fool,” Nancy said.

  “The position was redundant,” Gillroth said. “But she liked it. It gave her a sense of purpose, I suppose.”

  “Purpose?” Nancy seethed. “She’s dead because of it.”

  “Are you suggesting Michelle’s death and her role as Border Guard are connected?”

  “She was afraid, Henry. Before she died, she came to me.”

  Gillroth shifted on his walking stick. “And did she say why she was afraid?”

  Nancy dropped her voice to barely more than a whisper. “She feared someone would find it. That is why she wanted extra protection, and why I sent Rupert’s snake into the tunnels.”

  “Michelle thought a lot of wild and ridiculous things. But that is beside the point. You did as she asked. Rupert’s snake found nothing.”

  “There was movement recorded on Tuesday.”

  Gillroth waved the suggestion off. He spoke nonchalantly. “Probably just an animal, a rat most likely.”

  Marion stiffened at the memory of Mr. Nicholas’s spy. So it had seen something of them, after all.

  “For goodness’ sake.” Nancy lowered her voice even further.

  Marion adjusted the volume as high as it would go, but already she’d missed a part of the conversation.

  “...lock room was the site of the crime, that’s all. Perhaps the letter Michelle received that night was a warning, or a trap.” She sighed. “Someone was looking for it, Henry.”

  Gillroth’s eyes flickered with something akin to disbelief. “Nonsense. Why would they? No one even knows it exists.”

  Nancy hesitated for a moment. “What about the map?”

  Gillroth looked surprised. “The map?”

  “You told me once that there was a map that showed everything, the original layout of the labyrinth. Perhaps it reveals—”

  “It doesn’t,” Gillroth cut in. “And besides, the map is gone. I haven’t seen it in years.” He nodded, as if the conversation were over. He turned to leave, pausing halfway to the door. He seemed to consider what he was about to say, then spoke with a deep, almost threatening tone. “I do hope, Nancy, that you won’t take this too far. We have our killer. There is no need for further investigation, leading to further questions that I needn’t remind you we cannot answer.”

  Nancy’s face was still and cold. “Of course, Henry. I agree.” It was impossible for Marion to tell if this were a lie.

  13

  PROFESSOR GILLROTH’S WARNING

  Marion stumbled back to her room in a daze. Everything she’d heard slowly sinking in. She lay on her bed and stared at the cracked ceiling. The gas lamp beside her flickered and hissed, casting strange shadows across the room, now so cramped and suffocating. She took a breath and attempted to arrange her thoughts, to piece together what she understood: Michelle White received a letter from receiver box fifty-five the night of her murder. No one knew what the letter said, or who’d sent it, but it prompted her to leave the Filing Department for the lock room, where she was murdered minutes later. Frank was the only other person recorded entering the lock room that night, though according to his testament, Michelle was dead by the time he got there.

  Marion believed him. Of course she did. And so the killer—and really this could be anyone, White had myriad enemies—must have found a way to slip past the camera. But how? Or maybe more importantly, why?

  She watched the shadows on the ceiling dance as her thoughts unraveled. Somehow she knew that the conversation Nancy and Gillroth had at the end (and in private) was more significant than anything that had been said by the council. The pair knew something about the case the others didn’t, something they were trying to hide.

  Marion sat up. Sleep was going to be impossible now. She waited for morning, counting the hours, so filled with angst it made her nauseous.

  After what seemed a lifetime, her alarm rang. Seven-thirty.

  She washed her face with icy water in the washbasin opposite her bed. The cold shocked her senses to life but did nothing to quieten the clamor of thoughts in her head. She needed a release, someone to unpack it all with. She rushed down to the cafeteria.

  “Thank God.” She pulled Bill from the canteen before he’d even picked up a tray.

  “Blimey, you look awful. Rough night?”

  They sat down at their usual table by the fireplace. It was unlit, though last night’s coals still glowed in the grate.

  “What’s going on?” Bill asked more anxiously now as Marion waited in silence, to be certain no one was close enough to eavesdrop.

  “I know who they’ve accused of White’s murder,” she whispered. Her voice sounded unfamiliar, even to herself. Thin and worn, like her nerves.

  Bill’s face turned from confused to terrified as Marion recounted the tale of what she’d witnessed through Frank’s office camera. She tried to include every detail, every nuance, of the High Council’s meeting.

  “Bloody hell...” Bill stared at the floor, aghast. “And you really think it was intentional? Frank wanted you to see all that?”

  Marion didn’t answer, though she had no doubt Frank had planned the whole thing: the exact timing of her arrival, the letter tray emerging at just the right moment (set by a timer, no doubt) with instructions on how to open the door, the plumes of smoke from the clock guiding her toward the screen.

  Bill’s new tic was back. He tapped his thumb and finger together, a rapid, anxious beat. “You know, if everything is as Nicholas explained—the camera above the lock room gate, the timing of White’s death—it really sounds like Frank is, well, the most likely—”

  “Frank is innocent,” Marion cut him off. She could not let Bill say the words, lest they distract her. “I can’t explain how, or what any of this means. But I know that at least.”

  He sighed. “I know you don’t want to believe he’s capable of anything that awful, Mari, but maybe everybody is. People make mistakes, they snap.” He trailed off and tilted his head to the floor. “This place...” He stared vacantly at the cafeteria. “I’ve always wondered if it’s something in the air, or maybe lack of sunshine. People down here aren’t the same as they are aboveground, you’ve noticed that?”

  Marion said nothing. But Bill was right. The stifling atmosphere, the dim and silent corridors, now felt more deviant than ever. She’d sensed it most strongly the day she’d crossed the Border and entered the wet and winding tunnels beyond. A seething, visceral darkness lurked there. Clawing, scratching, spreading.

  Bill looked afraid now. He gripped Marion’s hand and pulled it toward him. “I’m sorry, Mari. I know this is difficult, but sometimes, maybe we just have to accept the facts—”

  Marion pulled herself free. “If by that you mean accept Frank is a murderer?” She almost choked on the word. It was like acid in her throat. She stiffened as she realized there was only one course of action she could now take. “I have to do something.”

  Bill pushed a string of hair behind his ear. “Something like?”

  She was tiring of Bill’s lack of encouragement. “I don’t know yet.” She got up.

  “Wait, Mari.” He pulled her back down. “Okay, okay.” He sighed. “Let’s go over what we know.” He waited until Aida Rakes collected a newspaper from the table opposite and moved of
f to the other side of the cafeteria. “Okay, so White was killed in the lock room with her own Herald Stethoscope. Sounds quite vindictive to me.”

  “Right, I know. Problem is, nearly everyone at the agency had something against White.”

  Bill looked thoughtful. “Okay...and what about the letter she received? It motivated her to leave the Filing Department for the lock room. Why?” He paused again to think. “Maybe the letter suggested something was going to be stolen from the lock room and White went there to investigate?”

  Marion shook her head. “No, I don’t think that’s it. Nancy said none of the drawers had been opened.”

  “Right.” Bill looked across the cafeteria again. “White was dead when Frank found her. What type of camera did you say—”

  “Passive infrared intrusion sensor,” Marion supplied. She was unbearably restless. Every second they sat there talking, however necessary the conversation, was another second Frank was closer to being wrongfully imprisoned.

  “A motion detector?”

  “No. It detects body heat.”

  “Okay...but no one knew the camera was there except for Nancy, and if they did, wouldn’t they rather remove the camera than try to get past it undetected?”

  Again, Marion shook her head. “We’re getting off track, looking at it from the wrong angle. We can figure the how out later. We need to understand the why first, which will lead us to the who. Why would someone have killed White?”

  “But we’ve discussed this already, it’s a dead end. She was a snitch. She could’ve had something worth killing for on just about everyone.”

  “I know but—” Marion lowered her voice, afraid that if someone were listening this would be the part of the tale most dangerous for them to hear. “Remember what I told you about the conversation Nancy and Gillroth had with each other at the end?”

  Bill strained his forehead. “That White used to guard the tunnels? Yeah, I saw the sign outside her office—Border Guard. I thought it was a joke.”