Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  “Nancy seems to think that White’s murder had to do with her role as Border Guard, which probably means she was killed by someone she thought was planning to uncover something from those restricted tunnels, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, not maybe. Nancy said White came to her a few days before the murder. She was nervous because someone was looking for it. Professor Bal told us the same thing.”

  “But we already know what that means. White thought David was going to break into her office to look for the monocle.”

  “That’s what we’ve been assuming, and maybe what Professor Bal was assuming, too. But—” She paused, refocusing. She was more exhausted than she ever remembered feeling and the dissection of information she’d gained from Frank’s office was unfolding sluggishly. “I don’t think that’s what White meant, not exactly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “White was the Border Guard, right? So what was she guarding?”

  “The restricted tunnels, obviously.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re dangerous?”

  “No. Because there’s something down there, Bill. Something only White, Nancy and Gillroth know about. Something the map reveals. I think that’s what she meant when she told Bal and Nancy that someone was looking for it. She was worried that if someone stole her map, and then the monocle, they’d find it. That’s why Nancy sent that awful snake down there to patrol the tunnels, and whatever it is they’re hiding. I bet Ned knew about it, too, all those years ago.” She waited. “Well? Any ideas what it could be?”

  “You’re asking me?” Bill looked incredulous. “How would I know?”

  “You’re always in the library. You’ve studied the agency’s history, haven’t you?”

  “Mari, come on. If it’s some massive secret that Nancy and Gillroth are trying to hide, I don’t think we’re going to find it in a book lying around in the library.” He sighed. “All I know is what they told us when we were recruited. What everybody else knows,” he added as if this should include her. “The tunnels were originally discovered by someone who worked for the Underground Electric Railways Company. They were then used as World War II bunkers, or command centers, and later handed over to Nancy, who opened the agency in 1948. That’s all they ever told us, probably for good reason,” he muttered.

  Marion nodded. She remembered all that. But there was something else, a part of the history that hadn’t come from Nancy, but from rumor instead. And, as Marion was beginning to realize, rumors at Miss Brickett’s often turned out to be true. “What about the alchemists?”

  Bill looked dubious, and a little frightened. “Come on—”

  “I’m serious. What do you know about them?”

  “Again, probably nothing more than you do. A group of alchemists was exiled by the church in the 1300s for practicing necromancy or something along those lines. Then, supposedly they came down here and continued their work underground.” He frowned. “The 1300s, Mari. That’s a bloody long time ago, far too long for a secret to stay hidden.” He looked at his watch. “Listen, I’d really like to help more with all this but it’s nearly eight, and I’m due in Gadgetry this morning. Bal’s got thirty new orders from the Factory to complete by next month and if I don’t show up—”

  “It’s fine. Go. We can talk about it more later.” She got up.

  “Where’re you stationed this morning?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t checked the roster.”

  Bill opened his mouth but Marion shot him a look. She knew how off-color it must seem, her not having checked her roster, having no idea where she was stationed or what duties were lined up for her that day. But things were different now. Her priorities had shifted.

  “It doesn’t matter, Bill. I’ll put in leave, for Christ’s sake.” She stopped. “I can’t just carry on like everything’s fine. I can’t complete my shifts. I can’t even sleep. This extension period is Frank’s last chance. Either someone else is brought forward as a suspect or—”

  “I’m just trying to be rational here. Think about it. Do you really believe Frank wants you to get involved? Why you? You’re an apprentice. You’re a first-year apprentice. Do you really think he wouldn’t ask someone with more experience to help?” Bill was staring at her, his eyes filled with concern. “I’m just trying to make you think. I don’t know why Frank wanted you to witness the trial, it’s strange, but maybe it wasn’t because he wanted you to help. Maybe he just wanted you to know the truth. Maybe he was just saying goodbye.”

  “No. No, I don’t believe that,” Marion said immediately. She wouldn’t allow herself to consider the possibility that he was right. She couldn’t suffer another loss—not after losing her father, her mother, the house. Frank and the agency were all she had left. She was invested now, whether Frank had wanted her to be or not.

  Bill sighed, defeated. “All right, so what’s our plan?”

  “I need to see it.”

  Bill’s face paled.

  “Please, Bill. I need to see it. Now.”

  “Now?” He surveyed the room. Marion did the same. The cafeteria was mostly empty, though a group of apprentices and Inquirers were still gathered near the canteen. Marion shuffled over to obscure their view as Bill opened his backpack and pulled out the parchment, along with the monocle—now wrapped in several layers of cloth. He hesitated before he handed them over. “We already looked at it, though.”

  “Yes, but we must have missed something.”

  “Just promise me you’re not going to go down there, across the Border?”

  “Of course I’m not.”

  “Promise me, Mari.”

  She sighed. “I promise. I just want to look at the map.”

  Bill had never looked so unconvinced. “I’ll come to your room as soon as I can get off. We’ll figure it out together.”

  Marion kissed his cheek. “Thank you.” She slipped the cloth-covered map and monocle into her handbag and turned to leave. She knew Bill was right to be concerned—not just for the fact that she was now embroiled in an internal agency matter, but because she was allowing it to take precedence over her apprenticeship duties. A sure sign her world was in turmoil.

  * * *

  Marion spread the old map open on her bedside table and brought the monocle to her right eye.

  A web of silvery, shifting lines materialized. Hundreds of them: long and convoluted, short and segmented. Most of what the map detailed above the level of the Gadgety Department and before the Border was familiar—the ballroom, kitchens, cafeteria, residence quarters, library—though indeed she noted a number of connecting tunnels, hidden doors and rooms she was yet to explore. But as it had been the first time she’d looked through the monocle, the maze below the Gadgetry Department, beyond Michelle White’s office and over the Border, was the most fascinating. Or perhaps fascinating wasn’t the word. Disconcerting.

  Occasionally a minuscule label would appear on the parchment’s surface—chamber eight, chamber ninety, top hall—but whenever Marion attempted to trace the lines that led to them, she failed. For everywhere the paths beyond the Border bisected and converged, until eventually their origins and termini seemed to disappear altogether. She searched every crevice, though she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for. Would anything of particular importance really be labeled?

  She removed the monocle and threw it onto her bed. Her neck ached, her eyes itched with exhaustion. Two hours had passed and the only thing she’d been able to learn from the map was something she already knew—the tunnels beyond the Border were a confounding death trap. If there was something down there Nancy and Gillroth were trying to keep a secret, no one would ever have been able to find it, even if they knew where it was.

  She turned her attention back to the map and noticed something she hadn’t taken interest in before. A faded mark
, not made with invisible ink but with a normal pen—a long and wavy line drawn from near the bottom of the map to the middle. She’d seen it the first time Bill showed her the parchment but had thought it nothing but an unintentional scribble.

  She held the map under her bedside lamp. The mark was not a line. It was an arrow.

  She attached the monocle to her head and adjusted the straps. The arrow, faded and nearly indecipherable, appeared to connect two points: one in the maze beyond the Border, one in the very heart of Miss Brickett’s. The problem was that under the monocle’s lens, the line of normal ink was pale, almost bleached, and Marion couldn’t quite make out where it led. Without the monocle, the line became clearer, yet it was impossible to tell what it connected. She studied the arrow further, noticing a line of thin script written in Gray Ink just beneath, so small it was nearly impossible to read: To the Border. To the truth.

  There was a tap on her bedroom door. She ignored it, hoping whoever was there might leave.

  Tap tap tap. Louder this time.

  “Who is it?”

  “Ah, Miss Lane. You’re in.” The voice was frail, old. Professor Gillroth.

  Marion threw the map and monocle under her bed and pulled open the door.

  The professor smiled; his rheumy eyes swept over her shoulder as if to check she was alone. His face was so wrinkled and worn that Marion thought he looked even older than his eighty-eight years. “I was hoping to have a word. Would you mind?”

  “Actually, I was just about to leave for...” She paused. She didn’t know what shift she was late for, or had missed. It might even have been one with Gillroth himself. “The infirmary,” she lied. “I’m feeling a bit off today.”

  Gillroth appeared not to have heard; he turned on his walking stick and began to move. “Follow me, my dear. We can have a word in my office.”

  Marion was tempted to protest, to lock herself in her room. But if she hoped to continue her investigation to clear Frank’s name, appearances were of the utmost importance now. She could not allow the professor to grow suspicious of her, if he was not already.

  Though the professor was nearing ninety, Marion found it difficult to keep up as they wound their way through tiny corridor after tiny corridor, past the common room and the residence quarters, down a short marble staircase and into a narrow passageway that threaded through an enormously thick section of stone wall. Out the other side they came to another, somewhat taller staircase, at the very top of which was a wide wooden door.

  Professor Gillroth stretched his right arm around the door frame and yanked at a tiny metal lever near the light switch. There was a click, as if a bolt had slid out of place. He gestured for Marion to enter. “Welcome, make yourself at home, dear. It’s quite the walk, but I like my little office, all the way over here, away from all the noise.”

  The round room smelled of candle wax and soap. The walls were rustically painted and covered in portraits of old men and women Marion didn’t recognize. The floor space scattered with tables of various sizes, each completely covered with books, papers, pens and odd pieces of crockery.

  Gillroth lowered himself into a cushioned chair that stood under the largest portrait—one of a long-bearded man in oversize spectacles and a scarlet blazer, smoking a cigar—and pointed Marion to the chair opposite. She had decided to follow his lead, although she hadn’t a clue what was happening.

  He groaned as he shifted himself into a more comfortable position. “Sit, please.” He waited for Marion to settle, then continued. “I hear that your grandmother has left the country?”

  Marion had always thought of the professor as wise and a bit odd, but frail and unthreatening. Tonight, however, as she sat opposite him in the stifling office, something changed. The old man’s eyes seemed hollow and cold and she realized, as she’d come to see with everyone at the agency, she really knew nothing about him. Sweat leaked though her blouse, dripping down her back. She could taste the air, thick with candle smoke. She wanted to leave. “You said you wanted a word?” she prompted, unwilling to engage in small talk.

  The professor shook his head. “I have been here since the very beginning, did you know that?”

  Yes, Marion thought, but did not say. She knew Gillroth—a civil engineer with an additional degree in sociology—had been around since Miss Brickett’s opened its doors ten years ago. He and Nancy had met at Bletchley Park where Gillroth worked as a consultant to the team of engineers and mathematicians ultimately responsible for cracking Enigma. The two stayed in contact after the war, reuniting in 1948 as the agency opened. Nancy had put Gillroth in charge of Human Resources, where he spent the majority of his time, though unofficially he was also responsible for overseeing the maintenance and repair of Miss Brickett’s endless chain of tunnels and corridors—another reason Marion now suspected the professor might know more of the labyrinth’s secrets.

  “I’ve seen so many of you before,” he went on, “young and ambitious apprentices. You’re all the same in the beginning, curious and afraid. I...” He paused to breathe, a horrible dry crackle like sandpaper drawn against glass.

  Marion twisted the cuff of her blouse as the professor’s words carried sluggishly across the smoky office.

  “There are secrets here,” he continued. “I’m sure you are aware of that. I’m sure you’re eager to know everything, but let me tell you something I have said to all those who came before you, Miss Lane. You are here to learn the craft of detection. You are here to serve the city of London. Keep yourself busy with this work and do not stray from your purpose.” He straightened somewhat in his chair. “For your own good.”

  Marion looked at her watch, attempting to appear casual and hold back the fear in her voice. “Thank you, sir. But that is what I’m doing and why I should really be getting along.”

  “Mr. Eston is recovering well, by the way,” the professor went on, unruffled by her attempt to end the conversation. “Though the hospital staff do seem most perplexed by the circumstance of his injuries.” He stopped to inspect Marion’s reaction, and in turn blood flushed to her cheeks. She’d never had much of a poker face. “They simply do not believe it is possible that he sustained such injuries from falling down a flight of stairs. Seems to be more of a crush injury, I’m told. But I suppose you know that already.” He twirled his fingers around his walking stick.

  Marion’s blouse clung to her back, her hair to her forehead. Whatever she said now could seal her fate, Bill’s and even David’s. She chose silence instead.

  The professor nodded. With the aid of his walking stick, he stood and wandered over to his desk and opened a drawer. From inside he produced a yellow file. Marion’s heartbeat thumped in her throat as she realized what it was—her quarterly assessment report.

  “I suppose you forgot about this,” he said, holding out the file.

  Marion opened to the first page. A summary of her performance since recruitment. It was clear, without much analysis, that since April 14 (the day Nancy announced Michelle White’s death) her work ethic had taken a drastic dive. She turned to page two: Performance Report, Intelligence Department. She felt the professor’s gaze upon her; he knew what she was reading. Her eyes flicked over the report written by Edgar Swindlehurst: failed to produce Tucker character profiles of adequate quality resulting in dismissal from the Scorch case.

  She closed the file, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, with frustration, with anger. She wanted to pound her fists against the wall. She was furious with herself. Her inadequacy had led to her dismissal from the agency’s biggest case, which in turn meant she’d have to work three times harder to stand a chance of making it to the end of her apprenticeship without being fired. Mostly, however, she was frustrated because Gillroth could have left her report where everyone’s was sure to be—in a tray at the end of the Grand Corridor. But instead he had given it to her now, in his office, in front of him, isolated, corne
red. She felt he was manipulating her, coercing her.

  But why?

  She wondered if it were possible he knew she’d witnessed Frank’s trial, that she’d heard what he and Nancy had said to one another at the end? Maybe, by forcing her to confront her dismal assessment report, he hoped she might reconsider getting involved in White’s case. Well, he was wrong.

  “As protocol suggests, I’ll have to pass the report on to the head of the apprenticeship program,” Gillroth went on. “Unfortunately, Mr. Stone is somewhat incapacitated at the moment.” Again, he paused to assess her reaction. She must have given something away—fear or dejection—because what he said next suggested he understood more of her predicament than he originally let on. “I understand, Miss Lane. Truly I do, but as I said, please try to remember why you’re here. You have been given an opportunity to be an Inquirer. To complete your apprenticeship. That is all that is expected of you.” He looked off into the distance, into a memory, perhaps, and a shadow passed over his face. “I am sorry things are the way they are,” he added so softly it was almost inaudible, “but you must be careful. You must forget everything you’ve heard.”

  14

  THE BEFORE

  The day Marion had been recruited as a Miss Brickett’s apprentice had been a Sunday, four days after Christmas, four months ago. It was a particularly cold morning, the skies thick with gray and the ground outside Number Sixteen Willow Street covered in sleet.

  Dolores was downstairs decorating the lounge with streamers and newly dusted plastic flowers, drawn out from storage for this most special of occasions. A tray of scones was brought from the oven and a fresh bowl of cream beaten to a perfect peak. It would be an afternoon like no other—Mr. Smithers, proprietor of Smithers Furniture and Supplies was on his way. As arranged, he would propose, offering Marion not only an escape from her lackluster existence but a purpose, too. She would be a wife, a mother, a useful human being at last—or so Dolores assured her. Not a single piece of Marion wanted what Mr. Smithers was offering, yet it was safe to assume that the life she was about to step into would not be any worse than the one she was leaving behind.