Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  “One more mistake, from any of you. One more and you’re out. I hope we—” he gestured to Toby, then himself “—make ourselves clear.” He grinned, nodded and turned to leave. Toby slinked out after him.

  * * *

  Marion stared blankly through the bookshop window as the last rays of pale, weak sunlight set beyond a milky sky. After her encounter with Toby and Mr. Nicholas, she’d felt desperate to remove herself from the oppressive, suffocating atmosphere of Miss Brickett’s and had made her way to the lift and through the trapdoor, where she planned to remain until the Circus Ball commenced.

  She realized now, as she strolled around the cramped shop, how much she’d missed the comfort of its untidy shelves, its snug lighting, the familiar scent of old paper that saturated the air. There was something about the ordinariness of the place that she craved: the misplaced books, the unfiled stacks of paper, so acutely contrasting to the world for which it was a porthole, a bridge.

  When first she’d set foot inside the bookshop, that evening late in December, she’d felt somewhat let down by its lackluster appearance. Now she realized how significant this unpretentious facade was, not just as a defense against public intrusion and curiosity, but as a reminder that sometimes the extraordinary existed just below the surface of the ordinary. The bookshop was a link to the outside world, to stability and normality, and a portal into the mysterious and intoxicating world of Inquiry.

  She picked a book from the shelves—Little Women, her childhood favorite—and sank to the floor, resting her head against the butler’s desk, overcome by that familiar deep and hollow ache of loneliness. The past two weeks had been a blur of happenings, of dread and fear, but also of purpose. She’d been so consumed with uncovering first the root of Bill and David’s discord, then the truth behind Michelle White’s murder. But now that she’d been forced to take a break from the investigation, the loneliness returned. Perhaps worse than ever.

  She pressed her knuckles into her temples and breathed. Long and deep. Slow and deliberate.

  The trapdoor creaked open behind her.

  “Thought I’d find you here.” Jessica clambered through the hole, ungainly and out of breath. “The girls and I are getting ready in Rakes’s room. For the circus,” she added when Marion failed to reply. “She’s arranged everything for us—wine, music. Rather out of character for her but I suppose she’s just trying to get into the spirit, raise morale as everyone’s been saying. Thought you might like to join?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She hesitated.

  Jessica looked at the book in Marion’s hand. She would be making some analysis about the choice. And it would probably be accurate. “I love that one, too.”

  “Mum and I used to read it together. Always at Christmas.” She held back the burn in her chest. She didn’t want to cry.

  “I did the same, though not with my mother. I believe she thought it might give me the wrong sort of aspirations.” She sighed as if remembering something. “One might argue she was right.” Marion was struck with a spasm of guilt. Jessica was an observer, a listener. And she was always there to provide comfort, if not advice. She didn’t expect much in return, though that was no excuse. Even the listeners liked to be heard. But Marion had been so consumed with her own troubles lately, she wondered how much of Jessica’s life she’d missed. She’d have to dive right in. “How’s Roger? Anything happening there?”

  Jessica chewed her lip. “Oh...he’s... We’ve seen each other again.”

  “And? What’s he like?”

  “Delicious,” she laughed. “But that’s all. Really, he’s quite dull. I’ll have to put an end to it.”

  “Probably for the best. Work and love seldom go together.” She wasn’t ever going to admit it, but she thought of Kenny Hugo as she said this.

  Jessica looked around the shop in contemplation. “You know, I’ve always thought we should hold a book club up here. Just for employees, of course. Once a month or something. What do think?”

  “I’d love that. Might have to sit on the street, though. It’s a bit compact in here.”

  They laughed.

  Jessica offered her hand and pulled Marion to her feet. “I’ve seen how distracted you’ve been lately.” She looked at her, through her. “I don’t know what’s going on, Mari, and you don’t have to tell me. Just know that I, us...even Amanda, believe it or not, we’ve noticed. And we’re here for you.” She squeezed Marion’s hand. “Now come on, I think tonight is just what everyone needs.”

  Marion’s eyes swelled with tears, not from sadness but gratitude. She watched as Jessica studied her face, looking at what lay behind her silence, and for a moment she wished she could say more, explain her reticence, the reason she’d been so distant and distracted.

  “As I said,” Jessica added, “you don’t need to explain.”

  They hugged, and the tension in Marion’s chest eased. “Thank you, Jess. Really. And you’re right. I think tonight will be fun.”

  They arrived at Aida Rakes’s room in the residence quarters to a clamoring of excited voices as Amanda and several second and third years gathered around the only mirror, admiring their silks and pearls. All furniture had been shoved to the perimeter of the room, creating a large open center in which one dressing table stood, now layered with petticoats and an assortment of makeup, brushes and bottles of hair spray.

  After collecting her things from her room, Marion changed into the only gown she owned and one she hoped no one would remember she’d worn before—a light gray chiffon sheath dress dripping with worn and cracked glass beads. With Jessica’s help, she fixed her hair into a cascade of tight curls, applied lavish amounts of cream foundation, blush and blazing red lipstick.

  “All right, ladies,” Maud said, dressed in a bright blue rayon suit (much to Amanda’s distaste) and carrying a large black satchel, “let’s get some bloody vibe going.” She opened the satchel and pulled out a collection of liquor—wine, whiskey, sherry and an arrangement of ciders. “Courtesy of Harry and the library bar. No need to mention it to Rakes...” She surveyed the room. “Where is she, by the way?”

  “He gave you all that?” Jessica asked skeptically, ignoring the question.

  “Not exactly, but what he doesn’t know...” Her face illuminated, delighted perhaps more at the horror on Jessica’s than the bounty she’d plundered from the bar. “Relax, Jess. We’re here to celebrate.” She slung an arm over Marion. “Right, Mari?”

  “Exactly right,” Marion said, grinning. She poured them each a glass of wine, turned up the volume on the wireless and relaxed, just for a moment forgetting the dread churning her insides—Frank’s fate, the agency’s, her own.

  Once dressed and well-liquored, the women made their way across the corridor to the common room where the rest of the apprentices had gathered, dressed in varying degrees of formality, trailed by clouds of perfume, cologne, hair spray and excitement.

  Bill—dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo and sky-blue bow tie—lowered himself awkwardly into a chair next to Marion at the central table. He regarded her outfit with something of a bemused expression. “You look...nice.”

  Marion smiled, smoothing her gown across her thighs. “Thanks. You, too.” He really did, despite the oversize tuxedo. Though tousled and certainly in need of a trim, his black hair gleamed against his pale milk skin and overall he exuded a ruffled, unintentional charm.

  “Any news on the bomb factory?”

  “Bill! Keep your voice down!” She checked they hadn’t been overheard, but thanks to the gramophone blaring Johnny Cash, no one appeared to have noticed. “And no,” she said. “I was supposed to meet with Kenny this afternoon but he didn’t show.”

  Bill poured them each a glass of wine. “On that note, I’ve been thinking. You’re convinced White’s killer is the person who’s been recreating the—” he lowered his voice “—bomb.”

&n
bsp; “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Okay, but doesn’t that mean the killer must have had the map at some point? I mean, that’s why White was worried in the first place, right?”

  “Yes. And I know what you’re going to say. Only you, David, Ned and a High Council member ever had the map, according to rumor at least. So the killer must be one of them. But it’s obviously not you, and David never had the map and monocle at the same time so it seems unlikely it was him. Ned is long gone. Which leaves—”

  Bill took a sip of wine. “The High Council member? Gillroth?”

  “Thing is,” Marion said, “it’s not a watertight theory, is it? First, we don’t know if the rumors about who had the map and who didn’t are true, or comprehensive. And second, two or more people could have been working together. Like we are. I mean, you wouldn’t need the map to find the laboratory if I showed you where the break room entrance was.”

  “So that doesn’t help us at all, then.” He lapsed into contemplation for a few moments. “Oh, and by the way. I’ve some bad news.” He angled his chin toward the door.

  “Can it wait? I really just need a few hours...” She trailed off, following Bill’s gaze to the common room entrance and David Eston, who’d appeared at the threshold in a wheelchair.

  “He was discharged last night,” Bill whispered. “We’ve had a little catch-up, don’t worry. I explained that the map went missing in the tunnels and if he wants to go looking for it again, he’ll have to do so alone.”

  “And? He bought it?”

  Bill shrugged. “Probably not, but he seems frightened, to be honest. I think what happened to him down there was a big shock. I don’t think he wants anything more to do with the map or the tunnels. At least for the time being.”

  Marion watched as David wheeled himself toward the table—a look of cold detachment on his face. She wasn’t quite as convinced as Bill that David was the type of person to let anything go, especially not something he’d pursued so fervently, something so personal. Even still, she pushed the notion to the back of her mind. Tonight, she was determined to enjoy herself.

  “Everyone going tonight?” Jessica asked the group at large as she set up a game of Miss Brickett’s Cluedo.

  Preston ground out his cigarette. “I’m definitely going. Bound to be some drama that won’t be worth missing.”

  “I think it’s a good idea. Raise morale a bit,” Jessica contested with a slightly more forced smile.

  “A pay rise would raise my morale, not a damn circus,” Amanda said.

  “Come now,” Maud slurred (by Marion’s count, she was on drink number four). “Let’s just relax. It’s like Jess said—” she paused to finish her drink “—we all need some fun. Can’t hurt to forget the shit what’s been going on lately and...get a little boozed.”

  “That’s not exactly what I—” Jessica began, interrupted by David, who smirked and raised his glass in a toast.

  “I agree. Waste of money, but hey, to raising morale.” His eyes drifted to Bill and Marion. “And to forgetting.”

  The group raised their glasses in unison.

  “To morale,” Maud offered.

  “To morale,” the group chimed.

  Jessica handed out the Cluedo tokens and cards. “Amanda, you’re Archibald Horrib. Bill, you’re Master Spike. Preston, you’re Porter Lynn. David, you’re Madame Mey. Maud, you’re Dr. Evans, and Mari and I will be Professor Govender.”

  In the center of the board, which was intricately painted with a map of the agency, there was a simple black square and, inside the square, a scrawled message in silver ink: Who killed Lady Mill?

  Preston leaned across the board, placing a tiny wooden figurine in the ballroom. “Horrib in the ballroom with a—” He looked at Jessica. “Where’re the weapons?”

  “Ah, sorry.” Jessica placed a pile of tiny clockwork murder weapons—movable miniature versions of agency gadgets, in the center of the board—a Time Lighter that emitted tiny clouds of hot steam, a fierce-looking gargoyle that resembled the one on the Workshop door, a cigar case filled with poison darts, a writhing reel of Twister Rope, a halothane ball and a silver dagger.

  “Horrib in the ballroom,” Preston repeated, “with the Twister Rope.” He placed the tiny reel of rope on the board; it immediately turned itself into a firm knot. “What a bloody awful way to go.”

  “Not as bad as this,” Maud chimed in, examining the gargoyle at eye level.

  Preston shook his head. “I’ve never understood how that’s supposed to kill anyone.”

  “It could fall on you. Cracked skull?” Maud provided.

  “Nah,” Preston said, “heart attack, I reckon. It’ll scare you to death...”

  Thus a debate on the particular mechanics of death-by-gargoyle ensued. Taking his chance at the otherwise distracted table, Bill leaned into Marion and whispered, “Mari, I think we need to discuss this Kenny Hugo character.”

  Marion flipped her cards through fingers. “Discuss?” Frustration stirred inside her. She was put out by Kenny’s absence through the day. And now she was annoyed Bill had anything to say about it.

  “I’m not sure we should trust him.”

  “We’ve been through this, Bill. We have no choice.”

  “He’s keeping something from us. I mean, where’s he been all day?”

  Marion shrugged, but said nothing.

  “I’m just saying,” he went on, speaking more delicately, “don’t believe everything he says just because he’s got great hair.”

  Marion glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Fortunately for Bill, he didn’t have to answer as his turn came up next. He rolled the dice. “Madame Mey in the Workshop with a poison dart.”

  The game moved swiftly from there, ending as Maud called the correct combination of Master Pike in the library with a Time Lighter and Marion and Bill’s discussion on Kenny Hugo was forced to a close. At ten minutes to seven, the group packed up, finished their drinks and left the common room together.

  * * *

  Every inch of the ballroom’s pale marble walls and ceiling had been covered with black silk banners, embellished with thousands of white crystal studs, creating an illusion of a clear and star-filled sky. The air was a cauldron of incense, butter, caramel and humidity, illuminated only by the glow of five tall lanterns and their soft gray light. A circular stage had been erected in the center, encapsulating a tented ring. Inside the ring, an array of black and silver boxes lay scattered across the floor. Two tall poles stood at opposing sides and held up a tightwire that hung six feet from the floor.

  When Marion looked closer, she noticed Professor Bal and his assistant crouched behind the stage, apparently wrestling with something long and of gleaming silver. A coil of Twister Rope, she suspected, though what purpose it might have at a circus she had no idea. Tentatively, she traversed the perimeter of the ballroom, surveying the expressions of the staff members and employees she passed, subtle looks of bewilderment as they, too, examined the opulently adorned room.

  She arrived at a line of chairs erected near the buffet table, covered with silver platters layered with steaming cuts of beef and pork, roast vegetables, mounds of bread and rivers of gravy.

  “Blimey,” Bill said as he, too, arrived at the buffet table. “Harry’s outdone himself tonight. Reckon we can help ourselves?”

  She ignored him.

  Bill sighed. “Look, I’m sorry for what I said about Hugo. Rude, I know. I was just trying to...” He inhaled deeply. “I think we should be cautious.” He held up his hand as Marion opened her mouth to protest. “But please, let’s leave it for now. Okay? Let’s enjoy ourselves tonight.” He smiled pleadingly, raising the gravy boat, as if making a toast. “To morale?”

  Bill’s comment had stung. She didn’t trust Kenny because she wanted to, and certainly not because he had good
hair—for heaven’s sake. But she didn’t have the energy to argue, or explain (again) exactly why they had no choice but to believe he was on their side. Tonight was a time for celebration. A time to forget. She smiled. “To morale.”

  Satisfied with their reconciliation, Bill served himself a plate of roast, an assortment of vegetables and a few slices of bread, all smothered in gravy. “I overheard some of the senior Inquirers talking this afternoon,” he said as he popped a potato into his mouth. “Apparently the High Council planned this as a surprise for the staff but now the Inquirers think there’s something fishy about it all.”

  “The circus?”

  Bill nodded, his mouth stuffed. He swallowed, then went on. “I didn’t catch why, just that they think it’s odd.”

  “Well, so do I. Nancy’s away and all of sudden we’re having the most extravagant event of the year. Do you know who’s idea it was?”

  “I just told you, the High Council.”

  “But who’s at the helm, who’s organizing it?”

  Bill shrugged; he didn’t seem to care.

  And while something about the event still tapped away at Marion’s subconscious, as the ballroom filled with guests, the lights dimmed, and the air swelled—luxurious, thick, warm—she felt her nerves unravel. Tension slipped from her muscles like water, worries from her mind like silk, and soon she’d melted into her chair, lost in the collective and feverish enthusiasm until, just like everybody else, she could hardly wait for the show to begin.

  “They’re handing these out at the entrance, got us one each,” Bill said as he finished his meal. He was holding two brass squares that Marion immediately recognized as Trick Locks, similar to the gadget she’d encountered latched to the bookshop door the day of her recruitment. “No cheating this time, okay?” he chided, passing her one.

  “God, I’m useless at these things.” She examined the device. Carved into its superior surface was a line of four symbols: a key, a feather, an arrow pointing skyward and two horizontal lines so close to one another that at first glance they appeared to be connected.