The brutish man made his way toward Marion. He untied her wrists and lifted her to her feet. She stumbled on unsteady legs. Her eyes were glazed, her head spun. The accomplice dragged her across the room and deposited her on a chair at the table.
The faintest flicker of concern, maybe even fear, crossed Nancy’s face. She turned to Swindlehurst and the flicker dissipated. “What are you doing?”
A penetrating fear hit Marion in the chest. She writhed in her chair as Swindlehurst again put on his gloves and picked up the black vial. He uncorked it and started for Marion.
But then she noticed something through the window that looked out onto the street below.
A glint of steel fluttered up through the air; it hovered for some seconds, then settled on the windowsill. She quickly averted her gaze and caught Nancy’s eye. Swiftly she looked back at the window, then at her watch. Nancy followed her gaze. She understood.
“Very well, then,” Nancy said hastily, turning back to Swindlehurst without missing a beat. He now stood by Marion’s side, the vial held carefully in his right hand. “I’ll organize the money this evening. Let her go, please.”
Adrenaline pumped through Marion’s body. Her senses came to life, her mind firing a mile a minute. She had to be quick. They’d only have seconds to act.
From the window, an enormous explosion sounded. Despite the fact that Swindlehurst surely recognized the manufactured sound of Professor Bal’s Distracter, he was not immune to the shock of it. He shuddered and took a step back. The vial in his hand slipped. Marion wasn’t sure whether the force of it hitting the ground would cause an explosion or not, but she wasn’t willing to find out.
She caught it with her bound hands midair.
It tipped and, as if by slow motion, the sticky liquid fell in a perfect teardrop from the vial and onto her left little finger. The pain was immediate. She had no choice but to release the vial. It fell to the floor, the awful liquid spilling forth. Thankfully it didn’t explode. But the drop that had touched her finger caused a sensation that felt as if every nerve ending in her hand was being burned, cut in pieces and pulled apart. Her arm began to shake. Tears streamed uncontrollably from her eyes as the pain heightened. She could feel her flesh dissolving, her tendons snapping and her bones melting. She couldn’t breathe or make a sound, and while she could sense a storm of commotion continuing around her, she couldn’t make out from whom or what.
In the background, the Distracter’s echoing explosion came to a stop. Swindlehurst was no longer by her side and Nancy was no longer seated at the table, nor was Swindlehurst’s accomplice.
Marion looked down at her finger. Her fingernail and a quarter more had already dissolved into nothing. A piece of sizzling flesh, scattered with something white that might have once been bone, hung from the tip. Her vision tunneled. She collapsed and closed her eyes.
* * *
“Hey! Look at me!” Kenny had appeared from nowhere and was holding her upright. Her hands were unbound. It was either a few seconds or many hours later. “We have to get out of here. Nicholas set a fire downstairs.” He pulled Marion to her feet and into the corridor at the top of the staircase. Plumes of smoke billowed up from below. The air was blisteringly hot.
Swindlehurst’s accomplice emerged from the room next to the boardroom and started for Kenny. There was a violent scuffle, flaying arms and legs, but Marion didn’t have time to get involved. Swindlehurst appeared at the top of the staircase. He stumbled forward and swung his fist at her face; she ducked. She gripped her wrist on the side of her injured finger, as if to protect it, then lifted her elbow and slammed it into his stomach. He buckled over, gasping for breath.
There was a mad rush of bodies and flailing limbs moving up and down the staircase. Marion stumbled forward in an adrenaline-induced fog. She couldn’t quite comprehend what she was doing; she only knew she had to keep moving.
Unfortunately, Swindlehurst had risen once more. He lifted Marion off her feet.
She flung her legs forward, and once, twice, three times she missed. The fourth time, however, she connected with his thigh—a mighty thump. Swindlehurst groaned and loosened his grip. She scrambled away.
Swindlehurst’s knee caught her in the ribs. A shot of sharp pain surged through her torso. There was no doubt he’d broken her rib. She gasped, but this just made the pain worse as her lungs expanded under the fracture, splitting it even farther apart.
She looked up at him. His eyes widened. The madness in his face was terrifying; she couldn’t believe how different he’d been just a few moments ago, how calm and collected. He lurched forward. It happened so quickly that Marion had no time to react. She fell backward down the stairs, somersaulting, head over heels and coming to a stop midway down the stairwell. The air here was hotter than anywhere, the smoke thicker.
Swindlehurst was already on top of her, his hands around her neck, stale breath touching her lips. She couldn’t breathe. Nothing was left. Swindlehurst’s fingers dug into her throat. The room was turning dark and then—
Swindlehurst flew off her as if by some invisible force. Marion brought her hands to her throat as she frantically tried to inhale through her compressed windpipe.
“Get up, up!” Marion was pulled to her feet; she didn’t know by whom until they had reached the bottom of the stairwell. “Get out, go!” Nancy instructed.
She tried to ask where Kenny was, but no words came out. She fumbled forward through heavy smoke and roasting heat. She didn’t know where the fire was, but it must have been close. She stumbled out into the open, along the driveway and out through the large black gates onto the street. It was raining again and the pavement was thick with wet gravel and scattered debris.
Only once the smoke had lifted and her eyes stopped watering did she see what was in front of her: Mr. Nicholas and Preston stood with Swindlehurst’s two accomplices firmly restrained between them by three layers of Twister Rope.
Seconds later, Kenny and Nancy emerged from the house, dragging Swindlehurst along with them.
“Rupert,” Nancy said. “Come with me. Dinn, follow us.” She turned to Marion. “The police will be here shortly—we must be gone before they arrive.”
“Wait,” Marion called. She used her good hand to dig under her bra, from where she removed a small black button. She unthreaded its attached wire and the second battery hidden just beneath her arm. She presented it to Nancy. “Proof, for the council.”
Nancy threaded the wire through her fingers in amazement. She looked up. “Edgar was certain he’d cleared you of wires.” She inclined her head as the realization set in. “I see...two wires. Very good.”
Marion nodded, hesitant to fully acknowledge the compliment. “I did it for Frank.”
23
THE LEGACY OF SIR CAVENDISH
The scent of wood polish and freshly brewed coffee met Marion as she stepped inside Frank’s office. It was a Thursday afternoon, four days since she’d been admitted to the infirmary and half an hour since her discharge.
The recovery had been a difficult one. Hardly anyone had been permitted to visit and time dragged on terribly. Because of the nature of her injuries—the fact that her finger had been eaten away by an alchemic substance—Nancy had decided Marion could not be admitted to a hospital on the outside. It would raise questions the agency was unable to answer.
Throughout the passing days, Marion’s vitals were monitored, her injured finger cleaned and dressed and her hand and wrist examined for any further signs of dissolving flesh. Fortunately—unlike Helena—the acid had not been allowed the chance to spread.
Marion rubbed the edge of her bandaged stump—it was beginning to throb again—as she settled at Frank’s desk to await his arrival. The office was untidy, much as it had been the last two times she’d been there. Boxes lay strewn across the floor, and the shelves were packed with books in lofty, slapdash piles. But u
nlike the times before, it appeared that things were being unpacked, rather than packed away.
“Marion,” Frank said with a smile as he appeared in the doorway. Marion stood. There was a short pause as they stared at one another across the room. Frank looked unkempt, his hair uncombed and unwashed, a mustache growing wildly on his face. His pale blue shirt was clean but creased, the top button torn from its cotton-thread anchor. He walked across the room and pulled Marion into an embrace. “Thank you, thank you,” he said as they separated and took their seats on opposite sides of the desk.
Marion’s eyes stung with tears. Her relief was overwhelming—to be able to sit across from him, to see the familiar lines of his face. “I’m so happy you’re here. And free.”
He laughed softly. “So am I. How has your recovery been?”
“I’m feeling better.” A half-truth at best. Though her physical state was improving daily, something deeper and less perceptible still gnawed at her conscious. It was as if a hairline fracture had formed in the structure of her life, not quite deep enough to fall apart, but there all the same, awaiting some final, shattering blow.
She wondered if perhaps the same was true for Frank. With everything that had happened, she imagined it would be nearly impossible for him to feel settled and at ease just yet. She searched for the familiar gleam in his eyes. It was still there, albeit faded somewhat.
“Nancy will be joining us shortly. She has a few things to discuss with you.” He paused to push back his sleeves. “But before she gets here...” His focus turned to the old clock on the bookshelf to his left—the very same one through which Marion had watched his trial. “You obviously know I wanted you to witness my trial with the council.”
“I presumed so, yes.”
Frank nodded. “I’m still not certain it was fair of me but... I wanted you to find out before anybody else. And I wanted you to understand, to hear the full story. Nicholas was so determined to prove my guilt I wanted you to be able to decide for yourself before the news was released to the agency at large.”
“Why was he so against you?” Marion asked, realizing it was a fact she’d never much paid attention to.
Frank shrugged. “I don’t think it was anything in particular. He and White were close, I think, and he just genuinely thought I was guilty. I suppose you could hardly blame him, given the facts.” He looked again at the clock on the bookshelf, then spoke urgently. “The problem is, Nancy doesn’t know you saw any of it, and I think it’s best we keep it that way.”
Marion frowned. What else was Nancy unaware of? Did she know Marion and Bill had the map? That Marion had broken into the break room? That she’d seen the cellar beneath, the laboratory?
“As far as she knows, you heard about my conviction through rumor. You were not involved in the investigation until the Circus Ball, where you witnessed Swindlehurst removing something from the lock room by chance. I think Professor Bal has mentioned that you visited him, which prompted you to visit Helena. And, of course, she knows what was said between the two of you there.” He patted his chest with a small smile as a knock came at his office door. “But let’s leave it at that. The less you know, the better. Do you understand?”
“What about Gillroth?” Marion asked.
“What about him?”
Marion faltered. Since her return to the agency, the memory of Gillroth’s warning in his office the day after she’d witnessed Frank’s trial had haunted her. In hindsight, his warnings to stay out of the investigation for her own good seemed almost prophetic.
Frank looked at her questioningly, but Marion had no more time to elaborate.
The office door swung open and Nancy stepped inside. Her normally prim and proper appearance was in disarray. Her hair lay in messy waves across her shoulders. Her clothes, which were always well-matched and pressed within an inch of their lives, had been replaced by a dull brown pencil skirt and loose white cardigan.
“Afternoon, Miss Lane.” She sat down next to Frank. Her eyes traced Marion’s face, softening as she took in the bruises, the old cuts. “I hear your recovery has gone well?”
Marion took a moment to answer. Her finger throbbed, her ribs ached. “I think so. I’m feeling better each day.”
“I’m very happy to hear it. And you’ve been able to see your friends? Hobb and the others?” It sounded more like a probing query than a casual one, and Marion knew this was because Nancy suspected that everything Marion had witnessed at Turnchapel Mews she’d surely relay to Bill as soon as they’d had some time alone. Which was probably quite accurate.
“Bill’s visited. Briefly, though,” she added, implying nothing serious had been discussed between them yet.
Nancy looked partially relieved. “Ah...well.” She paused, then added, “I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done. I don’t believe we’d be sitting here—” she gestured to Frank “—if not for you.”
Marion nodded subtly.
“I’m still rather in shock, to be honest. As much as Edgar and I had our differences, I never suspected he was capable of everything I now know he’s done.”
Marion stirred. There was something she needed to know before anything else. “Is it true what Swindlehurst said? About him trying to resign?”
Nancy looked instantly uncomfortable. “Edgar’s career here has been fraught with complications. He was brilliant as head of Intelligence, in the beginning at least. He knew how to manage people, how to get the best out of everyone. But the longer he was at the top, the more tyrannical he became. He refused to accept the fact that someone might have an opinion that opposed his own. I was concerned the department would fall to pieces, and considering Intelligence is the heart of the agency, I knew the ramifications of its collapse would be widespread. Of course, I had no idea the demotion would bruise his ego so.”
Not quite the answer she was looking for. She tried again. “But he said you interfered with his application to the agency in Glasgow. Is that true?”
“Of course not. I didn’t even know he had a record of mental instability and whatever else, manic tendencies. If I had, I wouldn’t have employed him in the first place.”
Marion wasn’t sure she believed that, but before she could say anything else, Nancy went on. “Now, while I think you deserve further explanation on certain matters, I must warn you that due to the nature of the case, everything that is said in this office is strictly confidential.”
“Of course,” Marion said.
“That includes Mr. Hobb.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Good. Now let me begin by apologizing. I realize that my absence during the past few days, at such a difficult time for the agency, may have appeared insensitive.”
Insensitive was not the word Marion would’ve used. Reckless or ruthless were better.
“I hope, however, that you will soon understand I had little choice.” She loosened her collar.
Marion didn’t know what to do with her hands. They were throbbing so painfully that even touching the skin was excruciating. She decided, at last, to place them palms down on the cool mahogany desk.
“I hired Mr. Hugo after I realized the trouble Frank was in and how the council believed him to be guilty. I knew I needed an outsider to delve deeper into the investigation than I could at the time. Of course, it was a risk hiring someone so abruptly, even if I trusted him. Which is why I gave Hugo very little background on the case, and instead of allowing him free rein with the investigation, I instructed him step-by-step, asking him to complete task after task without much understanding as to why. After Frank’s trial, I asked him to—” Again she hesitated. Marion knew what she’d asked Hugo to do after the trial—she’d asked him to find the map. But because Swindlehurst had never actually mentioned the strange parchment in front of her, perhaps it was a topic Nancy hoped to skirt over. Which suited Marion rather perfectly. “Well, it doesn�
��t matter. The point is that Hugo uncovered something even I hadn’t known existed—the cellar beneath the break room, the one Edgar mentioned connects to the tunnels beyond the Border and to the laboratory. Mr. Hugo found some very interesting evidence down there. I won’t go into the details now, but it explains how Edgar slipped past the camera. And several other things.”
Marion wondered how Nancy thought Kenny had found the cellar without the map, since it would have been nearly impossible to locate, had one not known it was there.
“I’d have preferred you not to have heard all that Edgar said,” Nancy added, “about what was inside that room. But I suppose it’s too late for that now.” She leaned back in her chair, not with the air of relaxation but rather exhaustion and defeat. “I suppose it won’t surprise you to learn that Miss Brickett’s has a history that extends far beyond the agency’s initiation in 1948. It might, however, surprise you to know that it was Henry Gillroth, not me, who first walked these corridors.”
Marion’s heart rapped a little faster.
“Henry and I worked together at Bletchley Park during the war. And while we went our separate ways after ’45, we remained in close contact. One day, I received a letter from Henry—he’d heard I’d been considering opening my own detective agency but had been struggling to find the perfect address. All true, of course. Real estate was not particularly easy to come by after the war. But as always, Henry had a solution. He said that if I were willing to stretch my horizons somewhat, he might have just the perfect venue. A place that had been left to him through a series of rather inauspicious events.” She paused for a moment to stare into the abyss. “He took me down through the bookshop trapdoor, into the tunnels and onward for miles. He explained then that the labyrinth’s foundations were old, originally a haven for a group of alchemists that had been exiled by the church for meddling with all sorts of strange concoctions, practicing what was believed to be sorcery at the time, the devil’s work. Which I suppose is quite apt, all things considered.”
Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder Page 28