Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  The alchemic explosive, Marion presumed. She looked at her hand and felt the deep throb of the Devil’s Blood.

  “As they are today, the upper floors—those above the stone staircase—were well-constructed and illustrious when I first encountered them. Henry explained they were once intended to be used as upper-class bunkers during the war, a place officials and dignitaries would not only be able to escape the raids but to live with a certain degree of comfort.”

  “Intended? Meaning they weren’t used?”

  “No, it was only ever a facade—a cover story should anyone ever find the entrance through the bookshop. They’d arrive in the Grand Corridor and see nothing but gleaming floors and well-furnished chambers. But no dignitary has ever set foot inside these walls.” She paused to inhale deeply. “I must admit my own ignorance and foolishness in the acquisition of this space. I was overwhelmed with the opportunity presented to me—the chance to start a detective agency without the hindrances of legislation and public intrusion, all of which came with opening such an enterprise aboveground. Which was why I chose to overlook the catch, the real reason the property existed in the first place.

  “After Henry had taken me on a tour through the upper floors, we made our way down the long stone staircase. And although he showed me the entrance to the twisted corridors farther on, we did not pass through them. I could see he was reluctant to reveal what lay beyond, the tale of how he’d come to uncover the labyrinth. But in the end, the burden of concealing such a truth was too much. To be quite honest, I sometimes wish he hadn’t elaborated at all. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.”

  Marion had to agree. She would certainly have chosen not to know about Operation Gray Eagle had it not been the key to clearing Frank’s name.

  “Shortly after the start of the war,” Nancy went on, “the labyrinth fell into the hands of a man by the name of Sir George Cavendish, a field marshal for the British Army with a particular and rather obscure fascination in the outer bounds of chemistry and, as it turned out, alchemy. No one is certain how Cavendish uncovered the labyrinth’s existence. Perhaps through his extensive research in alchemy he uncovered some reference to the group of alchemists who’d been exiled here centuries ago. Indeed, I believe it were these alchemists who first composed the formula for Devil’s Blood, at least in part.

  “What is certain, however, is that Cavendish was an ambitious man, and brilliantly creative. Much of his early career was spent overseeing operations at Porton Down, especially those involving chemical weaponry testing and production. I’m not sure what exactly he did there—perhaps he was an adviser of some sort, or something more frivolous. But soon he became distracted, consumed by rumors that the Nazis were producing and testing nerve gas in the concentration camps and that soon enough they’d deploy such measures on the front lines. He believed the British were lagging dangerously behind, and that if a full-scale chemical war broke out, the Germans would defeat us in days.

  “He began to push countless petitions at Churchill and the Minister of Defense, urging them to implement stronger research programs, provide more funding for his projects at Porton. But the government was against the idea, though perhaps not Churchill personally, as the use of chemical and biological weapons had already been outlawed by the Geneva Protocol. There was little point in extensive research on weapons Britain was not allowed to use in actual warfare.

  “But Cavendish was not a man who could be dissuaded by laws and treaties. He continued his crusade on the sidelines, in private. Unbeknown to the Prime Minister or the Ministry of Defense, Cavendish commissioned a small team of engineers, military personnel, experts, consultants and laborers to join him in a covert project known as Operation Gray Eagle. All together I believe there were close to thirty of them—one of whom was Henry Gillroth, recruited mostly for his experience in managing the engineers at Bletchley, but also for his particular knowledge in subterranean constructions. All members of the operation were assured that everything they did, while highly classified, was completely legal, utterly aboveboard. As I’ve just explained, however, that was not even close to the truth.

  “As Edgar enlightened us, Cavendish’s project was a disaster in the end. He was ashamed by the failure and I believe he was desperate to erase the whole operation from history. Not only had he commissioned a team under false pretenses, putting their lives at risk, dabbling in things he did not understand, but he had nothing to show for it. Fortunately for him, the only people who knew anything about the project were the handful of people he’d hired to work on it.

  “I’m not entirely certain how what happened next came to be, or who was to blame for it, but one by one the members of the project began to die. While traversing the tunnels beyond the Border had been laborious and unnerving before, it had never been dangerous. But then the walls began to shift, trapdoors in the floors to open up. Doors would appear where once there’d been open space. Sections of tunnel would flood without warning. Soon nearly every member of the team was either dead or missing. Personally, I believe it was Cavendish himself who set off the traps, though I’ll never be certain if this is true, or know how he did it. He fled to South America shortly after the war and hasn’t been seen since. The only other person known to have survived the operation was—”

  “Gillroth?” Marion guessed.

  Nancy looked reluctant to acknowledge the fact. “Henry and I both made a choice, all those years ago. Either we disclose the operation to MI5 and forfeit the opportunity to open a private detective agency in its place, or we finally put the tunnels to good use and in doing so hope to erase the past. Once we’d chosen the latter, of course, there would be no going back. In choosing to conceal the past, we’d forever be responsible for ensuring Operation Gray Eagle remained entombed. You may struggle to believe this, Miss Lane, but I never knew the details of the operation. Only that it was a chemical weaponry experiment that dabbled in alchemy.”

  Marion looked at Frank, trying to judge his expression. She wondered if he accepted Nancy’s explanation, and how much of it he’d already known. But his face was difficult to read. She turned away, considering for a moment how Gillroth had managed to escape the tunnels while all his colleagues had not. But then she remembered what Swindlehurst had all but confirmed at Turnchapel Mews—Gillroth had been the original owner of the map.

  Nancy stirred. Perhaps she recognized the realization on Marion’s face.

  There was silence for a moment. Marion considered pressing Nancy on the details of Gillroth’s role in Operation Gray Eagle. But a more urgent question came to her instead. “Where were you all this time?”

  Nancy sighed, as if this were a challenging question to answer. “Mr. Hugo discovered the cellar beneath the break room and tried to contact me immediately. Unfortunately, I was incapacitated at the time. Three days after I was forced to send Frank before the High Council, I received an anonymous letter. I knew immediately it had been sent by an agency employee because it threatened to expose the circumstances of Michelle White’s death to the police should I not agree to a list of demands, soon to be made.”

  “You had no idea who’d sent it?”

  “Not then. But when I arrived at the time and place arranged—all the way in Dublin, I might add—no one was there. I realize now that this was all just a ploy to distract me, for Edgar to ensure I was out of the agency long enough for him to implement the full extent of this plan.”

  “Which he did,” Marion said, indignation evident in her voice.

  “Yes, for a while—”

  Marion cut her off. “Why didn’t you at least tell someone where you were?”

  Nancy pursed her lips, clearly put out by Marion’s brazen inquisition. “Because, Miss Lane, I was uncertain of whom to trust. I did, however, keep an eye on the agency from a distance, convinced that soon enough the sender of the letter would reveal themselves, even if by accident. Which is exactly what happened. Ar
ound the time of Frank’s trial, Edgar suggested to the High Council the idea of the Circus Ball as a way to raise morale for the agency. I paid little attention to it then. I thought it was a good idea, albeit a little extravagant. But while I was in Dublin, that Thursday evening before the ball, I wondered if part of the reason I’d been sent on a wild-goose chase was because of the ball. Was someone trying to distract me from what was going on with the organization of the event? Fortunately, Professor Bal had already realized there was something off with the whole thing and told Mr. Hugo to keep an eye on Edgar until I returned.”

  “But after the ball and everything that happened,” Marion said, her voice raw and tired, “you still stayed away?”

  “That was not my choice. The morning after the ball I received another letter. This time it was signed by Edgar. Obviously, he realized there was no longer any need to remain anonymous. He gave me the address of the house in Turnchapel Mews and told me to meet him there that evening, alone.” She finished on a sigh. “Perhaps I should have taken someone with me, or prepared myself more, but I was convinced I could handle Edgar alone. As I said, I greatly underestimated the extent of his malice. Had you not been there, Miss Lane, things would’ve turned out very differently indeed.”

  “Did you use the recording from the wire I was wearing? In Swindlehurst’s trial, I mean?” Although she hadn’t been told the details of Swindlehurst’s fate, or that of his accomplices, she knew he’d been convicted by the High Council of White’s murder. It was a conclusion she’d hoped would satisfy her, and in some ways it had. The case was closed, Frank was off the hook. But still a sense of unease remained, the cause of which she couldn’t quite identify.

  “Most of it,” Nancy said. “It caused a stir, as you can imagine, since up until that point none of the High Council knew about Operation Gray Eagle. Like everyone outside this room, other than Henry and Edgar—and to an extent, Miss White—they believed the tunnels beyond the Border were simply off-limits on account of their hazardous nature. I’d preferred for it to remain that way, but here we are.”

  Marion wondered how the council had felt about the secret Nancy and Gillroth had been keeping from them. She also wondered what ramifications the release of this secret would have on the running of the agency. Because now, by Marion’s count (excluding herself, Bill and Kenny), there were four more people at Miss Brickett’s who knew the truth—Spragg, Simpkins, Nicholas and Frank. Four more hearts to bear the weight of Sir Cavendish’s legacy.

  The notion led to a question, one Marion hadn’t thought to ask until then. “Why didn’t you just clear out the laboratory when you opened the agency?” Her tone was accusatory, but she didn’t care. “If you really wanted to wipe the history books of Operation Gray Eagle, you could have removed the evidence quite easily.”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary, or possible. I’d never been beyond the Border myself, never seen the laboratory, never heard of the slipway that connects to the cellar. Gillroth gave Michelle the position of Border Guard mostly because he believed she needed to feel important, useful. He asked her to inform us if anyone crossed the Border but really the role was redundant as the laboratory was hidden within miles of impassable tunnels.” She added, a little more carefully, “That is what Gillroth promised me, anyway.” There was a subtext here, Marion realized, something Nancy couldn’t quite admit: there were things Gillroth had kept secret, even from her.

  “But I have now,” she went on, “in case you’re wondering. The tunnel that connects to the cellar has been sealed off. There’s no way anyone could reach the laboratory now.”

  There was a long pause. Frank looked uncomfortable and agitated, as if too much had been said and the weight of it was pressing on his nerves.

  Eventually, Nancy wandered across the office to the bookshelf. She caressed the fracture-lined vase Marion had seen on her last visit. “I think that perhaps we have said all there is to say for the time being.” She walked over to Marion’s chair and placed a cold hand on Marion’s shoulder. “And again, thank you.”

  “Are you going to tell David about his stepbrother?” Marion asked as Nancy turned for the door. She wasn’t sure if Nancy would be surprised that she knew the link between Asbrey and David, but it was hardly something she could be reprimanded for, after everything.

  Nancy surveyed her with suspicion, then spoke. “We told David when we hired him that Ned disappeared one evening and that was all we knew. It was the truth then.”

  “But it’s not the truth now. The least you could do is tell him his stepbrother is dead—”

  “Miss Lane,” Nancy interrupted, her tone now less understanding, more severe. “I have tried to explain as best I can the need for discretion in such matters. David has always assumed his stepbrother died in the tunnels—what use is there in confirming the fact? And what Asbrey discovered is of no significance to David. The agency’s future and all our lives depend on Operation Gray Eagle remaining a secret. The fewer people who are aware of the full truth, the better. I’ve already told far more people than I’d ever hoped to. But that is where it ends. No more. Am I clear?”

  Marion looked at Frank. He nodded subtly. “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” She smiled briefly and turned to leave.

  Marion felt as if the ground was shifting beneath her. All her hopes about what she’d accomplish as an Inquirer, all the good Miss Brickett’s was doing for the people of London. It all seemed less altruistic knowing the foundation on which the agency was based. It made Marion question her own blind loyalty and wonder what other secrets Nancy kept from her staff.

  Marion waited until the door closed before turning back to Frank. There was something else she needed to know.

  “You can ask me anything,” Frank said, perhaps sensing her unease.

  “What has the agency done with Swindlehurst and the others from Turnchapel? Are they going to be sent to the Holding Chambers?”

  It took Frank an uncomfortably long time to answer, and when he did, the words came out in something of a whisper, as if he were hoping not to say them at all. “They’ll be sent there, yes.”

  “So they’re real, then.”

  Frank paled as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m afraid so. It’s difficult to explain the intricacies of the laws that govern a place like this. With all its secrets. I didn’t know anything about Operation Gray Eagle until a few days ago, for example. And I don’t know much else about the Holding Chambers, either.” His tone deepened. “I’d advise against asking Nancy about them—as I said to you earlier, the less you know about everything, the better.”

  He got up and poured them each a drink, whiskey this time. He paced the office silently as Marion gazed at the globe spinning on the desk in front of her, many uncomfortable feelings rising up inside her.

  “There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” He was trying to keep his features calm, but he wasn’t doing a very good job. He almost looked as if he might cry. “When I was in the lock room the night of Michelle’s murder, standing over her while she choked to death, I knew things at the agency were going take a turn for the worse. I feared what it would mean for all of us, but especially you.

  “I didn’t understand it, to be honest. For a moment I even wondered if I had entered some sort of crazed trance during which I’d killed Michelle without realizing it. I was afraid. Confused. I thought about what would happen if I was convicted of the murder and sent away. Not only did I wonder how you’d cope with the news, but I feared what danger you’d be in from the real murderer.” He finished his whiskey and sat down.

  “It was me, Marion. I bought the house from your grandmother. Those were the papers I brought for her to sign.”

  Marion stared at him.

  “I had intended to for a while, as soon as Dolores put it on the market, in fact. But time got away from me. Then, after Michelle’s murder, I knew I co
uldn’t wait any longer. I wouldn’t have the chance if I was sent away.”

  Marion forced herself to breathe. “I don’t understand?”

  Frank lowered his gaze. He looked ashamed, regretful. “I wanted to give it to you, the house. But...” He took a breath and started again. “I made a promise to your mother once. If anything happened to her, I’d step in. Look after you when you needed it. Not just emotionally, financially, too. That’s why I offered you a position at the agency in the first place. I knew your job with Felix at the garage had ended, and that if another opportunity was not presented to you swiftly, you’d allow your grandmother to marry you off. That was not the life your mother would’ve wished for you.

  “But after the night of the murder, I reconsidered everything. I still wanted to buy the house, and Dolores and I looked over the paperwork and came to an agreement on the price. She told me she was planning a move to America and would prefer you to come along with her. Had it been any other day, I’d have been against the idea. But with everything at the agency hanging by a thread, I thought perhaps Dolores was right for once.

  “That’s why I agreed to allow Dolores the chance to speak to you first, to offer you the opportunity to move with her. I hated the idea of keeping the truth of the sale from you, but Dolores insisted that if you heard I’d placed the house in your name, you’d never even consider her offer.” He reached over the desk to hold her hand. “I planned to tell you the house was yours the Monday after the Induction Ceremony. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see you at my office, but I thought maybe I could slip back after the trial...of course, that turned out to be impossible.”

  A bitterness welled up inside Marion to the point where she could no longer contain it. She didn’t know if the feeling was directed at Frank, her grandmother or the situation in general. She tossed the entire glass of whiskey down her throat.

  “I know,” he said, “and I’m sorry. I really was just doing what I thought was best for you. So was Dolores. I suppose we were both foolish to think you’d have left, anyway.”