Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  Marion closed her eyes for a moment. She was frustrated with Frank for not telling her the truth, and yet she found it impossible to hold any anger toward him, not after everything he’d done. “Yes, you were. Thank you for buying the house. For trying to protect me. But I’m an adult, Frank. I want to make my own decisions about things.”

  Frank pressed his hand more firmly into hers. “You’re right, of course. But the house is still yours, as I promised. If you’d like to move back in, I will assist with the practicalities.”

  Marion smiled irresolutely, a mix of emotions brewing inside her. She was grateful, shocked, relieved. Frank had lied to her, something she thought—hoped—him incapable of. But he had done so with the best intentions and now Number Sixteen Willow Street was hers again, after everything. She wouldn’t go back to live there now, she thought, but knowing she had the option was comforting. She wasn’t yet ready to face the house and the memories of her mother which still lingered there. But at some point, yes, she would go. After all, Swindlehurst had been right about one thing: the sunless corridors of Miss Brickett’s could be stifling.

  24

  THE REUNION

  Marion stepped into her room in the residence quarters for the first time since her return to the agency. Everything was exactly as she’d left it: the notepad she’d used to explain the details of the clockwork bomb on her bedside table, Kenny’s cigarette butts in an ashtray by the washbasin, the gown from the night of the Circus Ball a crumpled mess on the floor.

  It was really just a fraction of time since she’d been there last. But of course it all felt so different now.

  She hung up the dress, cleared the ashtray and pulled out a wooden box from under her bed. Inside was a roll of parchment, a monocle and a small crystal vial, wrapped in silk. She removed the map, then lay on the bed and stared vacantly at the old stone ceiling above her—dull gray and lined with cracks. Her fingers caressed the parchment, the frayed edges, the shallow furrows of its surface. Her thoughts wandered: to Michelle White and Helena Jansen, the violent conclusion to their lives. Their families, whoever they were, would never know the truth, never find closure.

  A leaden sense of unease weighed down on her as she recalled all the secrets she was now forced to keep—Ned Asbrey’s death, the extent of Swindlehust’s treachery, Michelle White’s final moments. And, of course, what really lay beyond the Border. She flinched as she looked at her mutilated finger and felt the deep throb in what was left of it—another lie she’d have to tell.

  There was a knock at the door. Quickly, she slipped the parchment into the box and placed the box back under her bed.

  “Come in.”

  Kenny entered. It was the first time they’d seen each other since leaving Turnchapel. As always, he was a vibrant flash of color against the dullness. He smiled and more than ever it seemed to illuminate his face. Marion felt a hint of warmth return to her body. She smiled back, a knee-jerk reaction.

  “Blazes, Lane.” He frowned good-naturedly at her, then at the room. “This place is a mess. You feeling all right?” He settled next to her, slouching against the headboard, his legs stretched out lazily in front of him.

  “Getting there,” she said, pulling her blouse sleeve over her injured hand. The bed was so narrow that her thigh touched his, firm and warm. She didn’t mind. “You look well, though. And the hair’s back to normal,” she teased, glancing at his thicket of golden locks, slicked back to reveal a perfect side parting.

  He gave her a one-sided grin. “Thanks. You’ve no idea the effort it takes.”

  “Oh, I believe it.” She recalled the array of personal products she’d seen in his room.

  He looked at her covered hand. “And what’s that about? You’re not going to try and pretend you’ve still got ten fingers?”

  “Not sure how I’m supposed to explain it to anyone.”

  “Well, they all know you helped Nancy apprehend Swindlehurst—just say it caught a bullet or something.”

  Marion shrugged a dismissive reply. She didn’t want to think about Swindlehurst, or even hear his name spoken out loud. Not here in the comfort of her room.

  “Listen, I wanted to apologize for my delay in getting back to the house in Turnchapel. I tried to gather help at the agency as quickly as I could but—”

  Marion cut him off. “It’s fine. You did what you could. The Distracter was brilliant—it saved us, actually. And just in time, too.”

  “It was all I could think of to create a diversion while I slipped past the guard outside.” He shook his head.

  She put her hand behind her back. She really wanted to talk about something else. “And the next step for you? Are you staying?” She tensed, waiting for his reply, hoping.

  He grinned, as if he knew what she wanted to hear. “Yeah, I am. Though I think it’s more because Nancy doesn’t want me to leave now, not with everything I know.”

  Marion’s stomach churned. A mix of relief and apprehension at Kenny’s permanent assignment at Miss Brickett’s. She knew he’d endured a similar meeting with Nancy and Frank just before her own. She presumed that meant he now knew everything she did. Another reluctant addition to Nancy’s circle of trust. “Right, probably not.” She touched his arm, removing it a second later than she’d intended. “But I’m happy you’re staying.”

  Kenny pulled out a cigarette, slipped it between his lips and lit up.

  “And I wanted to say thank you, by the way,” she added.

  “For?”

  “Not telling Nancy anything about the map, or my trip into the laboratory.”

  “You’re welcome.” He exhaled a trail of smoke. “Though I’ll tell you, it was just luck I didn’t have to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked at her, the cigarette loose between his lips. “Well, I tried to contact Nancy the night before the Circus Ball, but no one knew where she was. If I had got hold of her then, I’d have had to mention you were involved—there wouldn’t have been another way to play it. I doubt she would’ve believed I found the cellar without the map. Luckily, by the time I reached her, the whole thing was over. I decided to alter the truth a little.”

  “How?”

  “I just said I’d been following Swindlehurst since the night of the Circus Ball, just as Bal had instructed me to do. And before he went to remove the safe from the lock room, he entered the cellar to clean out his things. In other words, I followed him there, didn’t need the map at all.”

  “Oh,” Marion said, her mind lagging and exhausted.

  “But listen, Lane.” His tone was earnest and he angled his body so that he was now facing her head-on. “That map is trouble. It needs to go.”

  “I know.”

  “So? Where is it?”

  “Bill has it.” She didn’t want to lie, but something inside her recoiled at the thought of Kenny taking the map, of getting rid of it.

  A look of annoyance crossed Kenny’s face. “And?”

  “And?”

  “What are you planning to do with it?”

  “Destroy it probably. I don’t know yet.” Another lie.

  He looked unsatisfied. “Well, you can discuss it with Hobb tonight. I’m not interested in covering for the two of you again—”

  “Tonight?” Marion said, ignoring the latter part of Kenny’s sentence. She’d been desperate to see everyone again, but by the time she’d been released from the infirmary and finished her meeting at Frank’s office, it was long past working hours and she assumed they’d all gone home.

  Kenny looked confused for a moment. “Oh, I thought they told you. Maybe it was supposed to be a surprise.”

  “Well, you’ve ruined it now, so go on?”

  “Bill and Jessica have organized a welcome home, get well soon, happy you’re back thing. Happening in the common room in a few.”

  “R
eally?” She smiled, a surge of relief flooding through her, rooted in the knowledge that seeing everyone again might reignite the sense of normality she so craved.

  “Maybe you can introduce me to the others properly?”

  “Worried they won’t like you?” she teased.

  “No, because that’s impossible.” He laughed, put out his cigarette and got to his feet. “Anyway, ready for a drink?”

  “A bottle actually.” They left her room together and crossed the corridor into the common room.

  Jessica and Maud greeted them at the door. Marion led the introductions, ignoring the look of fascination on Jessica’s face as she looked from Marion to Kenny and back again—interpreting, analyzing. She would be wondering why they’d arrived together, most likely, and if there was anything more than professionalism between them. In fact, Marion had been wondering the same of late.

  “I can’t believe what happened,” Jessica said a little while after, thankfully choosing to refocus her attention on Marion alone. “I can’t believe it was Edgar in the end...and the Circus Ball.”

  “We were all out cold from the drugs, you know,” Maud cut in.

  “You’d have been out cold, anyway,” Jessica added.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Maud frowned, then continued without waiting for a reply. “Anyway, we’re glad you’re back. And alive.” She looked at Marion’s left hand and for a while seemed to be deciding on whether to ask what had happened. Fortunately, she didn’t.

  The group was joined by Amanda, who greeted Marion with only slightly more enthusiasm than usual. She then moved off to the central table, where several second years had set up a game of rummy and rows of drinks. The other four remained behind: Maud and Kenny exchanging jokes as naturally as if they’d known each other for years. Marion and Jessica catching up on news: the fling with Roger from maintenance was over (Jessica seemed more relieved than upset at this), Preston was off sick with the flu, John Perry had been assigned the position of full-time Filing Assistant (much to his dismay), Amanda hadn’t received any further promotions and Rakes had taken over the position of Special Case Officer from Swindlehurst in addition to retaining her role as head of the Intelligence Department.

  “Speaking of...” Rakes chimed in, materializing at Marion’s side. “Evening.” She nodded at Jessica, then turned back to Marion. “Mind if I have a word?” She pulled a file from her briefcase once Jessica had taken her leave. “Bleeding obvious now, isn’t it?”

  Marion looked at the file labelled SI 0087. The Scorch.

  “Bloody Swindlehurst,” Rakes elaborated. “He was never against freezing operations at Intelligence because he cared about this case. He just didn’t want the Inquirers to focus their attention on White’s murder instead.” She sighed. “Anyway, as you’ve obviously heard, I’ve currently got quite a lot going on and I thought you might be interested in helping me out.” She handed Marion the file. “Since you’ve recently demonstrated a particular knack for tricky investigations, would you be interested in coming on board again?”

  Marion’s chest swelled. Reassignment to the Scorch case was exactly the sort of thing she needed, a distraction from her thoughts, a pathway back into the comfortable reality she’d been forced to abandon the last few weeks. “Really?”

  “Can’t think of anyone better suited.” Rakes extended her hand, and they shook. “Well done, Lane. On everything.” She looked past Marion and toward the fireplace where Bill had just arrived with a bottle of wine. He caught Marion’s eye and waved her over. “You’re in demand tonight, better leave you to it. I’ll see you in my office Monday morning.”

  “I’ve been reassigned to the Scorch case,” Marion said to Bill after they’d hugged and greeted. She sat down on the couch beside him. “Can you believe it?”

  “Of course I can.” He poured them each a glass of wine. “I’m sure Amanda will be disappointed to hear it.”

  They laughed.

  “How was your meeting with Nancy and Frank, by the way?” Bill asked a while later.

  Marion inhaled deeply. There was a lot she and Bill still had to discuss—her recent acquisition of Number Sixteen Willow Street, the contents of the wooden box under her bed and what they were going to do with it. But most importantly, everything Nancy had told her not to repeat. It wasn’t much of a decision, really, whether to tell him or not. Of course she would.

  “It was interesting,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything, so long as you’re sure you really want to know?”

  “’Course I do,” he said without hesitation. “But maybe not tonight. There’s a time and place, as they say. I’m just so happy you’re back, Mari.” He squeezed her uninjured hand, then looked across the room to where Kenny was standing, still rubbing his eyes in glee at whatever Maud was saying. He released her hand. “Your new friend seems to be fitting in.”

  Marion watched Bill’s features stiffen, his eyes narrow. “Go on,” she said tersely, “get it off your chest.”

  Bill turned to her, slighted. “He’s just so...” He seemed to take a while to choose the right word, or at least the most polite version of the right word. “Loud.”

  Marion hooked her arm through his, pulling him toward her. “Oh, come on. I think the two of you will be sharing a bottle of Scotch in a few months.” She really hoped she was right. “Just give him a chance.”

  Bill rolled his eyes and threw back the last of his wine. “Right.” He mumbled something under his breath, but Marion wasn’t listening.

  Her focus had drifted to the other side of the common room, to a lone armchair where David sat, a pint resting on his knee and below it a dirty plaster cast. She drew a breath as they caught each other’s eye. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  Bill frowned, then looked at David. He opened his mouth, as if to discourage her from whatever she was about to do, but changed his mind. He obviously wasn’t interested in reconciling with David, but perhaps he realized it was something Marion needed to do. “Go on, then.”

  She made her way across the room and knelt down beside David’s chair. “Evening.”

  He said nothing, utterly uninterested.

  “How’s the leg?”

  He finished his pint and set the empty mug down on the floor, then picked up the crutch that lay next to it. “It’s bloody painful, thanks for asking. I still can’t walk properly.”

  Marion sighed. “Listen, David. There’s something I need to tell you. About your stepbrother.”

  At this, he turned to face her. His blunt features twisted, the smallest show of surprise.

  She knew she couldn’t tell him everything, but at the very least she felt he deserved to know how his stepbrother had died. “As you probably know, I became involved in the White murder case,” she began. He looked away again as she spoke. “And there’s something Swindlehurst told me that I think you ought to know.” She waited for a moment, preparing for the significance of what she was about to say. David caught her eye, prompting her to continue. She told him then, as delicately as she could, that Swindlehurst and Ned had had a disagreement the night he disappeared about something Ned suspected lay across the Border and what they should do about it. “There was a scuffle,” she said, trying to insert as much truth into the story as she dared. “Swindlehurst shoved Ned up against the wall, harder than he intended, I think. Ned hit his head against a sharp rock.”

  David paled, his lips parted in shock. “Swindlehurst? I’d heard they were friends but...” He trailed off.

  Marion took his hand. He flinched but didn’t pull away. “Swindlehurst was devastated by it, I really think that. But he was a coward, too. He didn’t want to face the consequences. That’s why he started the rumor about Ned crossing the Border and he planted Ned’s bag outside White’s office to make it look like he’d disappeared down there. I’m so sorry, David. I really am.”

  He stared bl
ankly into the distance, unmoving, his eyes slowly filling with tears. Marion pressed her hand more tightly into his. Witnessing his devastation was more painful than she’d imagined. Perhaps because she’d previously thought him incapable of such emotions.

  He turned to Marion, wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. “The last time I saw him we had an argument, something petty. I can’t even remember what about, but I told him what a useless git he was. I’ll never be able to apologize for that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, her voice wavering.

  David said nothing more for a while, his features unmoved. Then he seemed to gather himself, to remember where he was and to whom he was speaking. His mouth twisted into an unpleasant expression—something between a leer and scowl. He got up, steadying himself with the crutch. “I suppose you’re not able to tell me anything else? What Ned thought was down there in the tunnels? Where Swindlehurst is now?”

  “David, I don’t—”

  He held up a hand to silence her. “It’s okay. I understand. Thanks, anyway.” He threw his bag over his shoulder, nodded and limped away.

  Marion sighed and made her way back to Bill, now seated at the central table with everyone else, halfway through a spirited game of rummy. She felt a stab of compassion for David, the fractured truth he’d have to come to terms with. But he wasn’t the only one. She took a large swig of wine and closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, allowing the alcohol to filter through her system, still her thoughts. And amid the warmth of the crackling fire, surrounded by the laughter of her colleagues and friends, it was surprisingly easy to believe that despite the awful start to her first year at Miss Brickett’s, everything was going to be okay now.

  She raised a glass to toast the table. They turned to look at her. “To new beginnings.”

  “To new beginnings,” the group chimed in reply.

  * * *

  Edgar Swindlehurst was blindfolded and gagged as he stepped onto a steel platform somewhere within the grim bowels of the earth. The platform shifted under his weight. He righted himself, sweaty fingers catching a cold metal chain in front of him. There was a ripping, grinding sound, a moment of silence, and the platform began to move.