Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder Read online

  Advance Praise for

  Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

  “This is the most fun I’ve had with a book this year. Every page is a delight, the worldbuilding is wonderful, and the mystery got its hooks into me from the first chapter. This is what would happen if a trainee James Bond was asked to solve an Agatha Christie mystery, and it’s brilliant.”

  —Stuart Turton, bestselling author of The 7 ½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

  “Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder crackles with invention and surprise—the wondrous gadgetry, the moody settings, the endearing heroine and the struggles she’s endured—and Willberg weaves it all together around a perfectly puzzling locked-room whodunnit.”

  —Matthew Sullivan, author of Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore

  “A delightfully stylish romp through London’s foggy streets and secret tunnels, complete with a tantalizing, steampunk-flavored mystery. Willberg has conjured a sharp-witted and sympathetic heroine, a worthy match for the sinister forces and shadowy organizations arrayed against her. Delicious fun!”

  —Helene Wecker, New York Times bestselling author of The Golem and the Jinni

  T.A. Willberg was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, and grew up on a smallholding outside Durban surrounded by horses, sheep, chickens, and more snakes and spiders than she cares to recall. She currently lives with her partner in Malta, where she divides her time between chiropractic and writing. Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder is her debut novel.

  www.TAWillberg.com

  Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

  T.A. Willberg

  For Marion, Werner and Ben

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  1

  THE SECRET STEALER

  Somewhere in London

  Friday, April 11, 1958

  11:40 p.m.

  Threads of steam rose from the warm tarmac. The alleyway was quiet tonight, the perfect setting for the conveyance of secrets. The woman in the red headscarf checked over her shoulder. No one would have followed her, but she had to be sure.

  She stopped three yards from the lamppost and pulled from her bag a flashlight and one sealed envelope. She knew exactly where the disguised letter case was hidden—on the left, shoulder height, behind the brick that looked a little different from its neighbors—but that wasn’t the cause of her indecision. What she planned to do tonight would alter the course of someone’s future.

  Her grip on the flashlight handle tightened as she struggled against herself. There were so many reasons to walk away, the potential repercussions of what she planned to do numerous and terrifying. And yet...if there was one thing she truly believed in, one thing that mattered more than any of that, it was the truth.

  For seven years she’d kept a sickening secret. For seven years she’d held her tongue, bound by the unbreakable oath of those in her trade. But she felt it now more than ever—how much the secret had consumed her, how unbearable its burden had become. If she did not do this tonight, she doubted whether she’d ever forgive herself.

  She nodded to herself in the dark, quiet alleyway. Yes, the truth was worth the risk. But with the night pulling swiftly onward, she knew she had to hurry. She directed the beam of her flashlight at the wall and there it was—a single gray brick that reflected the light. Metal, not brick. She tapped the thing with the butt of her flashlight.

  Once. Nothing.

  Twice (a more confident tap) and the dirty gray block shrank back into the wall. There was a soft click and, out from where the brick had been, a thin metal plate extended.

  Despite the brisk wind now whipping through the alleyway, the woman in the red headscarf began to sweat. She placed the envelope on the metal plate and watched as letter and plate slipped back into the wall and disappeared. She let out a long breath and wiped the perspiration from her brow—the secret was no longer hers alone to bear.

  She knew exactly where the envelope would end up, with those people under the ground, those mysterious types who dwelled in the shadows—the Inquirers. They were a band of private detectives who lived beneath the streets of London in a labyrinth of twisted tunnels and ancient hallways, the entrance to which no one had ever found. The Inquirers were something of a myth to the citizens of London, a whispered legend that might or might not exist, depending on whom you asked. But to those who believed, the Inquirers had gained a somewhat ambivalent reputation. They were like ghosts, some said, sleuths who guarded the city. Nameless. Silent. Forever bound to linger in darkness. And while almost everyone had heard about the hundred-and-something secret postboxes (known as letter cases) hidden in concealed locations throughout the city, into which one was encouraged to place suspicions of criminal behavior, tip-offs and requests, no one was quite sure what happened after that.

  Where did the letters go? How did they get there and who was going to read them? Fresh rumors surfaced every few months: letters are pulled by a string through the wall and into a room just beyond was a favorite until someone smashed down a wall in which a letter case was thought to be, and in doing so brought the entire south-facing wall of Mr. Silverton’s garage crumbling to the ground. No string, no secret room, just a pile of bricks and a metal pipe that appeared to feed into the ground—a water pipe, most probably.

  There were similar concerns about the effectiveness of the Inquirers’ investigative skills, since many people who’d claimed to have sent forth a tip-off had yet to see anything come of it. More sensible individuals, however, said that this was simply because the Inquirers did not have the time or resources to bother with concerns of a personal nature—cheating husbands, lost pets and the like.

  Resources, as it happens, were another topic of hot debate. How did the Inquirers, who never asked for so much as a penny (or a thank-you), manage to finance such an elaborate and apparently well-oiled system?

  The woman in the red headscarf preferred not to think about any of that, happy to rest in the assurance that the Inquirers were no myth. Having had the very unfortunate experience of meeting a few of them, she knew for certain they were as real as the grimy street beneath her feet. But if anyone asked for her opinion, she’d say they caused more trouble than they claimed to resolve. She’d heard the stories like everybody else—corrupt businessmen brought to justice, lost children returned to their parents, criminals forced to confess—but had anyone ever asked how? Had anyone cared to dig a little deeper, where bones were buried and lies entombed?

  In fact, the woman in the red headscarf would never have considered contacting the Inquirers at all, had the matter not involved one of their own.

  She clicked her tongue in disapproval as she walked back up the street, hopeful to be done with the Inquirers and their dubious ways and relieved to be on her way back to her armchair by the fire and a piping-hot cup of tea. And maybe a slice of fruitcake.

  * * *

  Envelope encased, the carrier cylinder t
raveled through miles of pneumatic pipes from its place of origin to the dark, deep dungeon of the Filing Department—falling neatly from the end of the pipe and into the corresponding receiver box, as if by some magical, invisible postman.

  A bell chimed as the envelope landed in receiver box fifty-five.

  Michelle White’s eyes shot open as she lurched back from the edge of sleep. She blinked at the flashing yellow light on the noticeboard above her. It was her job to ensure all letters were sorted out the minute they arrived: those that met agency requirements were to be organized by date and slipped into the Inquirers’ in-box for later investigation. Those that did not went straight into the rubbish bin, and those of which she was unsure what to do with, into a looming pile on the desk. But crime and crookedness had been on the decline the last few weeks in London and so, assuming the letter would be a lead on something petty, Michelle White staggered across the Filing Department in no particular hurry.

  She lifted the lid on receiver box fifty-five, the endpoint of a six-mile pneumatic tube that fed off from a letter case hidden in Passing Alley in Farringdon.

  Envelopes and letters pulled from the receiver boxes were usually addressed to the agency in general: Dear people under the ground, or similar.

  But tonight was different.

  To Miss M. White, Inquirer.

  It was odd, yet she couldn’t help smile at the thought of it. Michelle had once dreamed of becoming an Inquirer; she had come so close to the reality, too. But she was just not good enough. Not clever enough, not brave or talented enough. Not quite anything enough.

  Ten years ago, at the age of twenty-two, she’d been recruited from a textile factory where she’d toiled long hours as a quality control assistant. But like everyone who came to work in the sunless labyrinth, Michelle had swiftly and without much consideration renounced the liberties of her previous, lackluster life in exchange for the opportunity to begin a new and thrilling vocation as an Inquirer, where she’d hoped to finally make use of her very particular set of skills.

  But things had not quite turned out that way, which was why—instead of scouring London’s streets for criminals and delinquents—Michelle had ended up here, spending her evenings as the night-duty filing assistant in the establishment’s dullest department. In fact, had it not been for her other, far more satisfying role—that of Border Guard, protector of the secret—then perhaps she would have quit years ago.

  But now Michelle wondered, as she stared at the envelope in her hand, how whoever had sent it knew where she worked or why they had considered her the worthy counsel of their troubles. She ran her thumb over the words—Miss M. White, Inquirer—as if they might be absorbed through her skin and become true.

  For a moment, she was reluctant to open the envelope, concerned it might be a joke. One of the young apprentices playing a trick. She clenched her jaw at the thought, breathed, then entered the letter’s details into the register file: time and date received, receiver box number and her initials. But when she opened the envelope and read the final detail—the nature of the inquiry—her breath began to quicken.

  The letter was short. A name, a time, a place and one simple revelation. And yet it unleashed a torrent of angst.

  Several weeks ago, something had gone missing from her handbag—something invaluable, irreplaceable, something that might dredge up a secret long since buried across the Border. At first she’d been so certain of who had taken it, and for countless nights thereafter she’d turned in her sleep, anxious the nasty thief would soon come looking for the paired device she kept locked in her private office, and with that the secret would be uncovered.

  But if the letter she’d just received was to be trusted, Michelle’s anxieties had been misplaced—the secret had already been discovered. She wasn’t sure how, or even why, but if she followed the letter’s directions, she might soon find out.

  Though sirens of warning blared in her head, Michelle had already made up her mind. Of course she could take the letter to someone more qualified than herself, but it had been addressed to her—whoever had sent it had entrusted her with this, a most precious and urgent secret. And besides, as the letter had said, if only for tonight, Miss White was an Inquirer.

  As instructed, she lit a match and held the letter under the flame. Once the paper had turned to ash, she packed up her things, grabbed her handbag, locked the office and rushed up the staircase toward the library. She stopped at the lock room gate, far on the other side of the grand hall of glorious bookshelves. The gate was ajar, just as she’d expected.

  She stepped inside, pausing immediately as a wave of something cool and cutting passed in front of her, a curious thing. She rubbed her eyes and looked around the dully lit room, at the hundreds of steel drawers, safes in which were kept the agency’s most hallowed files and documents. The lock room, with its thick walls and high ceiling, was always chilled, but tonight it felt particularly so.

  Crack.

  Something split from the wall behind her. She turned to the sound but saw only a shadow move across the room and something that looked like a large black box being removed from inside the wall. She hesitated, then moved a little closer. But it came again—a wave of cool air, dancing in front of her. She dabbed her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve; they were now surely playing tricks on her, for everything had turned to a strange blur of nothing. Michelle started to panic, her thoughts as unfocused as her eyesight. Her head began to spin. Her limbs to tingle. This might have been the moment she ran for her life, out of the lock room and away from the evil she now knew had been waiting for her there. But terror had immobilized her. There was nothing she could do to get her legs to move, not even when she heard the rush of footsteps, some behind her, some in front. Not even when she felt the brush of air against her neck.

  “What’s happening,” she asked in a staggered groan. “I know you’re there... I know it was you...” She trailed off, the words in her head no longer making sense.

  She dropped her handbag. Something hard rolled out and across the floor. She was too disorientated to realize what it was.

  In a drawn-out moment that seemed to last forever, Michelle’s senses grew dull and viscous. She could no longer trust her eyesight, her ears. She might have seen an amorphous shape crouching in front of her. She might have seen it lift something from the floor. Certainly, however, she felt the sharp burn of a cold, ragged blade as it sank quickly and easily through the delicate skin across her throat.

  Warmth, darkness and nothing more.

  2

  NUMBER SIXTEEN WILLOW STREET

  Saturday, April 12, 1958

  East London

  Screwdriver in hand, Marion Lane secured the last steel feather into place, restoring the clockwork sunbird from a pile of metal and springs to its glorious former self. She turned it over, wound up the key hidden beneath the left wing and waited. Just as before, however, nothing happened.

  She groaned as she placed the bird on her windowsill, packed away her leather roll of tools and peered down at the street below. As ever, there was little to be seen that bitter morning: a lone cat in search of misadventure, detritus collecting on the pavement, the milkman setting fresh bottles on doorsteps. And, of course, the For Sale sign nailed to her front door, as it had been for nearly a year.

  It was here, right in the fetid heart of the East End, in a ramshackle two-story flat on Willow Street, that Marion had spent her entire existence. For twenty-three years she’d lived within the boundaries of what she knew, not daring to imagine that another life awaited her—one far removed from the mundane and ordinary. Another world, one to which she truly belonged.

  And while Marion had discovered this new world four months ago, on the surface it appeared that her life was just the same as ever. She still lived in Willow Street with her grandmother, in a bedroom filled with objects of an exceedingly unremarkable nature, apart from the gilded metal
fowl, of course.

  There was an ordinary single bed in the corner, a partially unpacked briefcase lying on top. There was an ordinary dresser just opposite, stacked with piles of unused parchment, books and two framed photographs: one of the father Marion had never known, who’d died in the war the day of her third birthday, and one of Marion and her mother, Alice. This second photo, taken on Marion’s sixteenth birthday, was not particularly flattering for either woman—the lighting dull, the angle awkward and unnatural—and yet for Marion it held the last fond memory she had of her mother, a fleeting moment in which Alice had at least pretended to be happy.

  A ray of pale morning sun filtered through her bedroom window, catching just the tip of the bird’s tail feather and bringing Marion back to the present. It had been a mistake to offer Bill her assistance in figuring out what was wrong with the thing, though their plan seemed infallible at the time—Marion, mechanically minded as she was, would take the bird home over the weekend and dismantle it. She would check its interior for loose joints, a maligned anchor, an unsuitable driving weight, making a note of what she found.

  Meanwhile, five miles away in a flat nearly as musty and miserable as her own, Bill would bury himself in a hoard of peculiar reference books in the hopes that somewhere, somehow, he’d find a paragraph on what made clockwork birds defective. They’d convene on Monday with all the answers and this, their first project together, would be a successful one. She’d assumed that, for her at least, the task would be simple. The sunbird contraption—with its gleaming exterior, yet complicated and delicate core—was one she’d found herself particularly drawn to and whose inner workings she’d become so familiar with. But again, she was reminded that nothing at her new job was quite as simple as it seemed.

  For the past four months, Marion and Bill had worked as apprentices at an obscure bookstore that hardly anyone had heard of that stood at the end of a cul-de-sac with no name, just beyond the borders of Eel Brook Common in Fulham: Miss Brickett’s Secondhand Books and Curiosities. The shop’s only piece of furniture was a butler’s desk that served as a reception table, though this was quite unnecessary as Miss Brickett’s never had any customers. Of course the desk had another more practical role, but this, much like the existence of the metallic sunbird, was a secret Marion and Bill were forbidden to divulge.