DOLORES’S ULTIMATUM
Saturday morning, Marion made her way down to the kitchen of Number Sixteen Willow Street. As Frank had insisted, she’d left the agency the evening before as soon as she’d been able, slipping away from the ceremony almost as quietly as Frank and Nicholas had done before her.
But she’d had a troubled sleep, unnerving dreams of shadows and faded memories that lingered even after she woke. She wanted so desperately to do as Bill had suggested. To forget. But her journey into the corridors beyond the Border, her encounter with Mr. Nicholas’s snake, the ominous darkness and disorienting passageways from which it had slithered and everything she’d learned since then had triggered something she could now not seem to repel. And while she’d hoped that the lightness and festivities of the Induction Ceremony would finally extinguish this feeling, really it had done nothing but amplify it.
Whatever Frank needed to speak to her about on Monday, she hoped it would finally do something to settle her mind and allow her to focus on work instead.
“Marion darling,” called Dolores from inside the kitchen. “Come in and help me, will you?”
Marion made her way downstairs, noting that the cobwebs had been cleared from the hallway ceiling and the mirrors wiped spotless. Even the threadbare carpet at the base of the stairs looked on its way to being free of dust and the thousands of mites who called it home.
The kitchen, however, was another story.
Dolores stood over the stove, three pots steaming under her frizzy hair. The kitchen table was covered in crockery, clearly taken out from the cupboard to be washed. The sink was piled to the brim with dirty pans and pots and everywhere the air smelled of overcooked bread.
Dolores looked around, her right hand stirring one pot, her left the other. “Don’t just stand there! The bread! Quickly, take it out of the oven!”
Marion wandered over to the oven in something of a daze. Despite the six hours of sleep she’d just had, she was remarkably exhausted. Her only plan for the weekend was to do anything and everything other than think about the previous week.
She opened the oven; a wave of heat and cloud of smoke hit her in the face. “Think it’s a bit overdone.”
Dolores shrieked as she caught sight of the blackened loaf, waved Marion over to the stove and hurried to take her place at the oven.
“What’s all this, then?” Marion asked once Dolores had removed the bread from its tin and cut away the charcoal edges.
“Your cousins are coming over for tea.”
“Reginald and Erin? What’s the occasion?”
Dolores turned to the sink and busied herself with scrubbing the bread tin. No answer was given, which made Marion nervous. Dolores eventually scuttled back over to the stove. “I’ll do the rest while you go upstairs and change. You look awful.”
Marion looked down at the brown checkered slip dress she’d thrown on in a hurry, creased and ill-fitting. She took a calming breath and hauled herself upstairs. Her bedroom was a mess, clothes strewn across the bed, notes and files from the agency thrown onto the armchair by the window. She picked out a yellow cotton shirtwaist dress from her wardrobe that surely even Dolores would approve of.
The front door opened and slammed shut downstairs. Dolores’s anxious voice welcomed her guests inside. Marion wanted nothing more than to crawl under her duvet and fall asleep, to wake up on Monday morning feeling refreshed and finding that everything at the agency was back to normal. She had no idea why Dolores would have invited Reginald and Erin over for tea since, as far as she knew, Dolores didn’t like either of them. She also wondered why she’d gone to such great lengths to clean the house for the occasion. She didn’t care to find out the answers to such questions, although she knew she was about to.
“Oh, much better.” Dolores beamed as Marion sat down in the lounge, facing her third cousin twice removed, Reginald Grunstone, a well-cushioned man with an aristocratic face, and Erin Grunstone, who looked almost exactly like her husband, only slightly smaller and with more hair.
A tray of tea and biscuits had been laid out on the table. Erin and Reginald helped themselves.
Dolores smiled at Marion. “Some tea, darling?”
“I don’t drink tea, you know that.”
Dolores ignored her and handed over the tray of biscuits instead. Together, Dolores, Reginald and Erin picked up their cups and took a sip. The silence now disturbed only by their low, polite slurps.
Marion leaned back in her chair and watched as Reginald and Erin turned to Dolores as if expecting her to get started with whatever it was they’d been invited for.
Eventually Dolores realized this and began. “I invited your family here tonight,” she said, addressing Marion, “as I thought it would be easier—” she paused, turning from Reginald to Erin and back to Marion “—if we told you together, all of us who love you most in the world.”
Marion surveyed the three faces in front of her: a grandmother whom she’d hardly known before Alice had died, a third cousin twice removed who had once thought Marion’s name was Mary, and his wife, a woman who had never said a word in Marion’s presence. If these were the people who loved her most in the world, she felt very sorry for herself. “Tell me what?” Marion asked, picking her nails under the pillow she’d placed on her lap.
Dolores and the others, in perfect unison, smiled at Marion. A pitiful smile, one you might give to someone who looks not altogether well. Dolores cleared her throat and brought together her veiny hands, resting them on her lap. “I am moving to Ohio,” she said, holding her smile.
“America?”
“Yes, of course America.” Dolores’s face was so stiffly stuck in the act of smiling that it was starting to make Marion uneasy. Was she having a stroke?
A spark of panic ignited in Marion’s chest. “Do you mean you’ve sold the house?”
“Yes.”
“When?” Marion’s voice was rising, quickening. The house had been for sale for so long—nearly eighteen months now—that she’d almost forgotten it still was.
“Recently.”
“I don’t understand what—” She breathed and tried again. “You’re moving to America because you sold the house. What am I supposed to do?”
Dolores was doing something odd with her lips, turning them in as if sipping from a straw. “Well, I was hoping you’d consider joining me. Reginald and Erin moved there last year and have a lovely setup.” She gestured to Reginald. “Reginald has opened a small motor repairs company there and they’re looking for a reception girl, rather similar to the work you did with Felix at the garage. Clerical and all that.”
Marion clenched her jaw and inhaled through her nose as she held back from correcting her grandmother. The work she’d done at Felix’s garage had been anything but clerical. “Well, I’m not just going to pack up and move, if that’s actually what you’re suggesting.”
“It is all quite simple, really,” Dolores went on. “You can come with me, we’ll find a lovely place to live close to Reginald and the motor store and everything will be just perfect.”
Marion’s mouth was dry, her cheeks burned with shock. “Who did you sell it to?”
Dolores placed her teacup on the table beside her. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does matter. It’s my house, too. Whoever it is, you’ll just have to tell them you’ve made a mistake.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s impossible. The papers are already signed.” She picked up her teacup again. There was a low clink as the cup and saucer rattled against each other. “I’m afraid the facts of the matter are simple and plain. You must come with me to America or you’ll have to find another place to live here in London, which I know you can’t do. Rent is far too high these days, most certainly with that pittance of a salary you earn at the bookshop.”
Marion almost didn’t want to ask the next question on her mind. She braced herself. “And the money from the sale?”
Dolores’s eyes flashed swiftly to Reginald. “No.”
“No what?”
“There isn’t any,” Dolores said. “The house sold for very little and I’ve had to use every last penny for the move. But as I’ve already explained, you may live with me in America. Free of charge until you find your feet.”
Marion was trying her very best to keep her voice from trembling, and her fingers from wrapping around Dolores’s scrawny neck. “You can’t actually think I’m just going to leave everything in London and relocate to America at the drop of a hat?”
“Everything? What exactly is this everything you will be leaving?” Dolores made some horrible snorting sound. “Oh, dear darling...”
“Stop calling me darling!”
Dolores’s face twitched. “The movers are arriving this evening. Everything will be sorted by Monday. That’s all there is to it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me quite well. We must be all packed and ready to leave by Monday.”
“You can’t be—” Marion tried to calm herself down. “How could you do this without even asking me? Mother said the house was to be put in my name.”
“Your mother had no clue what she was saying, or to whom. Which is why, as you well know, I was left in charge of her estate.”
Marion felt as if she would either explode, or do some permanent damage to Dolores’s face. Fortunately, Reginald picked up on this and grabbed Marion’s hand, gently patting it as he spoke.
“Marion, your grandmother and I are only looking out for you, please understand,” he said. “This will be a good thing, in the long run. You will get a chance at a nice career and—”
“And,” said Erin, whom Marion had forgotten was even there, “you just wait until you see the men in that motor store!” Her face was red with excitement. She turned to Reginald, perhaps to check whether she had gone too far, before continuing. Reginald didn’t seem bothered. “Oh my! Just you wait and see.”
“There you go,” Dolores said, opening her hands to the good news. “It will all be wonderful. So, what do you say?”
After taking a while to filter through the very many things she would have liked to say and boil them down to the bare essentials, Marion spoke. “No, is what I say.”
Dolores tried to smile again but this time, even for her, it seemed impossible. Her face hardened into a carving of stone. It was a frightful sight, all taut and cold as if it belonged to a corpse. “You are the most ungrateful girl I have ever known,” she snapped. “All we are trying to do is help and you just toss it away. It’s no wonder your mother—” She stopped herself, almost too late.
Marion glared at her; she was sure her eyes had turned black with rage.
“And don’t forget,” Dolores pressed on, “I have had a hard life, too...it hasn’t been easy, you know. Looking after you all these years. I didn’t have to. But I did, out of the goodness of my heart. I’ve never asked for a thing in return, not a thing.” She stopped. Reginald and Erin looked awfully uncomfortable. Dolores looked embarrassed. “You think you’re special, don’t you?” she went off again. “You think you deserve more? Well, let me tell you something. You’re just like the rest of us, bound to the very same fate—hardship and toil.”
Rage was beating inside Marion but she held it there. She nodded a polite goodbye to Erin and Reginald and gave Dolores a ten-second stare before leaving. Without giving herself a chance to think twice about it, she pulled a suitcase from under her bed and began to fill it with the few belongings she had left. Dolores’s voice drifted up from downstairs, Reginald’s, too. They were talking about her, about how ungrateful she was, how rude she was.
She slammed her suitcase shut, gave her room one last look and dragged herself downstairs.
“Where do you think you’re—” Dolores said, screeching from the kitchen the minute she caught sight of Marion. “Don’t you dare walk out of that door. I won’t be here when you come back.”
Marion whipped around. Hot fury bubbled up inside of her. “Good. I hope I never see you again. Goodbye.”
Reginald had now pushed his way past Dolores and was trying to follow Marion into the street. “Please, Marion. Just hold on,” he said gently as he caught up with her. “It’s difficult for your grandmother, she’s only—”
“Only what? Trying to help? Please don’t say it again.” Reginald’s face had lost all its color. Dolores looked pained. But Marion didn’t care. For too long she’d respected boundaries. Held her tongue. Compromised. And for what? Dolores had done nothing for her, just as she’d done nothing for Alice.
She looked at her grandmother. Long and hard. When she spoke, her voice was even and low. “I’m leaving now. And I won’t be back. Don’t ever try to contact me again.” Her eyes stung but no tears fell.
Dolores stood in the doorway looking out, arms crossed. Erin stood just behind her, cowering in her shadow. Marion had nothing left to say to any of them. She pulled her suitcase off the ground, and up to her side. It was light; there hadn’t been much to pack. Without saying goodbye, or even a second look at Dolores Hacksworth, Marion walked away. And then the tears came.
She stood outside Miss Brickett’s. The gentle rain that had started halfway through her journey from Number Sixteen Willow Street was now bucketing down in veritable waterfalls. Her hands shook. Her eyes were blurred with tears.
But in her haste to leave Dolores and the others behind, Marion hadn’t quite had time to think her next step through. It was all very well to come to the bookshop, but what then? Rooms were provided at the agency only for Inquirers and senior staff members. Nancy might be willing to make an exception, but for Marion, admitting she was homeless, completely alone and desperate for help—especially to someone as self-assured as Nancy—was an acknowledgment of vulnerability, something she’d worked her whole life to conceal.
When her mother died, Marion had cried and screamed and cursed only in private. When she lost her job at Felix’s auto repair shop, she’d told everyone she was bored of the work and needed a change, anyway. And since Frank had stepped into her life, she’d gone to lengths to disguise how desperately she needed him—his approval, his acceptance, his protection.
But she remembered what Alice had always proclaimed—vulnerability demonstrated courage, not weakness. And despite the turmoil and fear and uncertainty, Marion knew something had shifted inside her the moment she’d left Dolores and Number Sixteen Willow Street behind. She was proud of herself for walking away, for finally confronting her grandmother. And maybe that spark of courage could now be coaxed into a flame.
She took a breath, pulled out the new set of keys Nicholas had given her and the rest of the agency the day before and unlocked the bookshop door.
As she rounded the last bend in the corridor that led to Nancy’s office, she paused.
Kenny Hugo, the newly inducted private detective from New York, emerged from a room to her right. He nodded, as if he’d been expecting her. They stared at one another for a moment, then Kenny began to smile.
“What are you doing here?” Marion blurted out, pushing her hands into her pockets.
Kenny looked offended. He came closer. His eyes were deep brown and alluring. Marion made a point of focusing on his forehead instead. “That’s a stupid question, Lane. I work here.”
Marion opened her mouth. How did he know her name? She was going to ask but the words lodged in her throat. What was it about this peculiar man that both enticed and infuriated her?
Kenny looked at her handbag. Then at the suitcase at her feet. “Going somewhere?”
“You’ve been following me,” she said, thinking out loud—the library bar, the cafeteria. Why was he always watching her so intently?
Kenny grinned more broadly and threaded his fingers through his hair. “Not you, in particular.”
Marion raised an eyebrow. “So everyone?”
Kenny shrugged. “You seem agitated.” He stepped closer. His aftershave enshrouded her—cinnamon and musk and sandalwood. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
Yes. She pulled her handbag tighter across her shoulder. “You’re making me late.” She picked up her suitcase. “Now, if you’d excuse me—”
“It’s the weekend. You’re an apprentice. Shouldn’t you be at home?”
Marion clenched her jaw—Kenny Hugo could do with a lesson in etiquette. She decided not to answer. “Have a good day, Mr. Hugo. I suppose I’ll see you around.” She pushed past, feeling his eyes bore into the back of her head as she marched off toward Nancy’s office door. She looked over her shoulder as she arrived. The tunnel was dim and empty.
“Miss Lane?” Nancy said as Marion entered. “This is a surprise.” Her eyes surveyed Marion’s suitcase. “What can I do for you?”
Marion hesitated, breathed, then began to explain her situation—Dolores had sold her house without compensation; she had nowhere to live and no money to afford rent. “I was hoping there is some way I could stay at the agency for the time being?”
Nancy’s face wasn’t exactly soft or comforting but she seemed to be doing her best not to look irritated at least. “Is there really no other option? We’re rather overwhelmed with...other things at the moment.”
Marion’s cheeks burned a little. “Well, no, I’m afraid not.” A lump formed in her throat. “I really don’t know what else to do.”
Nancy pulled a file from the drawer behind her and began to page through it silently. “We could provide you with a room in the residence quarters, though the cost will come off your salary. A thirty percent deduction.”
“Fine, that’s fine,” Marion said quickly, not that thirty percent deduction was a good thing, but she’d take what she could get.
“Very well. There’s a small office in the residence quarters that’s vacant. Number twenty-six. I’ll have Harry show you the way.” She closed the file. “Is that all?”
Marion stood up. “I was wondering about that new Inquirer, Mr. Hugo?”
Nancy already looked impatient. “Yes?”
Marion shifted on her feet. She wasn’t sure how to phrase the question: Why was he always loitering around? Was he watching her, or everyone? “What exactly is his role here?” was the best she could manage.
“He’s an Inquirer, Miss Lane. He’s here to solve cases. As I explained at the Induction Ceremony.” Nancy stared at her without flinching, without giving anything away. It was hopeless.
Marion nodded. “Right, of course.” She’d have to ask someone more forthcoming. “Is Frank in his office, by the way?”
Nancy’s eyes flashed with alarm. “Frank is not available. He’s very busy. And no,” she added, “he’s not in his office. Now please, if that’s all?” Her tone implied the conversation was over and, from experience, Marion knew it was thus pointless to argue.
Marion followed Harry to the residence quarters and a small room on the second floor. It was grim and cold, furnished only with a single bed, a side table, two armchairs and a washbasin.
She waited for Harry to leave, then unpacked her things, finishing with the framed photograph of her mother that she placed on her bedside table. She’d have liked to visit Frank before the evening. Not really to talk about Kenny Hugo, though that would’ve been her excuse. She wanted to talk about Dolores and the house and how the whole thing made her feel. Frank knew what her grandmother was like. He’d know what to say.
But instead she was here, alone in a cold room that felt so unfamiliar. With the adrenaline of the day slowly receding, a wave of exhaustion returned. She rubbed her watch strap absently as she considered her current reality. Miss Brickett’s had always been a refuge, the one place to which she truly belonged. But now—with Number Sixteen Willow Street sold—the agency really was all she had left. If anything went awry with Michelle White’s case and Miss Brickett’s had to be closed down, Marion’s destitution would reach a new and all-time low.
She closed her eyes and, for the first time in her life, prayed.