THE SMOKING CLOCK
“Well, at least you’ll save yourself the tube ride every morning,” Bill remarked in response to Marion’s tale of Dolores’s ultimatum and her newly appointed room as they sat down together in the Gadgetry Department the following Monday morning.
Marion smiled, but it didn’t feel natural. Since her relocation to the residence quarters, she’d been overwhelmed with claustrophobia and uncertainty. The memories of Number Sixteen Willow Street still haunted her—the last tangible link to her old life now ripped away.
“Mari?” Bill was staring at her, a copy of the Basic Workshop Manual spread out in front of him, a dismantled Distracter to his left. “You all right?”
Marion breathed deeply and picked up the Distracter. She wasn’t all right, far from it. “Have you heard anything more about White’s case?”
Bill looked confused. “No...have you?”
She said nothing as she adjusted the Distracter’s pendulum. She hadn’t heard anything more and that was the problem. What was going on? Who had the agency found guilty and why hadn’t they told anyone about it?
“Mari?”
She sighed. “I was just thinking what will happen if the police really do have to get involved? What if we’re shut down?”
“That’s not going to happen, come on.”
“You don’t know that. White has a family, doesn’t she? A life outside the agency. What if people start asking questions?”
“Then they’ll do what they did with Asbrey. Lie, say it was an accident, and if that doesn’t work they’ll pay them off. Don’t worry, I’m sure Nancy has more at stake than you do. She’ll handle it.”
Marion reassembled the clockwork bird in silence. She wasn’t quite sure Bill was right this time. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, forcing her mind to quieten, driving the unease into the shadows and focusing instead on the task before her.
The malfunctioning batch of Distracters Professor Bal had tasked her with fixing had turned out to be even more challenging than she’d initially imagined. It seemed that no matter how many parts were rearranged and replaced, the bird never did anything other than fly a few feet into the air and peter out. She’d dismantled and reassembled the device countless times, while Bill scoured the library for further resources. Nothing seemed to be working. And over the past four days, whenever she asked Professor Bal or his assistant for advice, she was met with the same response: “Sorry, we’re too busy. You’re on your own this time.”
What they were too busy with, she later came to understand, was an exciting but highly classified assignment, something to raise agency morale after Michelle White’s murder. Marion might’ve pressed the professor for assistance, anyway, but she realized quickly enough that this assignment—whatever it turned out to be—was the only thing keeping Uday Bal from falling apart after the trauma of his friend’s passing. Thus the task of the malfunctioning metal sunbird had fallen to Marion and Bill alone.
But now, despite her utter exhaustion and frustration, as she studied the bird’s innards for the hundredth time—she realized she’d finally figured it out.
“It’s a sizing issue,” she blurted out, suddenly excited.
Bill looked down at the Workshop manual. He began to thumb through, bewildered. “Sizing of what?”
“The phonograph. There, pass me that one. The smallest.” She pointed hurriedly at the box of parts, then replaced the bird’s old phonograph with a new, much smaller version. She tightened the wings and screwed the head in place. “Right, hold thumbs.” She wound up the key under the bird’s wing and released it from her grip. Immediately it fluttered upward and came to rest on the top of the glass display cabinet.
Bill glanced at her in apprehension. He looked at his watch. If the new phonograph was going to work, they’d know about it in exactly fifteen seconds. “Five, four, three, two, one...”
An enormous bang thundered through the Workshop—something similar to a pane of glass shattering.
“Bloody brilliant!” Bill slapped Marion on the back. “You think the fault is the same for the entire batch?”
Marion beamed. “Yes, yes, definitely. So as long as we keep the parameters the same.”
Bill smiled as they packed up their tools. “You’re really good at this stuff, you know. You should apply for a position here at the end of the year. Assistant mechanic or something. Pull an Amanda.”
Marion shrugged. The end of the year seemed an impossibly long way off. She’d have to get through the next week first.
“What’s he doing here?” Bill asked, gesturing to the Workshop entrance. Edgar Swindlehurst was standing at the door, a large satchel slung over his shoulder. He started toward them.
“Oh... Christ,” Marion’s heart thumped. How could she have forgotten? With everything that had happened lately—her trip across the Border, Dolores and the house—the matter of completing the Tucker character profiles (which were due that afternoon) had slipped her mind.
“What? Mari?”
“Is he coming over here?” she asked urgently, not daring to look across the hall.
“Eh, yeah.”
“Miss Lane, Mr. Hobb.” Swindlehurst reached the workbench seconds later.
“Afternoon, sir,” Marion and Bill said together. Marion forced herself to make eye contact, expecting Swindlehurst’s full wrath to come down upon her any minute. She inhaled, preparing an excuse in her head—she’d been so busy, so distracted, she was sorry, she’d explain it all to Nancy herself.
But Swindlehurst spoke first. “Where is the professor?”
Marion swallowed, confused. “I’m sorry?”
Swindlehurst looked over her shoulder, to the back of the Workshop, to Professor Bal’s office. “Is he in his office? It’s urgent. I need to speak with him.”
Bill glanced at Marion. Then, realizing she wasn’t going to answer, he said, “Bal’s taken the afternoon off. He’ll be back in the morning.”
Swindlehurst clenched his jaw. Once again, Marion was reminded of just how handsome, almost disturbingly so, his features were. “He’s on leave? For Christ’s sake, at a time like this?” He rubbed his neck and breathed. His eyes then focused on Marion; they flickered as if he were trying to remember something. She stiffened. Was there a chance he’d actually forgotten about the character profiles, too? “Right,” he said, turning to leave. “Well, if he comes back unexpectedly, tell him to meet me in my office.” He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment.
Bill turned to Marion as soon as Swindlehurst had left the department. “What was all that about?”
“Just something I forgot to do for him.” She threw her tools into her suitcase and slammed the lid shut. “He seems to have forgotten about it, though, which will buy me some time. Thank God.”
Bill frowned. “Right, but I meant what do you think Swindlehurst wants with Bal? He looked pretty riled about something.”
True, she thought. Swindlehurst never seemed to be in a good mood, at least not when dealing with apparent delays and perceived inadequacies. He was obviously a perfectionist, which made Marion shudder, considering the very imperfect character profiles she was going to have to present to him that afternoon. “He always is.”
“But why’s the professor taken leave, anyway? I thought he was supposed to be swamped with work.”
“He is. And he’s not on leave. He’s gone off to fetch some parts from Berlin.”
“Huh.” Bill looked intrigued, but not enough to continue the topic. “Any plans for tonight? I was thinking we could have a drink somewhere outside after work. Get out a bit. Maybe some dinner, too?”
“Sorry, I can’t. I’ve a meeting with Frank.”
“Tonight? What about?”
Marion felt a chill run through her as she recalled Frank’s odd behavior the night of the Induction Ceremony, the urgency with which he’d told her about the meeting, the way he’d phrased it all. She shrugged, hoping she appeared less anxious than she felt. “He didn’t say.”
That evening, at exactly quarter to eight, Marion slipped from her room, past the common room and onward to Frank’s office. She’d only just managed to complete the Tucker character profiles—albeit haphazardly—earlier that afternoon, though thankfully Swindlehurst hadn’t been in his office when she delivered them. In fact, since 5:00 p.m., it seemed the entire agency had vanished from the corridors, which now throbbed with a sickening silence.
She arrived at Frank’s office and knocked three times. There was no reply. It was just past ten to eight—surely this would make no difference. She gave the triangular doorknob a tug, the way she’d seen Frank do many times before, but nothing happened. She knocked again and began to pace, mumbling to herself. Then, another thirty seconds later, there was a tiny click and scrape from the wall to the right of the door. A metal post tray—similar to those located throughout the city, though not attached to any functioning pneumatic tubes—emerged from the solid facade and on it, a handwritten note appeared: two tugs down while standing on lever.
Admittedly, it took her a minute to realize what the note was getting at, but once she did, the rest was simple. She placed her boot on a peddle to the left of the door and tugged at the door handle two times.
It swung open.
The usually bare wooden floor was now scattered with open boxes packed with belongings. The large mahogany desk was covered in folded clothes, paper-wrapped breakables and stacks of files. The only thing that remained untouched, it seemed, were the bookshelves—vast and covering the walls on either side, they stretched nearly to the ceiling, laden with leather-bounds and paperbacks. But between the books there were other things. Things that could have been just what they looked like—a black-and-gold painted goblet, a wooden spear, a jewel-colored spinning globe—or perhaps something more.
The goblet looked as if it had been buried in a pharaoh’s tomb. It was old, ancient, lined with a railroad of hairline fractures that threatened to turn it into a pile of dust at any moment. The spear’s tip was stained, dark red or black—poison or blood. She strolled along the length of the bookshelf, transfixed and distracted by the aura of the ancient and forgotten.
As she contemplated the questions now brewing in her mind—Where was Frank? Why had he told her to meet him here if he wasn’t planning on coming?—an unpleasant smell drifted across the room toward her. She did her best to ignore it at first, but this was soon impossible. The pungent odor filled the air, something akin to burning rubber or singed hair.
She spun around, trying to locate the source of the smell. With a start, she noticed a plume of black smoke rising from the corner of a large square clock held within a wooden case on the bookshelf opposite her. Urged on by the fear that she had somehow set fire to Frank’s office, she lurched for the clock. She hesitated before touching it, holding her hand near its surface until she was certain it was cool. She attempted to pick it up but it was secured to the bookcase. She stood back, examining the expensive-looking antique with confusion. It did not appear to be working (unsurprisingly, considering the smoke), the time stopped at 2:20. She opened the clock’s glass covering, realizing as she did so that instead of a covering, the door was the clockface itself. Intricately painted onto the glass was the perfect replica of hands, numbers and an opal background. Behind this facade, however, deep within the belly of the hoax timepiece, lay a fuzzy monitor screen.
She brought her face closer to the screen as a live image appeared from the haze and showed a bird’s-eye view of Nancy’s office. Seated around an oval desk were the seven members of the Miss Brickett’s High Council: Nancy, Edgar Swindlehurst, Rupert Nicholas, Delia Spragg, Professor Gillroth, Barbara Simpkins and Frank.
Marion adjusted a dial on the side of the screen, causing the smoke to billow some more. There was a loud crackle, followed by voices, strangled and distorted.
“Delia, will you take the minutes?” Nancy said to Mrs. Spragg—an elderly, dour woman who doubled as agency tailor and council secretary. “Very good,” Nancy went on, “let’s get started. Council meeting, 3-10-2, April 21, 1958. Case review of Mr. Frank Stone in the murder of Miss Michelle White.”
Marion’s stomach turned, her heart rate quickened. She stood for a moment unmoving, unaware of her surroundings, trying to process what she’d just heard. But there was no time for hysterics. She pulled herself back from the verge of unchecked panic and turned up the volume further still.
Nancy listed all those present at the meeting and then gestured to Mr. Nicholas. “Rupert, you may proceed.”
Mr. Nicholas stood up. He looked particularly satisfied with himself, as if this were a moment he’d long awaited. “Thank you, Nancy. I will begin with a brief summary of what we know thus far, as requested. According to his testament, Mr. Stone was having a drink alone in the library bar on Friday night, April 11. At about 11:52, Mr. Stone claims to have heard footsteps coming from inside the library proper. He looked through the door that adjoins the bar to the library and saw Michelle White, running, apparently,” he added with an air of disbelief, “from the staircase that leads up from the Filing Department and northwest through the library. Mr. Stone has stated that Miss White appeared to be ashen-faced and sweaty...” He cleared his throat, again, as if he were not convinced.
Marion noticed Frank shift in his seat. Nancy passed him a brief glance. “Please continue, Rupert.”
Mr. Nicholas nodded. “Mr. Stone claims that from where he was sitting, he was able to see exactly where Miss White went. Which, as we know, was the lock room.”
Marion took a moment to recall what the lock room was—attached to the library, a medium-size storage room that contained lines of locked and encrypted drawers for the safekeeping of precious or dangerous intelligence, personal artefacts or the like.
“After finishing his drink at around five minutes past midnight,” Mr. Nicholas went on, “Mr. Stone realized that Miss White had still not emerged from the lock room and thus he decided he should see what was going on. When he entered, however, he claims to have found White already close to dead, bleeding profusely from a deep gash in her throat, inflicted by the broken edge of a Herald Stethoscope, which was still protruding from her neck.”
Everyone shuffled in their seats. A cold shudder rippled through Marion’s body as she pictured the scene Mr. Nicholas had described.
“After we’d examined the...er, weapon for fingerprints and found none, I took the thing down to Professor Bal at the Workshop for thorough examination. Since the weapon was such a bizarre choice, I thought it was essential to learn whether the crime was premeditated.” He looked uncomfortable for a moment. “I’m sure the significance of Michelle’s cause of death has struck you all. A snitch, stabbed with a snitch.” Mr. Nicholas let his words ferment in the air before he continued. He then removed a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “The professor cleaned and inspected the weapon and he has thus assured us that the weapon did indeed belong to Michelle. He also said, although I remind you this is just an opinion, that the stethoscope had not been sharpened or fashioned into a weapon, but had simply been broken haphazardly in two. Nancy, do you have it?”
Nancy slowly, perhaps reluctantly, removed the cleaned, stratified-steel Herald Stethoscope from a cupboard behind her desk. She laid it on the table for everyone to see.
“Yes, there we are,” Mr. Nicholas added unnecessarily, pointing at the gadget.
“Can we then assume the object was taken from White and broken at the scene of the crime?” Mrs. Spragg asked.
“I suppose, yes. Make of that what you will.” He paused for effect. “But perhaps we should leave this matter aside for the moment. I’m afraid you will all realize that it is somewhat inconsequential when I reveal the—”
“Yes, thank you, Rupert,” Nancy interrupted, “but I would first like the council to hear what evidence you managed to collect from Michelle’s person, the night of her murder. Anything of interest?”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat and lifted a large black cloth bag onto the table. “Not much of anything, I’m afraid,” he said, emptying the bag’s contents—a pile of crumpled papers and personal effects—onto the table. He presented each item to the council in turn. “A notebook, filled with names of agency employees. It appears this was some sort of marking system. Each name has a number of ticks next to it. Er... Nancy’s name, for example has three ticks, Delia’s has two, Frank’s, I might just note, has ten.”
“Go on,” Nancy said.
“David Eston’s has eight, Edgar’s has two—”
“Not with the marking system, Rupert!” Nancy snapped. “What does it mean?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a very interesting matter, in fact—”
“She used it to check on us,” Miss Simpkins said, her voice scratchy and shrill. Everyone turned to her. Miss Simpkins was a peculiar-looking woman at the best of times—tall and narrow with gaunt features and an air of perpetual bewilderment (a consequence of her strong affiliation with wine, Marion had heard). But tonight she seemed even more unsettled, unsure of where she was and what she was doing there. “I was an apprentice with Michelle, if any of you remember. She kept a notebook like that for as long as I can remember. That and a few other things.” She leaned over the collection of Michelle’s possessions as if looking for something. She then leaned back, apparently satisfied that whatever she was looking for wasn’t there. She gestured to the notebook. “She made one tick for every time she noticed someone doing something against the rules. It was a habit, more than anything else. A highly annoying habit, I might add.”
“So,” Mr. Nicholas said triumphantly, “there we have it. Isn’t that fascinating? Frank Stone had the most marks against his name.”
Frank rubbed the back of his neck. “Michelle and I crossed swords occasionally but never over anything of consequence.” He gestured irately at White’s notebook. “What about Eston, then? Everyone here surely knows what happened between the two of them?”
“I don’t,” Miss Simpkins said.
“Mr. Eston was reprimanded in February for a suspected break-in at Michelle’s office,” Mr. Nicholas explained.
Miss Simpkins’s eyes widened. “Well, how interesting. And?” She glanced around at her colleagues. “Does anyone know the meaning of this?”
Professor Gillroth muttered something inaudible.
“We aren’t certain what Mr. Eston was doing that day, or why,” Nancy said. “Michelle found him outside her office, not trying to break in exactly, although that is what it looked like considering we found a Skeleton Key in his pocket.” She looked at Gillroth; he shook his head. “But make no mistake, Mr. Eston is on my radar. As soon as he’s well enough, I will have another word with him about the incident in February.” She turned back to Mr. Nicholas. “Now, was there anything else of interest you discovered in Michelle’s possessions?”
Mr. Nicholas shook his head. “Lipstick, perfume, a pair of satin gloves, a few pencils and some scraps of paper...” He trailed off, examining each item with mild interest.
After some time, Nancy spoke again. “I’m not quite sure of the significance of this information, but I was made aware of the fact that Michelle appears to have received a letter from receiver box fifty-five just moments before she would have left for the lock room the night of her murder.”
Heat rose to Marion’s face as she recalled the signature she’d pointed out to Aida Rakes in the register file.
“I called Perry in for questioning on the matter but I’m afraid he was rather unhelpful and said that he’s seen no trace of this letter anywhere, if indeed there was one.” She sighed. “It seems this letter would hold the key to what Michelle was doing in the lock room. Unfortunately, as it stands, we will just have to speculate.”
The council deliberated for a moment. Marion couldn’t make out everything that was said, but the general consensus seemed to be that the sender of the letter must have played a part in Michelle’s death—intentionally or otherwise. Somehow, the letter had prompted Michelle to leave the Filing Department for the lock room where she was murdered by someone who, more than likely, was in cahoots with whoever had sent the letter.
The problem was, Michelle seemed to have destroyed the letter before leaving the Filing Department. And because receiver box fifty-five was attached to one of the agency’s most well-used letter cases—located in Passing Alley—there was simply no chance of ever being able to trace who had sent the letter, or what it might have said.
“I think that perhaps we should proceed with another, far more significant piece of information?” Mr. Nicholas said, glancing at Nancy for permission.
“Go on.”
After rummaging around in his suitcase for some time, Mr. Nicholas placed a small gray object, something that looked a bit like a large ladybird, in the center of the desk.
Mr. Nicholas took a dramatic and exaggerated breath. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is a spy camera. It was placed above the lock room gate five years ago by Nancy herself, as a precaution against theft, I’m told. The camera was hidden in the owl gargoyle above the gate and turns on only when it detects a human presence. If anyone entered the lock room, they would have passed right under the sensor, causing the camera to switch on and record the moment on film. Of course, this recording would have been taped over within one month...thankfully, I discovered the existence of the camera before this happened.”
The council members were squirming in their seats even more and Mr. Nicholas appeared to be enjoying it very much.
“I was rather surprised by my discovery,” he went on, “after my third examination of the lock room and its surroundings. It baffled me, you see, because I expected the camera’s existence to have already been brought to my attention, as its tape would surely be very useful in our investigation.” He didn’t dare to look directly at Nancy as he said this; in fact, he was obviously avoiding her gaze, yet his voice remained commanding, confident. “Unfortunately, Nancy had apparently forgotten that the thing existed until then.”
“Nancy,” Mr. Swindlehurst said, “is this true?”
“Perfectly,” Nancy said.
“So you’re admitting that you knew the camera was there all along and yet you failed to mention it?” Mr. Swindlehurst asked, his voice wavering a fraction.
“Of course I knew it was there, Edgar. I installed it. However, I did not remember it was there until Rupert brought it to my attention.”
Marion felt as Mr. Nicholas looked—unconvinced. It was rare, if not unheard of, for Nancy to forget anything. Let alone something as important as the placement of a security camera.
“Did anyone else know you’d placed it there?” Mrs. Spragg asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Nancy said.
“And has anything been removed from the lock room drawers?”
Nancy shook her head. “Each drawer is fitted with an alarm that only I know how to disarm. No alarms went off that night so we can assume no drawers were opened.”
Mr. Nicholas cleared his throat impatiently. He was beginning to look flustered. “Never mind all that, the point is I’ve analyzed the camera footage from Friday, April 11.” He drew six reels of film from his suitcase and handed them around. “You are welcome to go through the footage yourselves, or I can just tell you what it shows right now?”
Nancy sighed, glanced quickly and sympathetically at Frank, then said, “Go on, Rupert.”
Mr. Nicholas smiled broadly and without a moment’s pause began. “Very well, the footage clearly shows Miss White entering the lock room at 11:55, followed, ten minutes later, by Frank Stone. I might add that I analyzed the entire reel of film, a month’s worth, just to be sure that no one entered the lock room without leaving it within that period. We can therefore dismiss any suspicion that there was anyone else in the lock room that night. Michelle and Frank were the only ones to enter in the last two weeks. Both on the night of Friday, April 11, and only Frank is seen leaving. In a panicked hurry, I might add.”
“Of course I was in a panicked hurry!” Frank said, dropping his head into his hands. “Michelle was dead! Jesus Christ, Rupert...” He looked up at the council and then, so briefly that Marion wasn’t sure it happened at all, his eyes darted to the camera. To Marion.
His face was contorted, twisted with desperation, fragility. The look caused all the breath to be sucked from Marion’s lungs.
“Please...you know me, all of you,” Frank said, now addressing the council at large. His voice was split and gaunt, awful. “I know what the footage shows. I’ve watched it. I know you’ll do the same, and you’ll find it impossible to believe any alternative to the one Nicholas is providing. But please, I’m begging you to just ask yourselves. Do you really believe I did this? Any of you? Do you really believe I’m capable of murder? For what?” His breathing was now so shallow and labored it sounded as if he might choke. “Jesus Christ...please.”
Marion felt sick with desperation. She pressed her fingers into her temples so hard that it ached. She allowed the pain to flood through her. Distract her from the look on Frank’s face.
Mr. Nicholas snorted. His face was plastered with disinterest, not a hint of sympathy.
The rest of the council, however, remained still. Nancy looked down at her notes; it was only the second time Marion had seen her look frightened. “I’m afraid that in light of such evidence,” she said slowly and clearly, almost as if she wanted to be sure everyone in the room understood, “we have no choice but to hold Frank under suspicion of murder, for the time being. Although,” she added, “it is my opinion that simply placing someone at the scene of the crime does not automatically ensure their guilt.”
“It most certainly does if there was no one else around,” Mr. Swindlehurst said. “What other explanation is there? Are you suggesting White died of her own accord? I’m sorry, Frank. I don’t see how you can expect us to believe you.”
There was another long pause, this time broken by Mrs. Spragg.
“Are we absolutely certain the camera was not tampered with? Don’t we have some gadget that can—”
Nicholas looked impatient as he interrupted. “Professor Bal has assured me that he has never produced a device that would interfere with a security camera. Therefore, if a gadget was used for such purposes it was not produced here. In addition, and as I already mentioned, the professor is quite confident that neither the lens nor the recording device was tampered with.”
“Then it’s a matter of logic,” Mrs. Spragg said conclusively. “I must agree with Edgar. I simply can’t see what other explanation there is.”
There was a low murmur from the council members.
Frank shifted in his seat. “What type of camera is it, Nicholas?”
Nicholas appeared put out by the question. But it was Nancy who answered. “A passive infrared intrusion sensor.” She paused. “In other words, it detects body heat, and when it does, it turns on.”
Again, though perhaps more certainly this time, Frank’s gaze shifted upward to Marion. Then he spoke. “And is there no means by which someone might override such a camera?”
Mr. Nicholas was fiddling with the piece of paper in his hand, the report from Professor Bal. He was reluctant to answer. “Not that I’m aware of.”
Nancy interrupted. “There is a way.”
The council looked at her, confused.
She explained. “It’s not impossible, just highly improbable as one would have to find a way of disrupting the infrared emission from their body.”
Mr. Nicholas’s eyebrows all but reached his hairline.
“Oh, yes,” chimed in Miss Simpkins. “I heard a story about something like that once. A thief covered themselves in foam boards and managed to get past—”
“Please, dear Lord!” Mr. Nicholas groaned. “I think if someone had waltzed through the agency covered in foam boards, we’d have noticed.”
Miss Simpkins looked offended.
Nancy quickly intervened. “Yes, thank you, Barbara. I think the council gets the idea. As I said, there is a possibility someone found a way to override the camera’s sensor and we should keep that in mind.”
“But it’s beside the point,” Mr. Nicholas urged. “Because no one knew the camera was there. And certainly not what type of camera it was. Am I correct?” He looked at Nancy.
“I can’t answer that for certain. As I said, I put the camera there many years ago. I never told anyone about it, but if someone searched hard enough, as you’ve done, Rupert, they would have found it. And as it stands, I’m afraid that the only thing we are able to prove is that Frank was the only other person in the lock room that night. It is now up to us, the High Council, to decide if this is enough to convict him of murder.” She phrased it as a question, though Marion wondered if perhaps she meant it more as a statement.
“Before you answer that,” Frank intervened, his tone somewhat hopeful, “I have something I’d like to mention. When I entered the lock room that night, it was dark. I could hardly see Michelle, not until I was standing right above her. But it was not just the lack of light that affected my vision. There was something off that night. I don’t know what it was but...it was as if there was something in the air, something cold.” He paused to survey the council’s reaction. They looked shocked, mostly, perhaps confused.
At last Mr. Nicholas spoke. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, what utter nonsense!” He stood up.
“Please, Rupert,” Nancy said. “Everyone is permitted to have their say. And I think it’s safe to say that as longtime members of Miss Brickett’s, we’ve all experienced happenings down here that seem to bend reality and logic.” She turned to Frank. “Is there anything else you can tell us about that night, about the atmosphere?”
“I just felt disorientated. I couldn’t see anything clearly.”
Mr. Nicholas looked as if he had something to say to this but changed his mind.
Nancy looked defeated. “In that case, Frank, I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do.” Her words were soft, as if meant only for him. “According to our official policy booklet, if a crime is committed on Miss Brickett’s property, it falls to the High Council to identify those responsible and penalize them accordingly. This code was put into place not only to protect our staff and members but also our secrecy. The enforcement of this, our very own system of justice and punishment, is imperative if we are to continue to evade the ever-prying eyes of the outside world.
“Now, according to official decree number thirteen,” Nancy went on, her voice having regained its sharpness and strength, “the crime of murder is classed as a category five transgression and comes with two additional notes. The first is that the accused must be given a fair trial in front of the High Council, and a chance to oppose their conviction. Which, I believe, we have now done. The second states that should the head of the council, that is to say me, believe there is reasonable doubt of the accused’s guilt, a ten-day extension period may be implemented before the final sentencing. This extension serves to provide the council with a chance to examine the possibility of a secondary suspect.” She adjusted her spectacles. Marion’s heart thumped with the smallest flicker of hope. “Should this happen, and another suspect is brought before the council, a new trial will be undertaken, the outcome of which will determine the final verdict. However, should no new suspect be brought forward, sentencing of the first accused will go ahead as planned.”
Mr. Nicholas looked as if he might explode with indignation. “Outrageous! Another ten days? You might as well set him free!”
Mr. Swindlehurst and Mrs. Spragg nodded vehemently.
Nancy closed her file and the seven council members sat in silence. The room was so still all Marion could hear was her own breathing.
Nancy spoke at last. “This trial is hereby on hold for ten days, or until such time as a new suspect is brought forward.”
Mr. Nicholas shook his head. “Outrageous!” he said for the second time and no less aggressively.
“I have made my final decision, Rupert,” Nancy said. “The council will meet again on May 1 where, if Frank is indeed found guilty of this crime—” she breathed “—he will be transferred to the Holding Chambers for life.”
Marion didn’t realize it until then, but she had been holding her breath. She exhaled, just as she felt as if she were about to faint.
Mr. Nicholas cleared his throat and stood up. “Nancy, I think you have overlooked something,” he said, holding up the policy document and pointing to a particular sentence he had underlined. “It says here that the accused must be kept in complete isolation during this extension period to ensure any new evidence brought forward will not be tainted by his influence.”
Nancy, it was clear, had hoped this small detail would have been overlooked. “Indeed,” she said uncertainly, “I’m just not sure where we can keep Frank.”
“Lock him in his office,” Miss Simpkins suggested coldly.
Mr. Swindlehurst laughed. “How comfortable and convenient.” He stood up in a hurry. “I’ve had enough of all this nonsense. Quite unbelievable that after all these years, after all we’ve worked so hard to achieve at Miss Brickett’s, that one of our very own turns into a cold-blooded killer and we’re now perfectly happy to let him wander around as a free man!”
Professor Gillroth raised his hand. “I have an idea...what about chamber number forty-eight? Far away from everyone, isolated, quite safe and sound.”
“That will do, thank you, Professor,” Nancy said quickly. “Meeting adjourned.” Without giving anyone the chance to contend, she stood up and strode away to the other end of the office where she busied herself with loudly opening and slamming shut a line of filing cabinets.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Nicholas, “I suppose we’re done.” He got up, followed by a highly disgruntled-looking Mr. Swindlehurst.
Marion turned down the volume on the clock and sank to the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t think. All she felt was a sickening cold. When eventually she managed to stand, she glanced again at the clock.
Though the council had adjourned, Nancy and Professor Gillroth remained behind. They stood together directly below the camera’s eye. Gillroth looked withdrawn, perhaps even frightened. Nancy looked furious. They appeared to be having an argument.
Marion adjusted the volume.
“...to have known it then, what a fool,” Nancy said.
“The position was redundant,” Gillroth said. “But she liked it. It gave her a sense of purpose, I suppose.”
“Purpose?” Nancy seethed. “She’s dead because of it.”
“Are you suggesting Michelle’s death and her role as Border Guard are connected?”
“She was afraid, Henry. Before she died, she came to me.”
Gillroth shifted on his walking stick. “And did she say why she was afraid?”
Nancy dropped her voice to barely more than a whisper. “She feared someone would find it. That is why she wanted extra protection, and why I sent Rupert’s snake into the tunnels.”
“Michelle thought a lot of wild and ridiculous things. But that is beside the point. You did as she asked. Rupert’s snake found nothing.”
“There was movement recorded on Tuesday.”
Gillroth waved the suggestion off. He spoke nonchalantly. “Probably just an animal, a rat most likely.”
Marion stiffened at the memory of Mr. Nicholas’s spy. So it had seen something of them, after all.
“For goodness’ sake.” Nancy lowered her voice even further.
Marion adjusted the volume as high as it would go, but already she’d missed a part of the conversation.
“...lock room was the site of the crime, that’s all. Perhaps the letter Michelle received that night was a warning, or a trap.” She sighed. “Someone was looking for it, Henry.”
Gillroth’s eyes flickered with something akin to disbelief. “Nonsense. Why would they? No one even knows it exists.”
Nancy hesitated for a moment. “What about the map?”
Gillroth looked surprised. “The map?”
“You told me once that there was a map that showed everything, the original layout of the labyrinth. Perhaps it reveals—”
“It doesn’t,” Gillroth cut in. “And besides, the map is gone. I haven’t seen it in years.” He nodded, as if the conversation were over. He turned to leave, pausing halfway to the door. He seemed to consider what he was about to say, then spoke with a deep, almost threatening tone. “I do hope, Nancy, that you won’t take this too far. We have our killer. There is no need for further investigation, leading to further questions that I needn’t remind you we cannot answer.”
Nancy’s face was still and cold. “Of course, Henry. I agree.” It was impossible for Marion to tell if this were a lie.