Marion Lane and the Deadly Rose

Book 2: Marion Lane Mystery

by T.A. Willberg

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

It's 1959 and a new killer haunts the streets of London, branding roses on his victims. The police have turned to the Inquirers at Miss Brickett's for assistance, and second year Marion Lane is assigned the case. But she's already dealing with her own mystery, having received an unsigned letter warning her that one of the three new recruits should not be trusted. She dismisses it at first, but her informer always seems to be one step ahead of her, predicting events before they happen. When a fellow second-year Inquirer is murdered, Marion must come face-to-face with her informer to find out everything they know. Until then, no one at Miss Brickett's is safe and everyone is a suspect.

Release date: February 1, 2022

Publisher: Park Row Books

Print pages: 295

Sample

1RENDEZVOUS

January 30, 1959

Harrogate, England

Fraser Henley had fought against a blustering gale to arrive at the rendezvous point just in time. His fingers and toes were numb, flakes of snow melted on his coat sleeves, his shoulders, his neck. Everywhere. If it weren’t that this meeting, and the opportunity it presented, was his only hope of living to see his twenty-eighth birthday, he certainly wouldn’t have bothered.

He approached the entrance to the Old Bell Tavern, across the street from the pump room in Harrogate’s center. Heat and golden light throbbed through the pub’s windows. The sweet scent of ale filled the chilled air, for a moment drawing him back to the quiet, peaceful days of his former life, before he became entangled in the dark, sticky world of deceit and double-crossings and debts that must be repaid.

He checked his watch—five minutes past one in the morning. His contact was late, which was not a particularly comforting thought. He dug around in his coat pocket, pulling out a small chrome cigarette case and lighter. He didn’t smoke, but a lit cigarette was his signal, a part of the plan. And if there was one thing he’d come to learn about this wretched organization to which he was chained, it was: you never strayed from the plan.

He lit up and took a long drag, exhaled the smoke into the icy air and peered warily at the street ahead. A part of him now hoped that his contact would not arrive at all. That way, Fraser would have a perfectly credible excuse to turn around and make a run for it. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried.

But where could he go?

He felt the wind cut through his coat, the cold sting his eyes. Everywhere he turned, he saw the edge of a coattail slip behind a wall, a figure pull back from a windowsill. He heard their whispers on the breeze, felt their presence watching him always.

Wherever he ran, they would follow.

A shiver swept through him, rattling his teeth. He looked up and noticed something ghostly materialize at the top of the street—a stooped figure shifting from the darkness, moving swiftly toward him as though part of the wind itself.

Fraser’s heart rate piqued as the figure slipped in and out of sight between the sheets of fog. But seconds later, it was right there in front of him: an elderly man, dressed in a dark gray trench coat down to his ankles, a checkered felt hat, a suitcase and polished ebony cane. He had a haggard appearance, deep furrows crisscrossing his brow. The muscles on the right side of his face were atrophied, giving him a permanent and threatening scowl. But even without this distinctive feature, Fraser would have recognized him anywhere—the man of his nightmares, the master of death.

He took a reflexive step backward, recalling tales of the old man’s past, rumors of his malice. He collected himself, realizing that any hint of trepidation would not be met with kindness or understanding. He inhaled a quick, calming breath and spoke the line he’d practiced ad nauseam the past few days. “Fine weather for a smoke, eh?”

The old man frowned, turned his eyes skyward. The snow was falling faster and thicker than ever—vast sheets of it now layering the footway like powdered sugar. “Isn’t it just?” he said with a grin, answering the secret signal. His English was clean, save for a hint of an accent.

They stared at each other knowingly, muted exchanges passing between them. Fraser knew he was only in this situation because he’d already made one stupid mistake, already deceived his deceiver, overplayed his hand. And in turn, the old man knew Fraser would do anything for a chance at redemption.

“Fancy a chat?” the old man suggested, grinning maniacally. He turned around, calling out over his shoulder, “Come along, follow me.”

Fraser hesitated, but only for a moment. It wasn’t a request and he knew it.

The pair made its way around the back of the pub and into a narrow street lined with garbage bins and scraps of waste. It was dark and mostly quiet, save for the hum of mixed voices from the pub and a peculiar mewling sound coming from somewhere near a large dumpster less than a yard off.

“By God!” Fraser said, unable to stop himself as he caught sight of the battered, nearly unrecognizable figure lying on the pavement to the left of the dumpster. He jerked forward, but the old man held out his cane, blocking the way.

“Now, now, careful, young man, or you might end up the same.”

Fraser stopped, swayed on his feet. He was numb again, though not from the cold this time. “Wh-what’s going on?”

The old man pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his breast pocket and began polishing the head of his cane. “I thought that might be obvious?” He fixed Fraser with those awful dark and harrowing eyes. “We know what you did, you and your witless friend over there.” He gestured casually to the crumpled form, which was now writhing and burbling, spluttering blood. “You thought we wouldn’t find out? You actually believed you could run away?”

“No,” Fraser blurted out, a reflex. He didn’t like to think of himself as a coward, but he realized now, he’d do anything to save himself, including betray his closest ally. “It wasn’t my idea,” he lied, glancing again at the body near the dumpster. It was moving, squirming, barely alive. How long had he been kept like this, half-conscious, in hopeless agony? And in those hoursof pain and torment, what secrets had he revealed? “I told him it was a stupid thing to do. I told him not to.” He turned back to the old man, unable to look his friend in the eye as he embellished the lie. “I was going to turn him in. I just needed time to come up with a way—”

The old man interrupted. “You were out of contact for five days. Did you not think that might look suspicious?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight. Everything happened so fast.” He breathed long and deep, drawing out whatever strength he had left. “But I’m here now.”

The old man tapped his cane twice against the ground, a signal Fraser didn’t understand. “Does that mean you’re still one of us, then?”

Fraser didn’t falter this time. He was either one of them or he was dead. Easy choice. “Of course.” He shifted his gaze to the left. Even in the alleyway’s pale light, he could see the tapestry of contusions and swellings sprawled across his colleague’s arms and legs. By God...even his face. But it was the distinctive mark singed into the left side of his chest that cemented Fraser’s fear: a rose, pressed deep into the flesh with a branding iron, the old man’s hallmark.

He looked away, unable to stomach it.

The old man, apparently satisfied that his message had been received, extracted a small leather satchel from his suitcase. “Well, I’m very pleased to hear that. And I don’t want you to worry, young man. There’s no need for you to suffer the same fate as your colleague. So long as you do as you’re told. And do it well, of course.”

Fraser took the satchel, extracted a file. He flipped it open, pages fluttered in the wind, dislodging a letter held loose inside: an invitation printed on buttercream paper. The letter was addressed not to him, but to an alias he’d never used before. The Florist grinned as Fraser’s troubled expression deepened. “This is—” He stopped, searching for the correct word, staring down at the envelope and considering what it represented: Vindication, or a death sentence? He flipped through the file, a curriculum vitae containing a hazy photograph, a date of birth (not his own), personal history (completely fabricated) and list of talents (none of which he possessed).

“Everything is already set up,” the old man said, grinning still, a ghastly lopsided expression that turned Fraser’s stomach once more. “All you need to do is transform yourself into someone else, as you’ve done many times before. Take up this young man’s identity, cast aside your own.”

Fraser ran his thumb over the photograph. Indeed, the face staring back at him was his own. But the eyes were cold and vacant, as though the soul inside had withered. And it would only get worse with time, he knew. Another metamorphosis, another untruth, another piece of his character stripped away, replaced with something alien.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat, folded the photograph and slipped it into his coat pocket. “The application has been approved, I presume?” He’d been warned many months ago that this stage of the mission might be necessary, the hardest part, the most dangerous part. Only, he’d hoped to have vanished by then.

The old man, who’d been watching him with flickering eyes, now said, “Partially. The final step is up to you. An interview. All you need to know for the time being is inside the file. The rest I shall explain as soon as we’ve established a reliable system of communication. Now,” he added with a note of misplaced levity, “there’s a train to London early tomorrow morning. You and I will be on it.”

Fraser decided not to ask any further questions. Frankly, the less he knew right then, the better. He forced his eyes to meet the old man’s, who was still smiling at him with the air of someone awaiting his moment to deliver the punch line of some hideous joke.

“Simple enough, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Fraser answered with thinly veiled horror.

The old man clapped his hands together merrily. “Wonderful, wonderful!”

Fraser turned back to the crumpled form beside the dumpster, bile rising in his throat as he allowed his brain to accept what his eyes were seeing—his once vibrant, healthy friend, now nothing more than a bag of crushed bones. “What about—?”

“Ah, I’m glad you asked.” The old man leaned over his cane and extracted something else from his suitcase. A Makarov pistol, Fraser realized with a start. “Consider this your first...trial.” He handed Fraser the weapon.

In that moment, it was as if every thought in Fraser’s head disappeared, clearing space for the only thing he needed to think about. He knew perfectly well what the old man was asking him to do, and he knew just as well what would happen if he didn’t do it. He looked at Eddie—his colleague, his friend, the man he’d spent six years training with, on assignments with, drinking and dancing and taking out girls. Those years had been such an adventure, even though in the back of their minds they’d both known that one day it might come to this. They’d played with fire and now one of them had to burn.

“Your life or his,” the old man whispered, barely loud enough to hear above the swirling wind and the low drone of music drifting out from the pub’s back window.

Fraser closed his eyes for a brief moment. He wished he were someplace else, in Prague with Eddie, back at home with his mom, at the bottom of the Thames, anywhere but here. He wished he could rewind the past six years, go back to the start and chose a different path. But underneath all that there was also something dark and vile cowering inside him. Something that reminded him why he was here in the first place. Self-preservation.

Your life or his.

He opened his eyes. The snowfall was lighter now, the wind softer, dawn was coming—a new start, his only hope. He might be a coward, but he was a survivor, too.

He looked at Eddie—his swollen, bloodstained face fixed in an expression of agony, his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and staring. The rose branding on his chest, testament of his betrayal, stark against his pale skin.

“You’d have done the same,” Fraser said as he pulled the trigger.