Marion Lane and the Raven's Revenge, page 1
T.A. Willberg was born in Johannesburg, but has spent many years living abroad. She now enjoys a nomadic lifestyle, dividing her time between Europe and South Africa. Marion Lane and the Raven’s Revenge is her third novel and the final book in the Marion Lane Mystery series.
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Marion Lane and the Raven’s Revenge
T.A. Willberg
For Hayley and Laura,
who’ve been with Marion from day one.
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
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
1
THE HUNTED
Sunday, April 10, 1960
Middlesex, London
Darcy Gibson pulled on her favorite pair of lambskin gloves, fastened a chalky pearl bracelet to her wrist and pinched her cheeks. She straightened her belted shift dress in the mirror, smoothing the cotton against her thighs over and over until the creases had diminished. It was a long while since she’d been this on edge. In fact, the only other time she’d felt so sick with nerves was the day she realized she was about to be thrown in the slammer for a crime she didn’t commit.
These, however, were a different kind of nerves—the type you get on Christmas morning, seeing a red stocking dangling over the fireplace and wondering if the present inside was the one you’d been wishing for. But really, there was no need to be so twitchy about things, was there? She’d picked the right dress, the perfect accessories, she’d scouted out the location beforehand and even checked the weather forecast (mild with a chance of rain). He would show up. He would tell her what she’d been wanting to hear. Everything was going to be fine.
Heavy footsteps thumped up the staircase, down the corridor and soon there was a knock on the bedroom door.
“Oi, Gibson,” barked the boardinghouse mistress—Mrs. Titherington. “Need a word. Open up.”
“On my way out, sorry.”
“Out?”
“Yes, out,” Darcy said, jaw tight. “As in I’m about to leave and don’t have time for a chat.”
There was a quick pause. “Where to?”
Darcy felt no obligation to tell the old hag the truth. Then again, Mrs. T was surprisingly good at catching lies when she heard them. She sighed. “To see my fella. He might propose today.”
Mrs. T guffawed so loudly the floor seemed to shake. “Propose! To you? Must be a real idiot, then.”
Darcy clenched her fists.
“Anyway, wonderful, that’s lovely,” Mrs. T went on, gathering herself, “but before you run off into the sunset with your lover boy, you pay up. Got it? Five pounds from last week and ten from the fortnight before. I ain’t forgotten.”
Darcy rolled her eyes. Mrs. T could hardly read or write but blimey, she could count like the best of them. “Don’t fret, I’ll get it to you by Friday. Like I promised.”
“You better, little miss. Or you’re out. This ain’t a charity and I ain’t your mother.”
Thank God for that. Darcy waited until the portly old crow had stormed back down the staircase before wandering over to the window. While the cluttered room was as cold and cheerless as a graveyard, outside the city was bathed in crisp spring sunlight, the London skyline dazzling in the distance. Double-deckers trailed past, coughing out fumes, their cherry-colored coats shining like gems in the afternoon sun. Darcy was by no means a dreamer, and certainly not an optimist, but it was easy to imagine that a day such as this could bring only glad tidings and good fortune.
* * *
Darcy arrived at Petticoat Lane in the East End to find the Sunday market teeming. Countless stalls had been assembled on either side of the crowded street, exposing a threadlike path through the center. Keen-eyed shoppers, dressed meticulously in patterned sports coats and slim-fit trousers, strode to and fro, examining the assortment of merchandise—everything from cheap lace and nylon stockings to tarnished jewelry and nondescript trinkets. Among the punters, patrons haggled with salesmen while children played hopscotch and marbles wherever they found a clearing.
Indeed, it was a bustling place, but Darcy’s sharp gray eyes scanned the throng of bodies with precision and focus, searching for the face she longed to see. If he wasn’t here already, though, there was a small chance he wasn’t coming at all.
She shook out her hands and wandered farther down the lane, pausing at a stall adorned with an array of colored cloth, a sign nailed to the front: Himalayan Cashmere: Scarves, Ties and More! A plump man paced behind the piles of garments, dabbing a handkerchief to his brow. A group of women moseyed past, glancing with little interest at the stall, while discerning shoppers discussed the cashmere’s value and price.
Darcy’s limbs tingled as the minutes ticked by, her eyes scanning, searching. But the crowd was dense, faces crammed together, bodies shifting this way and that, and for one gut-churning second she thought she saw...
She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes. Why was he here?
She took a quick step backward, bumping into a woman who was examining the swathes of cashmere. The woman yelped, scowled. Darcy ignored her as she shouldered her way through the crowd and toward the low-roofed, unoccupied storeroom that stood just behind the cashmere stand.
Inside, the room glowed with the feeble light of a single gas lamp, standing on a rickety table that looked as though it hadn’t been used in years. The plain concrete floor was chipped and stained, but the walls were adorned with hooks ripe with cashmere, silk and velvet. Darcy turned down the gas lamp to just a flicker. She needed to think.
What the hell was he doing here? Was he looking for her? The thought made her sick.
She dug around in her handbag, pulled out a small silver case containing a collection of white tablets, swallowed two. Almost immediately, she felt lighter, warmer. The old pains in her neck eased and her thoughts cleared. She sucked in a lungful of air, steeling herself, then peered out through a slit in the door.
Oscar Biggar had certainly aged since she’d seen him last, but his boxy jaw and stupid wide-set eyes were as prominent as ever. He was dressed in a lime-green sweater vest and checkered trousers and was pushing his way through a group of sellers toward the storeroom. His face was creased in an expression of impatience and irritation, his sleeves damp with sweat. He paused as he came to the cashmere stall, his gaze searching. Terrified, Darcy scanned the crowd behind him, wondering if he’d brought along his entourage of plier-wielding thugs, the ones who’d pinned her to the ground nine years ago and ripped clean her fingernails. If yes, she was done for.
She watched now, breath hitching in her throat, as Oscar’s gaze finally settled on the storeroom.
Rap-rap-rap.
Darcy waited a moment, fiddling with the belt of her shift dress, wringing her hands. It was too late now to run, and the tiny room offered no place to hide. But if she was going to face the bastard alone and unarmed, best she did it with at least a lick of confidence.
She heaved a breath, stepped back and opened the door.
Oscar placed a hand on the wall, steadying himself. His lips parted, spine straightened in shock. He stared at her unblinking, and she could see the memories burn inside his mind. So, he hadn’t been expecting her as much as she hadn’t been expecting him.
“Oscar. Fancy meeting you here,” she said, as coolly as she could manage.
He risked a glance over his shoulder, then straightened the collar of his sweater. He set his filthy eyes back on Darcy and tried to conceal the catch in his voice. “What the hell is this, Gibson?”
She pressed her tongue against her cheek, allowing fury to rise in her chest, obscuring everything else. Memories swarmed like flies from a corpse, all those times she’d stood like this in front of him, waiting for instruction, for reprimand or reward, for permission to eat, to sleep, even to breathe. But it was nearly a decade since they’d seen each other and so much had changed. She was stronger now, braver. And he’d better know it.
“Was it you?” Oscar asked, changing tack.
“Was what me?”
“That...that thing.” He jammed a finger under his collar and ripped it downward. “The package. Delivered two weeks ago. A raven. Dead. It was you, wasn’t it?”
Darcy waited several beats before answering. “The Raven,” she breathed.
“What?”
“It’s a warning, then, ain’t it?” Her words hit their mark; she could tell by the way his eyebrow twitched, something that happened when he was nervous but desperate not to show it. That made two of them, then. “But you closed down the factory, didn’t you? You closed it down ages ago?”
He frowned, nodded. “Yeah, so? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Still, don’t matter,” she rambled on, as if talking to herself. “With all the bees and honey you’ve been thieving from your fellas year after year, it shouldn’t be too hard to imagine you’ve gone and got yourself a couple of enemies, should it?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “Are you threatening me, Gibson?”
She stepped back into the gloom of the storeroom so that Oscar might not see the tremor returning to her hands. “In the old days, you lot had the fuzz on your side, and could do with me what you pleased. Not so sure it’d be that easy now. Things have changed, you know. I’ve heard they’re cracking down mighty hard on organized crime these days. And fellas like you are top of their ‘to do’ list.”
Oscar dove forward, hands reaching, eyes burning dark as coal. He gripped Darcy by her coat collar and pressed his lips to her ear. She didn’t scream, or even try to wriggle free. The one thing men like Oscar Biggar loved almost more than anything else was watching women squirm and beg for mercy. She wasn’t going to give him either.
“You want to play games, eh? Then let’s play.” He removed a razor from under his shirt sleeve. “I got no problem cutting you to ribbons right here and now, Gibson.” He pressed the edge of the razor into the delicate skin at the corner of her eye.
She felt the sting, then the warm trickle of blood down her cheek.
“So, tell me,” he breathed, “what is this about?”
“How would I know?” she spat back. “I got one, too!”
Oscar hesitated a second, then released her, though he kept the razor pointed in her direction. “What?”
“A raven. About a week ago. Delivered to my doorstep. I thought it was—” She shook her head, said no more.
Oscar studied her for a moment. Did he think she was lying? Would he really risk killing her right here in the middle of a busy Sunday market?
“Did it come with a letter?” he asked.
“A letter? No. No. I didn’t get anything like that but—” She stopped, turned away from him, wrapped a gloved hand around her neck and felt the urgent hammer of her pulse beneath her fingers.
“But what? Spit it out!” Oscar swiped the razor through the air impatiently.
“I don’t think they’re connected. Can’t be.” She faltered, then continued when she saw the look on Oscar’s face. “The letter came after the raven. Same day, but later. It was from my fella, though, saying we should meet here at the market on Sunday because he had something to ask me.” She turned back, looked Oscar in the eye. Oh God, how hard it was to look him in the eye. “You don’t think it was a trap, do you?”
Oscar nodded, slipped the razor back under his sleeve. “Yeah, it was a trap all right. Mine said about the same. But it wasn’t addressed to me, it was addressed to Alan from Elinor. Said she had something important to say about the business. Alan’s out of town, though, so I came instead.”
Alan was Oscar’s brother and Elinor, Alan’s wife. Darcy swallowed. “Someone wanted us both here, then. Me and Alan. Same time, same place.”
“That makes no sense. Why you? Why Alan?” He rubbed his chin, then the back of his neck. “And why a damn raven?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” She stared at the door, and the slit in the wall beside it. Someone shifted past, footsteps crunching on the gravel. A pause, then silence. She lowered her voice. “Someone’s talking, ain’t they? It’s got to be. Someone from the old days.”
“Like who?”
“I told you, I don’t know! But like I said, you and your brother got loads of enemies now. Could be anyone. Suppose they’ve got something to leak about your new clothing venture. And maybe they think I’m involved, too. Who knows.”
Oscar didn’t look convinced. “If you’re having me on, Gibson, I swear to God—”
“Having you on?” she barked, almost hysterical now. “You think I’d make this up? For what? I want nothing to do with any of you gutter rats. Nothing! I’ve a new life now, a perfect life. I ain’t going to throw it away, not for anything.”
Oscar gnashed his teeth, took a step forward. “Likewise. So, I think we’re done here, yes?”
She rolled her shoulders and hissed back, “Yes.”
* * *
Nearly an hour later, Darcy made her way back down Petticoat Lane toward the bus stop, swaying under the influence of the three pints she’d chugged down to wash away the memory of Oscar’s hands on her throat.
The plump man behind the cashmere stall eyed her warily as she passed, then whispered to an elderly woman at his side. The pair scuttled off, down the lane, leaving the stall unattended and its patrons puzzled. Darcy sensed a shift in the atmosphere as she crossed the market, like a ripple of agitation that was quickly building to something worse. Nothing felt safe, and she had a sudden urge to leave the market.
She reached the end of Petticoat Lane, the bus stop visible just ahead. She paused.
Someone screamed. The market-goers stopped in their tracks, heads spinning, eyes searching for the source of the commotion. Some began to run, bumping into stalls and each other, tripping, cursing, gasping.
Darcy turned around, back toward the cashmere stand, where a small crowd had gathered in a circle near the entrance to the attached storeroom. Through a break in the line of bodies, she could just make out a group of people crouched at the threshold, whispering, their faces pale with shock.
She shuffled closer, pulse racing, pushing her way through the circle of onlookers.
Oscar Biggar sat limp and gray, propped up against the storeroom door, his head lolling.
Her breath hitched. Her skin tingled.
The Raven had struck. And thing was, she knew exactly who was next.
2
AT THE MAYFLOWER
Good Friday, 1960
Marion Lane, twenty-five-year-old apprentice detective at the ever-elusive Miss Brickett’s Investigations and Inquiries, arrived at the Mayflower at dusk. The pub was perched precariously above the swirling gray waters of the Thames, now glistening under the sinking sun like a thread of silver yarn spiraling into the distance. Londoners moved about the surrounding cobblestone streets in their colorful frocks and suits, cigars, pints and gossip abound, ready for a weekend of Easter festivities. The air was thick and heavy, tainted with petrol fumes and perspiration. It was London at her best. Bright, crisp, loud and alive.
Coming to the jetty that extended out from the pub’s entrance, Marion opened her knit handbag and pulled out a pair of faded baby blue wedges that were only marginally more presentable than her work boots, which were scuffed and clunky and reinforced with unsightly steel toecaps. The boots, mind you, had come in mighty useful three weeks ago when—after five hours of toiling over a malfunctioning Wire Catcher (a nifty gadget for detecting covert recording devices, i.e., bugs) she’d dropped a box of the Catcher’s weighted magnets on her toes. But try telling that to someone who’d never set foot inside the glorious subterranean labyrinth that was Miss Brickett’s Investigations and Inquiries.
She fitted her wedges and straightened her panel skirt and rayon blouse—both too loose for her narrow, short frame. Ignoring her calloused palms and brittle fingernails stained with engine grease, she peered—almost fearfully—at her watch. While her punctuality was once a thing of legend, keeping track of time the past few months had become nearly as impossible a task as repairing the ceaseless stream of clockwork contraptions that had been flying across her workbench in Miss Brickett’s famed Gadgetry Department. Indeed, life as a final-year apprentice detective (and first assistant to the agency’s chief gadget engineer) had never been busier, which was why she realized, with a heavy sigh, that there just wasn’t enough time to do anything about the monstrosity of frizzed brown hair on the top of her head.
“Bugger,” she cursed under her breath. Frazzled and unkempt would have to do.
* * *
As expected, the Mayflower was buzzing, packed to the rafters with patrons of every shape and sort (though mostly the drunken sort). The air inside reeked of perspiration and tobacco smoke, alleviated only slightly by a cool breeze coming off the tumbling river.
