Grey Expectations

by Clea Simon

  ‘Maybe that’s all it is.’ She turned toward the cat. ‘Maybe I’m a little more worried about my paper than I’d thought.’

  The small cat didn’t respond, and Dulcie realized she was second-guessing herself. Maybe it was anxiety, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the dream was about more than the voyage. What had gotten to her – what had remained after she awoke – was that awful feeling of being trapped. Of despair. Had her author considered suicide? The idea was chilling, and not just because of the vivid images of the wild waves. In her heart of hearts, Dulcie had suspected – hoped might be the better word – that the author was more than a literary forebear. Dulcie’s mother’s family had come from Philadelphia, from much more established and respectable stock than Lucy’s hippie lifestyle would suggest. And Lucy had always told Dulcie that their female ancestors had been independent women. Was it too much to hope that maybe, just maybe, the reason Dulcie had bonded so strongly with The Ravages of Umbria, the reason she had found her purpose in studying this author, was because of some long distant family tie?

  ‘What do you say, Esmé?’ But the kitten was fast sleep. And so, with a little shuffling and pillow fluffing, Dulcie followed suit.

  NINE

  When she next awoke, the moon had been replaced by bright sunshine, the kind that makes nightmares seem silly. A quick glance at the clock, however, reawakened that sense of dread. Sometime during the night, she must have hit it, turning the alarm off. Or – no, Esmé was nowhere to be seen. Whatever had happened, Dulcie had no time for breakfast. The departmental meeting would begin in fifteen minutes, and especially as she still had no new evidence for her thesis, she really didn’t need Thorpe on her case.

  ‘Whoa!’ Chris had been unlocking the front door as she rushed out, and she spun on her heels to give her boyfriend a quick kiss.

  ‘Gotta run. Meeting.’

  ‘Call me!’ His voice followed her down the stairs. One of these days, Dulcie thought with a twinge of regret, we’ll have a normal life. For now, trotting up the street, Dulcie tried to organize her thoughts. First, the meeting, which promised to be dull but necessary. At least Nancy, the departmental secretary, made good coffee, and Dulcie had had the forethought to grab her oversized travel mug before she’d bolted.

  Dulcie hurried toward Mass Ave, realizing that she hadn’t even bothered to button her sweater. The Pacific North-West had been damp and cool, but the winters never seemed as bitter as they did here in New England. Here, from late October on, Dulcie piled layer on layer. Now, between her steady trot and the bright sun, she was actually warm. She smiled up at the sky, at the little fluffy clouds making their way across a clean, fresh blue – and walked into a wall of wool.

  ‘Watch it, why don’t you?’ The harsh Boston accent, akin to a seagull’s caw, took Dulcie aback. It couldn’t totally destroy her mood, however, and she looked up with a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She tried to make eye contact with dark eyes, buried deep under bristling brows. ‘I was distracted by this beautiful weather.’

  ‘Nutcase.’ The large wool-clad person – a man, Dulcie thought – said, loud enough for her to hear, before turning and stalking off.

  ‘Friendly,’ Dulcie replied, a little softer, and followed. It was true – she hadn’t noticed that the light had changed, and had the man not stopped her with his bulk, she might have stepped into traffic. He might have saved her life. ‘Sorry,’ she said again, sending the apology into the space where he had been. If she had inherited anything from Lucy, it was a sense of karmic balance. Maybe she deserved that verbal slap for being so inattentive.

  ‘I wonder if that’s what Esmé needs,’ she asked of a passing sparrow. Mr Grey had come to her fully grown and had been a gentle cat from the first. ‘Or maybe it’s just Chris.’ Whatever she didn’t know about training a kitten, she knew that his genial rough-housing was wrong and would only lead to tears.

  That, however, was a problem to be tackled later. As the high-rises and storefronts of Central Square gave way to the red-brick of the university, Dulcie returned to planning her morning. First, the meeting – the thought of that coffee made her mouth water, and she found herself swallowing. If she were lucky, Roland would be there. She might have to make up some kind of story about why she’d called, but she could handle it. If he wasn’t – and, really, there were a million reasons why he might not be – she’d ask Thorpe about him. Or, no, even better – she’d ask Nancy. Just a casual question thrown out there to let her know if the jovial Texan had gone missing or, worse, turned up dead. Odds were, that would take care of the whole problem.

  Either way, she thought, she might be able to get more out of Trista. Her friend had been so upset the night before, as close to hysteria as Dulcie had ever seen her. A visit from the cops could do that, what with their usually gruff manners and refusal to explain anything that was going on. But even Suze had thought that Trista had blown it out of proportion. And even if she was still nervous – or suffering from exhaustion or whatever – Trista would be more approachable this morning, after a night’s sleep, and especially after a departmental meeting. In keeping with her hip look, Trista liked to present a cool facade. No matter what it cost her, she’d be rational in front of the rest of the department – and Dulcie might be able to get a little more sense out of her, starting with why she’d decided that their imported colleague had been killed.

  She looked at her watch. Ten twenty, she just might make it. And if all went according to plan, she would put this curious incident behind her. She might even be able to duck Thorpe after. If she could get into the library by noon, Dulcie thought, turning off Mass Ave, this would be a most beautiful day.

  An hour later, it registered with Dulcie that she had not even gotten coffee. It wasn’t that Nancy hadn’t made it. As soon as she’d skipped up the steps to the old clapboard house that served as the departmental headquarters, she’d smelled that marvelous, ever so slightly burned aroma, the result of too many drips left on the institutional coffee-maker.

  But before she could even step from the front hall into the former sitting room that now served as an all-purpose office-cum-gathering space, Dulcie was grabbed and hustled into the conference room opposite.

  ‘Dulcie, thank God.’ It was Trista, looking a little frantic. ‘Do you have a minute?’

  ‘Hey, Trista. Yeah, I talked to Suze—’ Dulcie tried to respond, but her friend cut her off.

  ‘There’s something going on – something I hadn’t thought of. It might . . . well, we should talk.’

  ‘Miss Schwartz, there you are.’ Martin Thorpe had walked in. ‘I was wondering when you’d get here.’

  ‘The meeting’s not till—’ She checked her watch. Ten thirty-five. ‘I’m only five minutes late.’

  ‘These are not ordinary times.’ Thorpe looked at her over his glasses. ‘Your presence is requested immediately.’ He looked up, as if seeing Trista for the first time. ‘Yours, too, Miss Dunlop.’

  ‘What?’ Dulce mouthed the question silently to Trista as they trekked up the stairs behind their leader.

  Trista shook her head. ‘Not here,’ she whispered, looking down behind them.

  There wasn’t time for anything more. Dulcie ducked instinctively as she watched Thorpe stoop under the lintel that led into the upstairs conference room. The building dated to the Revolutionary War, and as far as its current inhabitants could tell, it had barely been renovated, except for the addition of electricity and a flush toilet that could be temperamental. That made it almost contemporaneous with the author of The Ravages, a fact that usually pleased Dulcie, who liked to imagine the scenes the old wood must have witnessed. Only, today, Dulcie didn’t have time for such fantasies. She made it up to the doorway and stopped short, until Trista, behind her, gave her a small shove.

  ‘Ladies, please.’ Thorpe motioned to two chairs in the far corner. He himself had not taken his usual seat. That was occupied by a man they all knew well, the man whose unexpected
appearance had caused Dulcie to stop so suddenly. Even as she scurried over to one of the empty chairs, his image stayed with her and set her mind racing.

  He was big, for starters. Big enough to make the little room seem claustrophobic, and his grey hair – thick and swept to the side – and substantial salt-and-pepper moustache did nothing to soften features that could have been carved out of granite. Like a nightmare version of Theodore Roosevelt or some dyspeptic walrus, he looked as substantial – and as tall – as Thorpe, even while seated at the conference table. Almost as tall, Dulcie noted, daring a glance at the visitor, as the university police officer who stood behind him to his right.

  What he was doing here was a mystery, but his presence had subdued the usual hum of speculation. She stole another peek at the big man. Yes, it was whom she thought: Dr Gustav Coffin, head of Widener’s rare book collection and university legend. Dr Coffin, rumor had it, had built the priceless Mildon rare book library through a combination of charm and bulldog-like tenacity, bullying donors and experts alike to contribute to his own personal climate-controlled fiefdom. Immune to the vagaries of the stock market, which had played such havoc with the university investments as a whole, he had emerged from the jet-setting world of private philanthropy and commanded respect far beyond the halls of academe. It was said he had his own personal keys to the Mildon Collection rooms, set deep within Widener’s stacks. And that when he did emerge, it was to fly to New York or London to secure some new prize, or to consult for the Met, the Louvre, or the Hermitage.

  Every day he worked with the kind of treasures Dulcie and her colleagues only dreamed about, she realized, swallowing hard. But they never seemed to make him happy. Whether it was because of a graduate student disturbing him with another request, or because he was in the midst of dismissing yet one more university request for tighter budgeting when it came to conservation or restoration, he was known as much for his temper as that stone-carved scowl. This morning he looked positively thunderous.

  Now he turned and glowered at Dulcie and at Trista, who had taken an extra few seconds to scuttle to her seat.

  ‘They’re all here now,’ Thorpe said, and Dulcie heard a slight tremor in his voice.

  A silent nod appraised them all. The cop took a step forward, but Dr Coffin raised his hand. The cop froze.

  ‘I have assembled you this morning because of a serious breach.’ Coffin, the descendant of Puritan preachers, had a voice of fire and brimstone. Never mind that the librarian hadn’t actually called the meeting. It was his now. ‘A very serious breach.’ His gaze traveled slowly around the table, and Dulcie swallowed again, aware of how dry her mouth had become.

  ‘All of you have access to the Mildon Rare Book Collection in the Widener Annex.’ The gaze continued, like a lighthouse, making its way from face to face. ‘All of you have utilized that access within the last semester.’

  Dulcie felt a wild desire to look around. Had they all been in the collection? Was the entire department in fact here? Was Roland? She hadn’t had a chance to check.

  ‘And so all of you are, of necessity, suspects.’ A pause, during which Dulcie heard at least one of her colleagues also try to swallow. ‘At least one of you knows whereof I speak. Perhaps more. For we will uncover the truth and recover—’

  ‘Professor Coffin?’ The spell was momentarily broken as the cop spoke. Maybe it was just the contrast, but Dulcie noticed he was quite attractive. Young, with sandy hair and an athlete’s build. ‘Maybe we could get to the point.’

  Coffin’s glare made it clear he did not share Dulcie’s appreciation. It did serve to silence the cop, however, and the large man turned back to the students.

  ‘There has been a breach of trust. Of security, and of everything we respect and hold dear.’ One more scan of the room, and the cop was forgotten. ‘The Dunster Codex,’ he said, finally. ‘The Dunster Codex has been stolen.’

  TEN

  ‘The what?’ Ethan’s stage whisper broke the stunned silence around the table. Coffin turned toward him with the kind of look a hawk would turn on a small and not particularly tasty rodent.

  ‘The Dunster Codex,’ Thorpe repeated, emphasizing each word, as if hearing, not comprehension, were the grad student’s problem.

  ‘I haven’t seen it, but I know it’s an ancient manuscript,’ Lloyd, Dulcie’s office mate, said, stepping in to explain. ‘Old English. Pre-Norman, anyway. Something to do with the king’s grant to a monastery.’ He looked around for confirmation. Dulcie shrugged. She knew of the treasure, but its era was way before hers.

  ‘It’s eleventh century, actually, and a real treasure. A king’s grant for a monastery to collect taxes, or tithes, to be accurate.’ Darien, a medievalist, was probably the only one there to have read the parchment. ‘Access is extremely limited.’

  ‘Of course access is limited.’ Coffin’s voice made them all look up. Dulcie thought again of mice. Scared, grey mice. ‘The Dunster Codex is a priceless piece of literary history, undoubtedly the most valuable acquisition the collection has made during my tenure. It is also extremely fragile. All of you have been in the rare book collection. All of you know the protocol.’

  Heads bobbed around the table. They’d all surrendered their pens for soft-pointed pencils. They’d all donned the white cotton gloves, lightly dusted with some kind of non-reactive talc.

  ‘And because you’ve all been ticketed within the past month, you are all persons of interest.’

  ‘Ticketed?’ Dulcie couldn’t help it. The words were out before she could think. All eyes turned toward her, and she remembered: in addition to the regular library security, the special collections had its own appropriately archaic entrance ritual. Those admitted signed a large ledger and were given the blue carbon copy as a receipt. That ticket and two pencils were allowed in, nothing else. In theory, scholars were responsible for showing this ‘blue ticket’ if questioned and were supposed to turn it in to reclaim their bags and coats. In reality, the quiet collection got so few visitors that whoever was staffing the front desk could easily keep an eye on everything – and most of them ended up holding on to the little blue slip. It made a handy bookmark.

  ‘Never mind.’ Dulcie couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone into the sealed room. Surely it hadn’t been in the last month? Most of the Gothics just weren’t considered that rare – or that valuable. The only novel from her period she’d ever seen there was a moth-eaten copy of The Wetherly Ghost. Still, odds were, if she ever completely emptied her bag, she’d find one or two of the blue slips crumpled on the bottom.

  ‘We will be investigating.’ Coffin’s eyes made a circuit, chilling each student in turn. ‘And we will get to the bottom of this.’ With that he nodded – once to Thorpe and once to the officer beside him – and left the room, taking, as far as Dulcie was concerned, all of its oxygen with him.

  Once they’d all been able to breathe again, the startled students had tramped downstairs to raid the coffee pot and talk. Everyone had questions, but answers were in as short supply as coffee filters. Nancy, as usual, tried to supply both.

  ‘They’re just looking for information,’ she said in her motherly tone as she set up a fresh pot to brew. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? How can it be nothing?’ Bill was sweating, his face an unhealthy pink. ‘The Dunster Codex is missing!’

  ‘Didn’t we trade, like, a Gutenberg Bible or something for it?’ a voice in the corner said, prompting groans.

  ‘Not a Gutenberg . . .’ someone started explaining. ‘But almost as thick. Still, it was one of the priciest acquisitions in the collection’s history.’

  ‘Persons of interest . . .’ A female voice rose above the crowd, tight and anxious. ‘Does that mean we’re all suspects?’

  ‘It was bound in leather at some point.’ The explanation continued. ‘Though I gather the binding is pretty much in shreds. There are still traces of gold leaf on the front, probably a later addition . . .’

  �
��Are they talking to the staff, too? The cleaning crew and security? I mean, why just us?’ More voices chimed in, and Nancy had her hands full trying to calm the crowd. Dulcie simply listened and tried to remember if she’d ever seen the missing book.

  ‘What is the Dunster Codex again?’ Ethan didn’t seem to get it. ‘Is it like one piece of parchment, or is it bound or what?’

  Nobody answered him. Partly, Dulcie acknowledged with a twinge of guilt, because it was Ethan. He never did pick up on new things, whether it was grading standards or the latest forms for ordering texts. But partly it was because in the momentary lull following Ethan’s outburst, Lloyd voiced the question that blew the others away: ‘Coffin said “in the last month”, right?’

  Nods all around.

  ‘Well, does this mean that the Codex has been missing for a month – and they’ve only now noticed?’

  After that, the buzz came back louder and stronger. Dulcie felt a headache coming on. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Before she could flee, however, Trista had grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall.

  ‘It’s tied up with Roland,’ her friend whispered, leaning in close to be heard. ‘It’s got to be.’

  ‘You think Roland stole it?’ Dulcie looked up at her friend. Something wasn’t making sense. ‘Or died trying to defend it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Trista looked around, her pale face strangely stern. ‘I don’t understand what’s exactly going on, but he did have a job in Widener last semester, and this semester he’s been working with rare book conservation. There’s something else, too – too much to be mere coincidence.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Tris. What do you mean – something else? What else is going on?’ Dulcie watched Trista as her head swiveled, taking in the crowd. Being a Victorian, she’d been steeped in the moralistic and heavily plotted novels of the period. As a fan of the Gothic, Dulcie knew different. ‘And, Trista, about Roland—’