Grey Expectations

by Clea Simon

  Rogovoy was still talking. ‘We’re looking into the paper lab, too. Whatever you call it. Seems to me that if two students are able to make fake IDs there, then security isn’t what it’s supposed to be.’

  ‘I was wondering about that,’ Dulcie broke in, another thought forming. ‘I was thinking about the Dunster Codex and how someone snuck that out of the library. I mean, there would be records, right? If someone had taken it to have restoration work done or something?’

  In response, she heard a low chuckle. ‘Dulcie, Ms Schwartz, you are something. You don’t have to solve every problem this university has tonight. Give it a rest, kid. Get some sleep.’

  She tried, she really tried. But after tossing and turning so much that even the cat abandoned the bed, Dulcie followed suit. A quick peek out the window showed a quiet street. No cars, despite what the detective had said, and Dulcie forced herself not to think about that.

  ‘I must have just missed them. Right, Esmé?’

  The cat, who had started to wash, did not respond.

  Dulcie paced around the apartment. One thirty, too late to call anyone. Even Lucy would likely be asleep, unless . . . She lifted the shade for another look at the sky. No, the moon was still waxing. Lucy would not be dancing at a circle tonight. And Chris, well, Chris thought she was sleeping. She should let him have one night of uninterrupted work after everything he’d been through.

  On a whim, she opened her laptop again and entered a search for the Dunster Codex. Most of what this turned up, she already knew – or had learned since the announcement of the theft on Tuesday. The manuscript – more like loosely bound pages than a modern book – was a late medieval treasure, the recounting of a tax role that served to illuminate not only the population but also the social structure of a certain province in what would become East Anglia. The university had purchased it from a private collector, after a substantial fund-raising drive that had drawn heavily from the professor’s former colleagues in the private sector. It had been Professor Coffin’s latest and largest acquisition.

  ‘His last, too,’ Dulcie noted, skimming over the rest. She’d been surprised to see that the professor himself had been one of the donors, making a gift of some undisclosed amount that had supposedly been critical in obtaining the treasure. More fund-raising, she read, had since been commenced, largely for the purposes of conservation, since the ancient work – about a thousand years old – needed constant attention.

  ‘That would explain it not being in its case,’ she mused out loud. ‘Poor Lloyd, scared by a ghost story.’ She typed away at her keyboard, wondering what else she could turn up. ‘I wonder if the restoration work was all done here,’ Dulcie mused, tapping her keyboard gently. Lloyd might know, or Darien, their resident medievalist. But, no, this was a bureaucratic question – process and permissions. She opened her email program and typed in: MTHORPE.

  Hi Mr T, she typed. Would you be able to tell me the dates the Dunster Codex was being restored? I feel like it was in and out all spring. Also, did it ever go off campus? She looked at her note. She had to give him a little more. I’ve been talking to the university police about this, but I don’t know if they understand how we work here.

  There, that should appeal to his departmental vanity. Besides, it made her sound involved – on the side of the angels. With a satisfied nod, she hit ‘send’. Esmé landed on her laptop just as she closed it, so she picked her pet up and returned to bed.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Writing, writing, writing. She paused to push back an errant curl that had adhered to the dampness of her forehead, felt her eyelids start to close ’gainst the stifling heat. Close, too close, the befoul’d air choked her breath, threatening to steal the very life from out her chest. The heat, like the pestilence itself, closed upon her, the tainted air like curs’d spirits dragging her down. How she long’d to throw open the casements and to breathe anew, to free herself from this hidden room, this prison, this cage.

  But, no. She fought against the panic, her heart beating like a caged dove against the bars. This had been her choice, her decision. Driven as she was by forces unforeseen, she had sought this sanctuary. Let them do their worst, steal her name, her very soul. Writing, she was writing. Soon she would emerge, her work complete, to reclaim that very Heritage that she so long’d to pass on . . .

  Dulcie woke, gasping, in the dark. The cat, lying on her chest, looked up and blinked.

  ‘Esmé, was that you?’ She picked some fur from her mouth and wondered. Lucy had taught her all the old wives’ tales – but only so she could debunk them.

  ‘Cats don’t “steal” anyone’s breath,’ she had said with exasperation. ‘They simply like the warmth. Or the smell of milk on a baby’s breath.’

  Or perhaps, Dulcie thought now, looking into Esmé eyes, they do what they need to in order to wake a troubled sleeper. And after the horror of the day before, it was no wonder she’d had a nightmare. At least Professor Coffin hadn’t made an appearance. She’d been so busy yesterday, the full impact hadn’t registered. Now, however, it did. Closing her eyes, she saw him once again, laid out and still, the blood pooled around his body. Was this because of the Dunster Codex? Perhaps it was true that the thing was haunted or, perhaps, cursed.

  She shivered, fully awake now, and checked the clock. No, Chris would not be home for hours yet. Climbing out of bed, she reached for her robe. The night had gotten cool, the hint of a sea breeze rattling the shade. She looked out in time to see a car cruise silently down the street. One of Rogovoy’s, she told herself. Those two thugs had probably been bluffing. They were looking for a blonde, for someone who resembled Trista. And even if they did come by here, they didn’t stand a chance.

  It didn’t help. In need of a distraction, Dulcie went to her computer and opened the file she had started the day before listing all the familiar quotes that had reappeared in that horrible essay.

  ‘The fettering of the feminine mind,’ she read. In her dream, the heroine – Hermetria, the author, whoever she was – wanted to throw off her fetters. To free herself. ‘For fear of losing her ladylike graces.’ The woman in the dream hadn’t been bothered by such things. Her strength had been that of a woman, a free woman. A writer setting out to reclaim her name.

  Dulcie rubbed her forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. The Ravages of Umbria had never been a hit with the critics. It had never even won the kind of grudging respect given the bigger Gothic novels, books like The Castle of Otranto or Udolpho. Had its author fought back against the negative reviews and naysayers? Maybe, Dulcie thought glumly, she had sought to win back their favor by writing something different. Something that catered to their traditional – no, misogynistic – tastes.

  Her headache getting worse, Dulcie looked back longingly at the bed. Maybe she should have asked Chris to stay home again tonight. She could call him, but then he’d worry about her. No, better to pass the time – and take some aspirin.

  Two minutes later, she was sitting by the computer again, a glass of water by her side. Maybe she would ping Suze, see if the soon to be lawyer was up working. Dulcie knew her old room-mate: all through exams, she’d kept up her hours at the legal clinic. There was no reason for her upcoming graduation to stop her now.

  Hey room-mate, how are you? she typed. At her feet, she felt the soft brush of fur. Esmé had come over to keep her company.

  You’re up early. The answer came back immediately. Bad dream?

  Dulcie smiled and reached down to pet the cat. Suze hadn’t heard the half of it. Esmé pushed her wet nose into Dulcie’s left hand. With her right, she typed: Weird dream.

  Any more with your friend? The words were well meant, but Dulcie felt them like a blow. Suze knew Trista. They’d hung out. But Suze and Dulcie had drifted so far apart that Suze couldn’t even remember Trista’s name. Did she remember Esmé? Did the little cat remember her?

  The little chime broke into her brooding. Trista, I mean. Sorry.

  She
’s gone missing, Dulcie wrote back. She was as much to blame if they were drifting. She hadn’t even told Suze the news. It’s been crazy. Theft from the Mildon. Professor Coffin murdered!

  Heard that. The reply pinged back. Wonder who gets his donor list?

  Dulcie shook her head. Suze did not know that Dulcie had found the body. She’d never have responded so casually if she had. But she had raised an interesting point. From what Dulcie had read, Coffin was among the most successful fund-raisers at the university. He would be missed.

  You OK? Suze might not be up on the latest, but even across town, she could read Dulcie’s silences. Chris working?

  Yeah, I’m fine, she typed – and meant it. At her feet, the cat had begun to purr. Miss you. She meant that, too.

  FORTY-NINE

  Acrack, and a rattle broke the night, the sound like a skeleton’s fingers across ice. Dead things, cruel and grasping, sought entrance, drawn by the life within. The woman at the desk shivered and drew her cloak around her. Phantoms, phantoms all, bare branches against a window, the dried leaves of plants she did not know skittering across the panes. They could not reach her, she knew that. Friendless and alone, she toil’d on. Her last effort, her best, would be her only legacy, and she must labor on. True demons lurk’d, real ghouls, and her trust, too precious, could not be squandered now. Girding herself against those who would in verity suck her life’s blood, she set to work, taking up the pen once more and steeling herself against the phantoms of the night.

  When she woke again, Chris was by her side with Esmé tucked under his chin. It was a charming sight, the opposite of the lonely nightmare setting, and Dulcie lay there for a moment, basking in their warmth. When she did finally slide out of bed, she did so quietly, letting Chris sleep. The little cat, however, opened one eye and watched her as she dressed.

  For Dulcie, even such quiet company was a balm. The dream had been disturbing, all this talk of real phantoms and ghosts – and its setting had shifted ahead by several months, from sweltering heat to bitter cold. But the May morning Dulcie woke to already felt balmy, the daylight that poked around the shade promising a better day ahead. Things were crazy. A man had been murdered. But the people she loved most were safe, and they loved her. Everything else was details.

  She was taking her laptop into the kitchen when it hit her. Trista wasn’t safe; not that she knew, anyway. She looked up at the clock. Too early to call Jerry; he kept the same hours as Chris. Today he could file an official missing persons report, at least. And, she reminded herself, after her encounters with those two thugs, the university police would take it seriously. Rogovoy had said they were already on the lookout for Trista. Now it was all about the waiting.

  She opened her laptop, hoping to hang on to some of her waking optimism. A new day. A new start. It didn’t help. Any way she approached it, her thesis was in the toilet. And her name was probably still mud, too, her only defense against possible charges having decamped and disconnected his phone. A small ping alerted her to an email, but if she hoped for a reprieve, she was disappointed: MTHORPE. She knew she’d emailed him with questions, but she couldn’t shake the idea that he was contacting her now to let her know her grants had been revoked.

  For a moment, Dulcie was tempted to flee. To pack a lunch and head for the Greyhound station. Not back to the commune – Lucy would just be another failed responsibility. Just . . . someplace different. New York, and one of those auction houses. Santa Fe. Chris would understand. He’d take care of Esmé. More and more, she was his cat, anyway.

  The fantasy grabbed her. It would be so easy. She reached to close the computer, to start her new life – and felt something soft and warm push her back. Esmé had landed in her lap and stared up at her with grave intent.

  ‘What is it, Esmé? Would you really miss me?’

  In response, the cat thrust her head into Dulcie’s hand, pushing her velvet ears against Dulcie’s palm. She was just too irresistible, Dulcie decided, and she began stroking the cat. And then, since she was stuck there anyway, she opened the email.

  Ms Schwartz, it began. So glad you got in touch. Have been meaning to call. Heard last night from the university police that your identity card had been stolen and have started the process to remove you from disciplinary probation.

  That caught Dulcie up short. ‘Disc pro’ was the first step toward expulsion. She had known she was a suspect, but not that she had already been judged guilty.

  Call me to set up an appointment, the email closed. Well, that was an eye-opener. To top it off, Dulcie noticed, Thorpe had not answered any of her questions.

  Despite the hour, she was able to reach him in the departmental office. From the sounds in the background, she guessed that he was trying to work the coffee maker. ‘Only time it’s quiet enough to get any work done,’ he grumbled over the phone as the water ran. But when she asked about the Dunster Codex, he seemed as in the dark as she was.

  ‘It’s been in and out of the conservation center since it arrived,’ he said. ‘Hold on.’ A clatter of crockery, and then he was back. ‘A pity, really. So much money, and it arrived in such bad shape.’

  ‘How much did it cost, exactly?’ For all the gossip, she’d never heard an actual figure.

  ‘Huh. Like they would tell me,’ her adviser chuffed in a moment of frankness. ‘Thousands? Millions, maybe.’ He sipped, noisily, and Dulcie took the phone over to her own coffee pot. ‘They used some complicated financing procedure. Private donors, loans – Professor Coffin was constantly on the move.’

  She missed a bit as her own tap ran. Something about loans and endowments.

  ‘Honestly, if he hadn’t taken charge, I don’t think the university would have pursued it,’ Thorpe was saying by the time she had the coffee brewing. ‘And when you think what else has become available in the past year alone. The Olmstead Dickens, for example. Three serialized novels in manuscript form. Manuscript!’

  Dulcie had no response to that, not being particularly enamored of Dickens, and let him talk as she fetched both milk and sugar. Would the cops – the department – ever find out that Coffin had been behind the fake ID scam? That he might have been involved in the Codex theft? She tried to remember if she’d told Rogovoy. Not that it mattered much: the only source she would be able to cite would be the missing Rollie.

  She was trying to think how to bring it up when her adviser asked about her own research, and she scrambled for an answer. ‘I’m looking at some new material,’ she said, milk in hand. That was honest. ‘I’m not exactly sure how it all plays in.’

  ‘New?’ Thorpe almost laughed, causing her to spill.

  ‘New to me,’ she confessed, reaching for a paper towel. ‘An essay that seems to belong to the canon.’

  ‘Speaking of, you might want to take a look at something in the Mildon Collection.’

  ‘The Mildon?’ She swallowed hard. With the milk, the coffee wasn’t that hot. It was more the thought of that subterranean trouble spot.

  ‘Yes, there’s a letter, recently restored. It pertains to that Lord Richmond book, The Wetherly something? But I gather it has some interesting discussion of the genre. Might be something you can work in. Lord Richmond, Thomas Paine, and all.’

  Dulcie made what she hoped was an encouraging noise as she sipped. ‘I think I’ve heard about that.’ From Rollie – not that she wanted to cite that particular source. ‘So, um, I still have access to the collection?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her adviser didn’t miss a beat. ‘You were only under investigation. Now, I gather, all the attention has been placed on one of the work-study students.’

  ‘Jessica Wachovsky?’ She thought of the slim undergrad as she’d last seen her, running across the Common.

  ‘It’s appalling, such a betrayal.’ Thorpe sounded like he was talking to himself, but his outrage made his words carry. ‘A personal betrayal.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The girl had been involved, sure, but she’d wanted to confess.

&
nbsp; ‘The job at the Mildon. She never would have had it without Professor Coffin’s approval. The professor – excuse me, the late professor – personally hand-picked everybody who worked there.’

  FIFTY

  There were just too many coincidences. Dulcie stood by the kitchen window, mug in hand, and tried to make sense of them all. Professor Coffin had been in the center of something, that much was clear. Whatever it was, it had gotten him killed.

  The logical approach, she knew, was to look at who had survived. For starters, there was Rollie, who claimed he had been helped and then blackmailed by the late professor. Then Jessica, picked by the professor for a job – and maybe also as a model for a fake ID. Dulcie had been struck by the transformation she’d witnessed in the clippings. Somehow, it seemed unlikely that an innocent undergrad could have dreamed all this up – and gotten a professor killed as well. But she’d liked Rollie, trusted him even when he’d confessed to getting her in a jam. Rogovoy, she suspected, didn’t. Then again, Rogovoy was a cop. It was his job to suspect everyone.

  Dulcie couldn’t see how, but it must all be tied up with the theft of the Dunster Codex. Had Trista been involved? Dulcie didn’t want to think so, but at this point, everything was on the table.

  And what about those two thugs, Harris and Read? Dulcie thought of Read as she’d last seen him, holding that cruel knife, and shivered. Could that have been the same weapon that had left the professor bleeding on the floor of the back conference room? It was all too likely. If only she could—

  ‘Ow!’ She jumped. Esmé scampered away, leaving Dulcie to examine several small red marks on her foot. ‘You bit me. Bad—’ No, the kitten only wanted to play. ‘I’m sorry, Esmé,’ Dulcie said, searching in vain for a cat toy to toss. ‘You startled me.’