Grey Expectations

by Clea Simon

  Well, that was frustrating. But, as Dulcie – a newly invigorated Dulcie – reminded herself, it was all information. Maybe it meant that Jessica couldn’t be trusted. After all, if someone wanted to get her off a case, to keep her from asking questions, scaring her would be one way to do it. Perhaps Jessica had been around enough of the student scuttlebutt to know the rumors. Hades, maybe Jessica had been a source of the rumors? Maybe she and Rollie had been working together to keep people from asking about the Dunster Codex.

  But why? It was inevitable that the theft would be discovered. Dulcie remembered the way Professor Coffin had glowered at them all. The entire English department might as well be culpable, that look had said. His moustache had fairly bristled. No, Professor Coffin was not a man to be scared off by a ghost story.

  Then again, Professor Coffin had been killed.

  Dulcie paused. There had to be another way of looking at this. Something else was tickling the back of her mind. A memory or phrase that wouldn’t be forgotten, like something she had dreamed—

  Of course! Dulcie could have kicked herself. Her author – or, at least, the woman in her dreams – had talked of phantoms, of ghouls that sought to suck her blood or steal her life essence, or whatever. A flash of the professor lying in his own blood came to Dulcie, and she shook her head, willing it away. Those phantoms had been real to the woman in her dreams, enemies who sought to discredit her. To steal her life’s essence – her work . . .

  Could it be? Suddenly, everything Dulcie had suspected about that essay – everything she had been on the verge of proving – came back. If that essay were a fake, could it be, possibly, that the Dunster Codex was, too? A fake – a phantom – and that was why she was being warned off investigating?

  But Professor Coffin would have known. Must have known. And if he had known, he wouldn’t have reported the real rarity as stolen. Then again, if he had found out, that could be a motive . . . There was too much up in the air. Dulcie needed to find out more. She stood and approached the young cop.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She reached for his arm, but he was already holding his arm out. Holding her back as he looked down the hall. It was Rogovoy, flanked by two other officers in uniform. And he was smiling.

  ‘Good news!’ He waved Dulcie’s guard away and directed himself to her. ‘We got one of them. The bigger guy – the one you called Harris. He made it to South Station, and we caught him boarding a train for Providence. He’s not talking – not yet – but we figure his partner can’t be far behind. Oh, don’t worry –’ he raised his palms in surrender – ‘we know they might have split up, too. The interesting thing is that this proves they’re not local talent. But it’s harder to leave town these days, and we’re watching North Station and the buses, too. If he has a car, it might be tougher. But, hey, weekend traffic? If he’s on Ninety-Three, he’ll be wishing he was in custody.’

  ‘Oh, thank the Goddess.’ Dulcie felt the last of the tension leaving her body. ‘I mean, thank you, Detective Rogovoy. And I think I’ve figured something out, too.’

  He wasn’t listening. He was accepting congratulations from the young cop when another detective came up to join them. Rogovoy was giving them details – apparently a security officer had been instrumental and was up for commendation. Dulcie didn’t want to wait. Slipping by the men, she headed toward that unmarked door. If she could only get Thorpe on the phone, she might be able to clear everything up – the Dunster Codex case, her thesis, and all.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Was it left or right? The empty hallway wasn’t marked, and Dulcie regretted not paying closer attention earlier, when the beaked cop had escorted her down there. She’d been distracted then, and wasn’t necessarily at her best now either – something Rogovoy had said was tickling at her brain. A left, definitely, she was almost sure as she turned down a long passage painted an industrial grey that reflected the flickering fluorescent lights. Were there two turnings?

  It didn’t matter, she told herself. All she needed really was a quiet place where she could make a few phone calls in privacy. She didn’t want anyone hearing her outlandish theory until she had some proof. And she certainly didn’t want another incident like the last one. She’d gotten off lightly, she knew. A second cell phone offense, even here in a maintenance tunnel, would be harder to explain.

  The hall she was in turned right abruptly, and she followed it, her sense of direction shot. Up ahead, a door – labeled in black paint. She approached carefully, not wanting to be caught trespassing. MILDON, the door said. Dulcie could have laughed. She’d been walking in circles, making a circuit of the outer part of the left wing of the level. She’d come to the back entrance of the Mildon, the tunnel entrance. Live and learn. She stepped back to where the passage had turned. So much for finding a private room, but if she backtracked a few yards, she’d probably have enough privacy.

  Dulcie turned one more corner and, leaning back against the wall, pulled out her phone.

  ‘Ms Schwartz? Where are you? You sound like you’re calling me from a sauna bath.’ Martin Thorpe was still at the departmental office, though he now sounded fully caffeinated.

  For a moment, Dulcie regretted calling him. This theory, however, would not wait. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Thorpe, I’m calling from—’ She stopped herself. Better not to say. ‘I don’t want to disturb anyone, so I’ve got my hand over the phone.’ Turning to face the wall, she sank down into a seated position. Between the wall and her body, the call had to be at least slightly muffled. ‘You know that new information I told you about?’

  ‘Your thesis, yes. I gather you followed up on it?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did.’ For a moment, Dulcie was tempted to get into it. But she didn’t yet have enough evidence, and besides, as hard as it was to admit, the Ravages of Umbria were not the top priority right now. ‘But that’s not why I’m calling.’

  ‘Are you in trouble again, Ms Schwartz? Because really, at this point in your academic career, if you hope to continue said academic career—’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that.’ She had to get to the point. ‘It’s about the Dunster Codex. I had an idea.’

  ‘You had an idea.’ They both paused, Dulcie trying to figure out how to phrase her theory so that it would sound almost plausible. ‘Ms Schwartz, if you know or have heard something about the Codex, then I really must direct you to the police. I am not—’

  ‘No, no. It’s not about the theft or Professor Coffin’s – about Professor Coffin.’ Somehow the word ‘murder’ was still difficult to say. ‘Or not directly. Mr Thorpe –’ there was nothing to do but put it on the table – ‘have you ever considered the possibility that the Dunster Codex isn’t – well – isn’t all that we think it might be?’

  ‘All that we think—?’

  She didn’t let him continue. ‘I mean, think about it, Mr Thorpe. Virtually nobody has seen it. None of us students, anyway. We only know about it through its reputation. In fact, it has rarely been in the library at all. Since it was purchased, it’s spent most of its time in print and paper restoration, right? And now the folks who work there are under suspicion for all sorts of things – fake IDs and the like. And, well, isn’t it possible that the Dunster Codex is the biggest fake of all?’

  She didn’t get into the ghost email. Mr Grey and the dream, with its mention of phantoms, would carry no weight with her adviser. Without them, her theory sounded thinner than gauze, but it was out there. On the table.

  And just like that, Martin Thorpe knocked it off. ‘Nonsense.’ Her adviser snorted into the phone. ‘What a nonsensical idea. The Dunster Codex? The pride of the Mildon Collection?’

  He paused, and for a moment Dulcie almost thought she could hear him thinking. Yes, the Dunster Codex was the pride of the collection. One item built up by reputation to be . . . unassailable?

  ‘Besides, we’ve gotten word about its whereabouts.’ Thorpe sounded like himself again. Calm, collected. Insufferable. ‘The ruffians responsible for this despicabl
e act had enough sense to understand its value. It has shown up on the roster of Ackerland and Dolby, the premier auction house for antiquities. I was informed less than an hour ago. The university is sending a legal team to New York to discuss the Codex’s recovery as we speak.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dulcie slumped forward, her head touching the wall. ‘Well, that’s good news, right?’ If the Dunster Codex wasn’t a fake, what did that mean? Maybe that email was only meant to scare her. Maybe the dreams only pertained to that one essay. Maybe they meant nothing at all.

  Thorpe was still talking. ‘Such wild flights of fancy might be understandable in a younger mind, but by this stage in your career, Ms Schwartz, discipline is key.’ He paused, perhaps hearing the harshness in his tone. ‘You’ve had a shock, I gather. It’s understandable that you would want the crime to be other than what it was. Why don’t we forget this call ever took place and focus instead on your research. You did find something, you said? Something real?’

  ‘I found something,’ she said, her voice – and spirits – flat. After this, he would never believe her theory. He would insist she take the essay at face value. Insist that her author had caved in to the prevailing philosophies about women and education. She would have to make her case. ‘There’s something in the Mildon collection,’ she said, finally. ‘I think . . . I don’t know for sure, but it could important.’

  ‘Very good, Ms Schwartz.’ He wasn’t listening. He was busy. ‘Let’s speak on Monday, when you can tell me more about your ongoing research.’

  ‘Sure,’ she managed to choke out. ‘Thank you, Mr Thorpe.’

  The painted wall felt cool against her forehead. She would stay here, she thought. It was quiet. So quiet that she heard the squeak of shoe leather on the concrete floor, only a moment before she felt the touch of cold steel at her throat.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  ‘Get up.’

  The voice was cold, as cold as the blade pressed against her throat, and Dulcie complied. As she did, she felt her curls being grabbed, her head yanked back. The knife began to dig in.

  ‘No!’ she choked out.

  ‘Shut up.’ The voice had become a hiss. ‘Be a good girl and everything will be all right. You hear me?’

  She nodded, the movement only making her more conscious of the blade.

  ‘Good.’ She felt a shift behind her. The knife-wielder pulled her hair as he looked around. ‘You’re my ticket out of here. You’ve got to know another way.’

  ‘Another?’ She whispered so softly she wasn’t sure he’d heard, but then he pulled her back.

  ‘Not through the paper lab. They’ve got that marked.’ His breath was hot and damp on her ear, and she could smell his sweat.

  She had to think. ‘There’s – there’s the Mildon.’ The collection would still be crawling with cops.

  ‘Right.’ He jerked her hair back. ‘Like I’m going back there.’ She caught a glimpse of an unshaven face. A filthy suit. Of course, it was Read. The one they hadn’t captured. ‘Come on, girl. The professor said this place had miles of tunnels.’

  The professor. That knife. This man had killed Professor Coffin. Dulcie felt the room start to spin.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t.’ He pulled at her curls again, forcing her to stay upright. ‘Don’t get all girly on me.’ He laughed. It wasn’t a friendly laugh. ‘The professor said you liked ghost stories. Scary stories, right? Think of this as your own little adventure.’

  Coffin had talked about her? To this man? Despite herself, Dulcie found her curiosity piqued. ‘How did you get in?’ she whispered, trying to keep her voice even.

  ‘I’ve got an ID, a key card, don’t I?’ She felt him moving again, craning to see down the long hall. ‘He gave me my very own. Come on.’

  He pushed her around in front of him and started to walk. Dulcie gasped, a reaction that had nothing to do with the movement of the blade against her neck. She had known Coffin was mixed up in something – but with these guys?

  ‘Why?’ The question slipped out.

  ‘Money, you stupid girl.’ He was walking her in front of him, one hand in her hair, one on the knife. ‘He needed it. We provided it.’

  They’d come to the turn, and he shoved her against the wall. She did not dare turn, but could feel him, straining around the corner. The seconds ticked by.

  ‘Why?’ As soon as the word was out, she winced. He would hurt her, she knew that – but she still had to know.

  The man she knew as Read seemed to sense that, because he laughed again. ‘Said the place was a treasure chest, didn’t he? And we knew we’d end up owning it.’

  Despite her best instincts, Dulcie heard herself sigh. If she could have, she would have shaken her head. ‘He didn’t mean like that.’

  ‘What?’ She felt spittle on her ear, and she clenched her eyes tight.

  ‘The treasure – it’s books. Knowledge.’ She thought of the Paine letters. Of her thesis, and of all she’d hoped to prove.

  ‘Bullshit.’ He jerked her head back roughly. ‘He said the place was a gold mine. He was sure planning on cashing in.’

  ‘He did.’ Dulcie’s voice was barely a whisper. It all was becoming clear. She thought of the stories about Coffin. Of his jet-setting life, fêting the wealthy and powerful all the while building his own reputation as a scholar. An authority. All for the glory of the collection, supposedly, but in the meantime, letting him lead a life of luxury and prestige far beyond the normal reach of academe. ‘He did cash in, in his way.’

  ‘So where’s my money?’ A hiss like death.

  ‘It’s all gone.’ Coffin must have filed for the insurance, she realized. Must have engineered the theft to pay off his debts. And Rogovoy had held that up. Had he suspected foul play? Did it matter now? A deep sadness flooded her. ‘All gone.’

  She closed her eyes again and felt herself relaxing. So this was how it would end. Read would get no satisfaction, and Rogovoy – watching the bridges and tunnels – would never guess they were so close. Well, Chris would look after Esmé, and Mr Grey would comfort them both. She would miss them. She would even miss Esmé’s antics, the way she went wild when they played.

  Another noise – a door, some footsteps – and Read slammed her against the wall so hard she squeaked. He let go of her hair then and grabbed her face, wrapping one hand over her mouth and nose. She gasped, tasting blood where he had pushed her lip against her tooth. The knife dug into her neck. She couldn’t breathe.

  Footsteps. Read leaned closer. He would kill her and make a break for it. She would suffocate while he waited. She was seeing stars – green stars – her knees were giving out.

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ He jerked her up, his hand pressing against her lips, sliding into her mouth. Choking her.

  Green stars like eyes. Esmé. That hand. Dulcie bit down hard and felt the spurt of blood. Felt the knife jerk back by reflex as Read tried to free himself. She kicked – it wasn’t enough. Then she heard it – a loud, dull thud! – and she was free.

  Gasping for air, she spun around. He had a knife, but she had spirit. And he was lying on the floor. Next to him stood Thomas Griddlehaus, library clerk, panting, a leather-bound folio of Ben Jonson plays held between his hands.

  FIFTY-NINE

  ‘I believe I owed you a rescue.’ The little man was blinking down at his victim. Read had been thrown off his feet by the clerk’s swing, but the first cop on the scene kept him there, hands cuffed behind him. ‘I was afraid I wasn’t going to get the opportunity.’

  They’d moved down the passage a bit. Griddlehaus had been urging her into the library, but Dulcie couldn’t go any further and sat slumped against the wall. There was something satisfying in watching the police as they swarmed. Someone had put the knife in a bag, she noticed. Someone else was going through the pockets of Reed’s ruined suit.

  ‘This was the first item at hand.’ He was looking down at the folio. Its binding had cracked. ‘Well, it’s all ruined, anyway.’

  ‘What do y
ou mean?’ Breathing was still difficult, her throat hurt, and Dulcie welcomed the distraction.

  ‘The collection. Everything.’ He sat beside her, his eyes on the book. ‘Our Codex.’

  ‘I know,’ she said gently. ‘He made it all up, didn’t he?’

  Griddlehaus nodded and pushed his glasses up.

  ‘Is that why the insurance inspection was held up? Did Rogovoy know?’ She’d seen the panicked look the detective had given her as his men had secured Read. He wouldn’t thank her for this.

  ‘I don’t know, not really.’ Griddlehaus seemed to find the cover of the folio fascinating. ‘I do know Professor Coffin was quite frustrated with the delays.’

  ‘I bet,’ Dulcie added. ‘So how did you find out?’

  ‘The auction house. New York.’ Another sniff. ‘I was on the phone with them discussing provenance. I got quite up on my high horse, you know. I was so sure it was stolen.’

  ‘It was a fake, wasn’t it?’

  The little mouse shook his head. ‘No, the Dunster Codex is real. It’s too well documented for anyone to make up that much of a story. But we had never owned it. The professor put down earnest money and a letter of intent. Then the time ran out, and the seller was tired of waiting.’

  ‘Huh.’ Dulcie leaned back against the wall. So the Dunster Codex did exist, but the professor hadn’t managed to buy it. Was that what had pushed him to borrow money from people like Harris and Read? Was it, as she’d first imagined, that he’d simply spent more than he’d saved, playing the role he’d imagined for himself? Maybe it didn’t matter. The Dunster Codex was supposed to be the professor’s crowning achievement, the ultimate acquisition. It had proven to be the phantom that had brought about his death.

  ‘That’s it for the collection.’ Griddlehaus was barely audible. ‘The Mildon. Our reputation is ruined.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dulcie roused and turned toward the little man.

  ‘This scandal? And then to find out the truth? We have no treasures.’