Grey Matters

by Clea Simon

  SEVEN

  By the time Dulcie finally got into the stacks, she felt like hiding. The call from the police had been the final straw, driving home the horror of the last twenty-four hours, and although she had agreed to come in the following morning, she was tempted to break her word. If only she could burrow into Widener like some scholarly squirrel, dig deep into the subterranean levels of the library and stay safely pocketed away until spring.

  But as she rode the elevator down to Level A, she realized such a plan – tempting as it was – was flawed. Not only did library staff come around at closing, making sure that neither the frantic nor the merely absentminded got locked in. Dulcie had responsibilities. Would Suze remember to feed the kitten? Would Chris?

  With a sigh that was matched by the subdued hum of the library’s ventilation system, Dulcie stepped out of the elevator and into her world. Here, amid the approximately 3.2 million books, manuscripts, letters, and other carriers of the written world, Dulcie was at home. It was ironic, she thought, as she walked by a cluster of study carrels and nodded to a fellow scholar. Lucy had raised her as a child of nature, boring into her only child the necessity of appreciating the old-growth forest that surrounded their Pacific Northwest commune. But even though her mother had rejected almost all the teachings of her own East Coast upbringing, somehow she had instilled in her daughter a love of literature. Although most of the family’s books were housed in the communal kitchen-slash-living space, Dulcie had rarely been without one, and some of her fondest memories were of long afternoons spent reading on a mossy hillock, the small, constant noises of woodland creatures going about their lives all around her. She loved the woods, all right, but as a place to get away from it all – and read.

  Just then another student scurried by, nodding briefly on his silent way up toward seventeenth-century criticism. Well, maybe this particular little ecosystem wasn’t that different, she realized, as she made her own way to Professor Bullock’s office. Despite a hand-lettered card posting office hours that included, yes, Tuesdays, the door was locked, its pebbled glass window dark. Of course, Dulcie could have kicked herself. She’d meant to call him before coming in. But since she was here . . . Five more minutes through the subterranean haven and she was turning into her favorite aisle.

  ‘Hello, old friends!’ Speaking softly to the rows of gold-embossed spines, Dulcie felt her shoulders relax and her breathing grow more regular. ‘And how are you today?’ Leaning forward, she inhaled the scent of old leather. The library’s climate control kept decay at a minimum, and any volumes showing signs of the dreaded red rot, which turned leather to dust, were quickly whisked off to the conservators. Still, something of age lingered here, as sound and true as those long-ago stately redwoods.

  Or were they? Dulcie found herself reaching for a familiar volume when she stopped, hand barely resting on the dark blue spine. The book she’d been about to remove was only about a century old, a compendium of critical essays about the novels of the century before. The books Dulcie had at home were all modern reprints. In the past few months, Dulcie had been able to read one of the few remaining copies of The Ravages of Umbria. Harvard, of course, had managed to beg, borrow, or steal both segments and now had them secreted away in one of the locked areas where only authorized scholars could go. But by the time Dulcie had gotten in to see those pages, their eighteenth-century lettering rendering the words nearly incomprehensible to a modern reader, she’d already been a believer, a convert to the cause.

  Maybe it was because of her own past, but the idea of a verifiable history – a provenence – had a special allure for Dulcie. In so many ways, Lucy had tried to re-create a history for herself and her daughter, particularly once Dulcie’s father had left their Oregon community for an Indian ashram. Desperate for some kind of roots, Lucy had cobbled together a mishmosh of mythology and traditions, abandoning her Philadelphia mainline origins to pick and choose among Native American religions. Dulcie understood her mother’s impulse – Trickster’s rituals were a lot more appealing than debutante balls, and her mother really did practice an ecofriendly lifestyle. But the patchwork of beliefs, none of which really fit a fair-skinned and freckled brunette, had left Dulcie feeling somewhat disconnected. Fate was the trickster in her life; by choice, she’d have opted for a straight narrative.

  Still, thinking of her mother made Dulcie smile. Lucy tried so hard. And at times her visions reflected a sounder basic intuition than Lucy herself would ever credit. She’d liked Suze right away, and she’d never questioned Dulcie’s attachment to Mr Grey – not even when that attachment grew to include the grey cat’s ghost. Which led Dulcie to wonder: what if Lucy’s dream about her book had some validity?

  No, she shook the thought loose and pulled the book from its shelf. Only this time, instead of flipping directly to the one essay she’d been working on – ‘Italian Meters Transposed into Late 18th Century English Popular Fiction’ – Dulcie turned to the front matter. The volume she held had been published first in 1893, by a house in London that was now long gone. The essay she had been meaning to look up was a few years older, and had originally run in a scholarly journal based in Edinburgh, a university town that made Cambridge, Massachusetts, look like a young upstart. This had to be credible, didn’t it?

  It was no use. All Dulcie could see were the gaps in the book’s history. A publisher who no longer existed. A scholarly article written by a source long dead, and based in another city, to boot. Centuries of discussion of the minutiae of a work, by academics who had inherited the idea of the work’s authenticity along with their musty books and black robes.

  But there was a way out. When Dulcie had expressed her interest in the unknown author of The Ravages, it hadn’t been because she doubted that such an author existed. Instead, she’d been curious about the mind behind such a lively adventure. So many of the Gothic novels had been predictable. An embattled heroine. An evil prince or monk or a scheming relative. A ghost or two . . . Just like today’s popular fiction, the novels that got passed from hand to hand in the late 1700s had a standard repertoire of thrills and chills, usually leading to a happy ending. But what had grabbed Dulcie about The Ravages was the key relationship in the book and how it was revealed. If, as her thesis was arguing, the real nature of the noble Hermetria and her backstabbing buddy Demetria was hinted at throughout in the way the two spoke, then the author had been both smart and more savvy than many of her peers. Dulcie wanted to know that author and, in return, give her a name. But if Lucy’s dream had any basis in fact, that search took on a greater import. People faked books all the time. Pastiches could be simple homages to older styles. They could be reworkings, postmodern takes on classic themes. Or they could be scholarly fraud. Dulcie swallowed, hard. If The Ravages wasn’t as old as everyone believed – wasn’t in fact a real Gothic novel – it wouldn’t matter why it had been created. That fact alone would discredit it as a serious object of study. Would mean the loss of everything Dulcie had done thus far. Three years of reading and research, three months already of focused note taking . . .

  Unless, a nasty thought rose up like a spark, there was a hoax of some sort – and Dulcie uncovered it and made her literary reputation by revealing the awful truth. She’d be a heroine in a way, the defender of the canon . . . No, she stamped the thought down. The Ravages was so good, so real. Was it too real? Too perfect? The thought flared up again, and Dulcie saw herself delivering the death blow via her groundbreaking thesis. Dulcie the Debunker. It would be difficult for a graduate student to have that kind of impact. It might take years more work. But could it be done? No, she shook her head sadly. Maybe it could, but not by her. She wasn’t Bullock. She wasn’t anybody. And besides, Dulcie adored The Ravages. To destroy its reputation would be too painful.

  And besides, what about Mr Grey? As silly as it seemed, Dulcie found the thought of her late cat comforting. He’d been an ordinary cat in his lifetime. He didn’t speak; he certainly didn’t study. At most, he encou
raged her first tentative explorations of what would become her area of concentration by curling up at her feet as she read. But since his death last spring, his spirit had made itself known to her in a variety of ways, always coming through when she faced some kind of crisis. A soft voice, firm and assured. The tickle of whiskers against her face. The brush of a tail, as she’d felt only the day before. Suze might not believe, but Dulcie did. And if she’d been chasing a specter, Mr Grey would have let her know, wouldn’t he? Unless, of course, that had been why he had made himself known to her yesterday, as she sat in her thesis adviser’s home. After all, Cameron had probably already met his fate by then, and so the feline ghost hadn’t needed to warn his one-time human of any danger.

  Or had he? Suddenly, Cameron’s still, pale face flashed before her eyes again, the stacks before her growing faint. He had been killed, possibly by someone he knew. Who she might know. Who might still be around . . .

  It was all too much. Dulcie’s concentration was shot and not even the cool, quiet of Widener was going to help. She needed to get her bag back, to at least follow up on the idea of identifying the author of The Ravages. On top of everything, she realized she was hungry. That coffee with Chris had been over an hour ago, and at the time she’d been too preoccupied to do more than pick at the muffin on her plate. She needed to get some food, some fresh air, and maybe a fresh perspective.

  EIGHT

  The bright afternoon and a falafel onion wrap had Dulcie feeling like herself again, and as soon as she had licked her fingers clean she’d pulled out her cell phone and punched in the number of the Bullock residence. But instead of hearing Polly’s breathless voice, the great man himself answered.

  ‘Dulcie, of course!’ He’d sounded almost warm as she’d explained her lapse with her bag and asked if she could come by. ‘I’ll be in for the rest of the afternoon. Lovely to see you.’

  Grief affects people in strange ways, she thought. Had the professor been close to the handsome young student? Maybe simply the shock of being involved in a murder had opened him up. With vague thoughts of a more receptive thesis adviser, Dulcie happily trotted the half mile up Brattle to her professor’s house. The sun was bright, a few red and gold leaves still colored the sidewalk, matching the brick of the Tory Row houses. The air was chilly rather than cold. Bracing and—

  And then she saw it. The dark green holly that so recently had concealed Cameron’s body. The day dimmed, and Dulcie found herself leaning against a bare elm. Unbidden and unwanted, the image of Cameron’s face came back to her. He had been so pale. Bloodless. But there had been something – blood? dirt? – on the side of his face.

  Dulcie gulped in air, slumping against the tree. What hadn’t she noticed yesterday? How had the young scholar even died? With that thought, she began to feel a little better. Curiosity had always been her strongest trait. Maybe that’s why she bonded so well with cats. And with that thought, Dulcie pulled herself to her feet and walked the last half block up to Professor Bullock’s house.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ The white-haired professor opened the door himself, ushering Dulcie back into his office. For a moment, as her eyes adjusted to the dim and smoky light, she wondered if perhaps he’d forgotten her phone call. Maybe today she’d have the thesis meeting she’d hoped for yesterday. ‘Here are your things.’

  Dulcie’s bag lay on her chair. The copy of her thesis chapter, printed out for the professor to read, lay on top. As did a fat leatherbound book. She bent to read the title – something on the later metaphysical poets.

  ‘Please, please.’ He motioned for her to pick up the heavy volume. She did so and looked at him, waiting. This wasn’t her area of interest. Wasn’t even her period.

  ‘Did you want me to read something in this, Professor?’ The book weighed several pounds. But the antique binding – tooled leather gilded with gold leaf – had seen better days. Knowing how the professor felt about his books, she’d be reluctant to take it home.

  ‘What? Oh, not necessary.’ He had already moved on, and was thumbing through a file he’d picked up from the windowsill. Dulcie stood waiting, more than a little confused, watching as the ivy outside tossed in the wind, casting decorative shadows from its ironwork grill. The professor kept reading, and she wondered if he’d forgotten her. After a moment’s silence, she bent to place the book ever so carefully back on the chair.

  ‘Oh, no. That should go immediately.’ She had his attention now.

  ‘Professor?’

  ‘Look at that binding. The corner, badly damaged.’ He waved toward the book and Dulcie turned it over, holding it closer to the lamp on Bullock’s cluttered desk. ‘That’s got to go to Gosham’s right away.’

  Understanding flooded over Dulcie. Gosham’s was a bookbinder and book repair specialist in the Square, and Dulcie was being given an errand.

  ‘Is Polly not around?’

  ‘Called in sick. Vapors, or something.’ The professor made another vague gesture, waving away all kinds of feminine sensitivities. ‘Left me totally in the lurch.’ With that he turned away, leaving Dulcie to place the book – very carefully – in her bag. Poor Polly. Yesterday’s events must have been too much for her. Unless, Dulcie thought as she let herself out, Polly was smarter than she’d given her credit for, ducking out just when Dulcie was likely to be around. As she picked her way carefully down the steps, keeping her eyes up and away from the holly, Dulcie wondered. Was she being groomed to be Polly’s successor?

  Despite that unpleasant thought, Dulcie didn’t much mind the errand. Gosham’s was legendary. Roger Gosham, who had supposedly trained in Germany and Eastern Europe, was the department’s unofficial go-to guy. Although faculty had access to the college conservator, those who could afford it took their private treasures to Gosham’s, and Dulcie had never been.

  Ten minutes later, Dulcie was less enthusiastic. The book was heavy, and Gosham’s – on the far side of the Square – was a third-floor walk-up. Climbing stairs curved with wear, Dulcie tried to recapture the adventure of the errand. Gosham’s was a throwback, a remnant of the era when Harvard Square hadn’t been dominated by pricey boutiques and chain sportswear shops. Even this stairway, she thought, wouldn’t have survived in one of the newer rehabs. Hermetria, exploring the castle keep, might have made her way up just such an aged stairwell. She might have been grateful for such a smooth brass railing, particularly where the black treads had worn away. Wasn’t there a passage in which one of the ghosts exhorted the heroine to draw on her inner strength? Could she have been climbing a stairwell at the time?

  It was a hard sell, and Dulcie was left with a new respect for Polly by the time she’d reached the top landing. No wonder the other woman always looked tired! Catching her breath, she looked around. One door was blank, a faint shadow where a name had been removed. The other wooden door still had its original label: ‘Gosham’s Rare Books’ in gold leaf, outlined in black. Dulcie reached to trace the old-fashioned lettering, still clear and proud, and then knocked softly beneath it. When no answer was forthcoming, she pushed gently. The door opened, and once again, she was in a magical land.

  Gosham’s wasn’t large. Dulcie stepped into a front room that couldn’t have been bigger than twelve by fifteen. But it was beautiful, a gem of a workroom set up high in this nondescript Harvard Square building. The late afternoon sun streamed in the big front windows to light up a wooden contraption as big as a desk. A large corkscrew on top, leading down to a flattened block, suggested an ancient torture device, but Dulcie knew she was looking at a letter press, a basic technology that had remained unchanged for centuries. Behind it, by the window, a large work table was laid out with tools that Gutenberg would have recognized: a variety of awls and scalpels, their worn wood handles in sharp contrast to their polished metal blades. A smaller press and something that looked like a guillotine sat on a second table, which topped a chest of drawers. Drawn by the beauty of the ageless equipment, Dulcie stepped forward into the room and bent to read a l
abel on one of the drawers.

  ‘May I help you?’ The voice was gruff, and Dulcie jumped. An older man stood in the doorway to her left. He was wiping his hands on the apron he wore and looking at Dulcie with a rather stern expression.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry! The front door was open.’ She motioned to the door behind her. Of course, it had been unlocked because someone had been working. The man crossed his arms and waited. ‘I’m Dulcie Schwartz. I’m one of Professor Bullock’s students?’ She heard the rise in her own voice and kicked herself. Just because she’d been startled was no reason to feel cowed. ‘He asked me to bring a book to you.’

  The man nodded, but continued to stare. ‘You’re new.’

  ‘No, I’m one of his doctoral students. Polly, his regular assistant, wasn’t available.’ The man kept staring at her, which gave her the opportunity to study him right back. Fortyish, probably, with grey amply sprinkled in his too-long wavy hair. He had the kind of wide-set eyes and large mouth that were probably once considered handsome. At this point, Dulcie found his unbroken gaze disturbing. It was time to turn the tables.

  ‘And you are?’ She leaned forward slightly, prompting him to answer. Suddenly the craggy face broke into a big grin revealing large, yellow teeth.

  ‘Gosham. Roger Gosham.’ He held out a hand and Dulcie took it. Whatever he’d been wiping off had left it dry and warm, with calluses that reminded Dulcie of Mr Grey’s paw pads. ‘Welcome to my lair.’

  That was it, Dulcie realized. Between the hair, the teeth, and the generally lupine attitude, the older man resembled nothing so much as a werewolf. He led her into the back room, around a stack of large boxes. Behind them, rows of leatherbound books in various states of assembly covered another long wooden table top. In one of her books, Roger Gosham would be some kind of enchanted knight, forced to live apart because of some lycanthropic curse. But before she could follow the fancy any further, she realized she had a role to play. The bookbinder was standing by the table, waiting, and so – feeling more than a little like Little Red Riding Hood – Dulcie reached into her bag and carefully, with both hands, removed Professor Bullock’s damaged book. One corner was definitely crumpled, she saw as she handed it over. The top of the spine folded on itself in a way that couldn’t be doing the ancient leather any good.