Grey Matters

by Clea Simon

  ‘Speaking of, I think I’ll head over there. Beard the lion in his den.’ She pulled the heavy book bag back on to her shoulder. ‘Want me to tell him anything? That you’ve discovered Sir Walter Raleigh’s diary or something?’

  Lloyd smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ll figure it out, Dulcie. Actually, I’m hoping that if I don’t mention it, he forgets about it. I don’t think he even remembers where he got it, if it exists at all. Maybe it was all a dream. He’s been getting a little, well, less reality-based as time goes on, if you get my drift.’

  ‘As if he ever was, Lloyd.’ Dulcie smiled and headed for the door. She hadn’t even taken off her coat.

  EIGHTEEN

  She heard the professor before she saw him. Halfway up that short walkway, eyes focused on the front door, Dulcie heard what could only be described as a roar. For a moment, she hesitated. What if the killer had returned and was now wrestling with the aged academic? What if her mentor had gone into a wild, murderous rage? Would she be finding Polly’s body next, lying arms akimbo among the fallen books?

  Shaking that all-too-believable image from her head and taking a deep breath for courage, Dulcie climbed the stone stoop and rang the doorbell. Inside the heavy oak door, chimes – and more roars – rang out.

  ‘Hi, Dulcie.’ Polly answered, looking no more flustered than usual. ‘I’m, um, I’m not sure the professor is receiving visitors.’

  She stood in the doorway as another roar made the wan assistant wince. Dulcie wondered once again about her mentor’s temper. He wouldn’t actually hit Polly, would he?

  ‘Where the hell is it?’ The roar had words now, either because Polly was holding the door to the solid brick house open or because Professor Bullock had gathered his thoughts. ‘The bloody thing was on my desk not two hours ago!’

  Dulcie tried to look over Polly’s shoulder. There was no sense in pretending she hadn’t heard the outburst. But the assistant stood her ground. ‘Has the professor lost something?’ Dulcie asked.

  Polly paused, perhaps questioning where her allegiance lay. Looking down, she began picking at a loose thread that held a mismatched button on to her sweater. Maybe she has only just realized it doesn’t match, Dulcie thought. She doesn’t have to be embarrassed about her clothes in front of me. For a moment, Dulcie wondered about reaching out to her, about sharing her own stories of coming East with little more than homemade sweaters and the Riverside Shakespeare. But another roar from the back room interrupted her – and pushed Polly into a decision. She nodded, as if answering her own question, her colorless lips tight. ‘A letter opener. His letter opener,’ she corrected herself.

  ‘Was it valuable?’

  Polly shrugged thin shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. It was part of a set. A gift from when he spoke at McGill. The North American Academic conference, ’83, I think?’

  Dulcie nodded, not surprised that the conscientious assistant knew the origin of every item in the professor’s office. ‘Do you think I can get in to see him?’

  Polly wrung her hands and dared a glance back over her shoulder. ‘Do you, well, do you think maybe you could come back?’

  Dulcie hesitated. While not as afraid of the professor’s wrath as Polly evidently was, she wasn’t keen on aggravating the professor further. For a moment, they both stood there, Polly clearly wishing she could close the door.

  ‘Look, Polly,’ Dulcie finally resolved. ‘Why don’t you let me in? We’ll sit for a few minutes. If he calms down, great.’

  Polly wasn’t convinced. ‘You didn’t have an appointment.’

  Dulcie gave her a look that made the older woman twist her hands again.

  ‘Oh, come in,’ she finally decided. ‘You’re letting all the heat out anyway.’

  ‘Thanks, Polly.’ Dulcie gave the pale woman a big smile as she followed her in. For a moment, they both stood in the entrance to the sitting room. Dulcie hesitated because of the memories. Polly looked in at the antique furniture and arrived at her own decision.

  ‘Let’s go back to the kitchen.’ She started off down the hallway. ‘So much warmer, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sure.’ Dulcie started to follow when a thought came to her. ‘Hey, Polly, you know, you might be able to help me.’ Whatever she had become, Polly Heinhold had once been a scholar, too. ‘I’m trying to figure out a question of authenticity.’

  ‘Oh?’ For a moment, something flickered in the older woman’s eyes and Dulcie regretted not asking her earlier. ‘Are you working on a disputed text?’

  Dulcie hedged. She didn’t want the subject of her thesis to be disputed. It wasn’t, really, except in her own mind. ‘It’s complicated. You see, it has to do with my thesis.’

  ‘Tell me about it!’ Polly surprised her by letting out a laugh. ‘Theses! Oh, man, I could write a book!’

  This was a new side to Polly, and Dulcie looked up in wonder. Was this what the older woman had been like at Dulcie’s age? Before starting to work for Professor Bullock? Was the professor some kind of psychic vampire, sucking the life out of his assistants? Would Lloyd be his next victim? Would she?

  Before Dulcie could even begin to frame any of these questions, her cell rang. Lindsay, from her junior tutorial. These students ignored office hours but they expected Dulcie to be on call 24-7. She let the call go through to voicemail, but the moment with Polly was lost as the doorbell rang again. From inside the house, the chimes sounded deep and loud and Dulcie wondered how the professor could ignore them. He must just be used to Polly answering the door, she realized as the older woman did indeed trot back down the hall. There, standing on the stoop, was Roger Gosham.

  ‘Great!’ Dulcie started back down the hall in Polly’s footsteps. Now she wouldn’t need the introduction. But within five steps, it became clear that there was something going on between the two at the door.

  ‘Rog – Mr Gosham!’ Polly nearly stuttered, and for a split second Dulcie thought again of Lloyd. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You should know . . .’ He saw Dulcie and his tone lightened. ‘I believe in service to my best customers!’

  ‘But, but, we have no books for you today, Mr Gosham.’ Polly was wringing her hands again. Dulcie looked on. Was she witnessing the tail end of a romantic spat? Or was something darker going on? Perhaps some kind of competition, vying for Professor Bullock’s favor?

  ‘I’ve brought one, Polly.’ The gnarled bookbinder held out a package wrapped in brown paper. As Polly unwrapped it, Dulcie was sure she was holding her breath.

  ‘Oh!’ She sounded startled and Dulcie, looking over, recognized the title.

  ‘That was fast!’ With a cheeriness she didn’t feel, Dulcie dived in, eager to defuse the situation. ‘I brought that over on Tuesday, Polly. You were out, and the professor asked me to take it. I’m sorry.’

  They both turned to stare at her.

  ‘I mean, I didn’t mean to get in anybody’s way.’ Now she was the one stammering.

  ‘Oh, you didn’t!’

  ‘Not at all, so glad to help.’ Polly and Roger Gosham fell over each other trying to reassure her.

  ‘But while I’m here,’ Gosham smiled, ‘I was wondering if I could pick something up.’ His large, yellow teeth were positively wolf-like, but maybe some women liked that. The comment had not been directed toward her.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Polly blushed and turned away. Dulcie felt like a third wheel. As unobtrusively as possible, she started to edge away from the couple. She could wait in the kitchen.

  ‘Now, don’t play coy with me.’ Behind her, Dulcie heard a slight scuffle and, possibly, a slap.

  ‘Go away.’ Polly was whispering. ‘The professor could come out at any moment.’

  ‘Okay.’ Gosham didn’t sound pleased. ‘But I’ll be back.’

  At the sound of the door opening, Dulcie figured it was safe to look up. But although Gosham was indeed standing in the open doorway, the first thing she noticed was Professor Bullock, stand
ing in the entrance to his office, his white hair disheveled and his eyes wild.

  NINETEEN

  ‘Professor!’ Whatever had been going on with Roger Gosham, Polly’s attention had turned entirely to her employer.

  ‘Polly.’ Bullock nodded and absently ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it back into some semblance of normalcy. ‘Gosham. Glad you’re here.’

  The bookbinder stepped toward the professor, but turned one last time to Polly. Dulcie didn’t know if he was readying a kind or cutting remark, considering what she’d just heard. But she did see her moment of opportunity.

  ‘Professor, Mr Gosham, if you have a moment?’

  The professor looked at her and blinked.

  ‘No, I don’t have an appointment, Professor.’ Dulcie scrambled for an explanation. ‘But something’s come up.’ Both men were looking at her now, and Dulcie had the distinct impression that Polly was relieved. She, however, had to figure out what to say. ‘It’s about a book.’

  ‘Yes?’ It was the professor who had spoken, but Gosham was staring at her.

  ‘I’m having a problem I’m wondering if maybe one of you can help me with.’ Dulcie paused, trying to figure out the best way to phrase her question without revealing all of her doubts. ‘It’s a question of authenticity.’

  ‘Authenticity!’ The professor’s eyes lit up and he repeated the word as if it were exactly what he’d been meaning to say. ‘How fascinating! Do come in, Dulcie.’

  Right behind her, Roger Gosham started to speak, but Professor Bullock waved him away. ‘We’ll talk another time, Roger. Grateful that you came down here. Polly?’ The professor barely turned to acknowledge his faithful assistant. ‘Give Gosham the Reynolds, will you?’

  Dulcie looked back at Polly and at Gosham, who shrugged. The Reynolds was the volume that the bookbinder had just returned. With an answering shrug of her own, Dulcie turned and followed the professor into his office.

  ‘Have a seat, have a seat.’ The professor was being unusually courtly, but as Dulcie looked around she realized she’d have a difficult time obliging. Along with the usual scholarly clutter – the piles of books and journals, dog-eared printouts and scribbled notes – the large dim room was witness to a rampage. The professor’s search for his missing desk set seemed to have had him turning over furniture as well as upsetting some of the older, and taller, piles of books. Dulcie righted a lamp as she made her way over to the usual guest chair. An opened magazine lay face down and she closed it, placing it on the floor beside her as she took a seat.

  ‘Sir? Did you find it?’

  ‘Find what?’

  Dulcie blinked. Surely, he must have realized his cries of dismay were audible. ‘Your letter opener?’ He stared at her, his face blank. Maybe Polly had it wrong. On Tuesday, he’d been complaining about a missing pen. ‘Or was it a pen? A missing pen?’

  ‘What? My pen?’ Bullock reached among the papers on his desk. ‘It’s right here.’ He reached for something on the desk, dismissing her concern with a small wave. ‘So, are we talking authenticity in terms of actual authorship or in terms of an intrusive editor? A suspect edition, perhaps?’

  Dulcie looked. The pen in the professor’s hand was a common ballpoint. Something odd was going on, and suddenly she didn’t want to share her fears. Still, he was looking at her, his blue eyes piercing.

  ‘Well, I was wondering about authenticating a lesser known work, actually.’ She was hedging and he knew it. His bushy eyebrows rose. ‘I mean, we accept so much at this point and we don’t really question the veracity of books once they’ve entered the canon, do we?’ She was waiting for him to slap her down. After all, earlier this week, he’d nearly laughed her out of the office for her curiosity about an author.

  Much to her surprise, he seemed to be considering her question. ‘Interesting,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Do you have a particular work in mind?’

  ‘Well, of course I’m thinking at least a little about The Ravages.’ Saying that much wasn’t giving her suspicions away. He had to know that any questions would touch on her thesis. ‘After all, there are several versions of the surviving manuscript – of the surviving fragments, I mean. How do we know which version to trust?’

  She was stalling. In truth, one of the best known studies of The Ravages, out of Berkeley, had already dissected the slight variations about five years before. It had attributed the minor changes to either subsequent editions or unauthorized reprints, much as Shakespeare’s works continued to change over the centuries, with editors modernizing spellings and adding stage directions. But how could she say that she was beginning to doubt that The Ravages of Umbria was even written in the late 1700s? That it might in fact be a hoax? Some later scholar’s idea of a joke? She might as well question her entire discipline. ‘What if a book isn’t what it seems? I mean, faked texts are being exposed all the time.’ There, she’d said it.

  ‘You’re thinking like a scholar, Dulcie.’ The professor chuckled slightly, startling Dulcie, who thought she was doing anything but. ‘In fact, I may have an interesting case. A previously undiscovered work.’ He got up and started looking through his bookshelf.

  ‘I was thinking more of falsified texts,’ Dulcie said. But the professor was on a roll. Browsing through the shelves, he pulled one book and replaced it, then another. ‘Professor?’

  With a shake of his head, he turned around. ‘Nevermind. This is off the point for you, Miss Schwartz. I think you have your hands full with The Ravages.’

  ‘But I was talking about The Ravages—’

  Bullock interrupted her. ‘Now, now, let’s not go off on tangents. We’ll meet when you have your next chapter ready. Ask Polly to schedule something.’ She was being dismissed.

  ‘Okay.’ She stood up. ‘Thanks, Professor.’ But Bullock remained deep in thought. Only as she let herself out did she see him start rustling through the papers on his desktop again. She could have sworn she heard him say something about a pen.

  ‘Polly?’ The assistant was taking an uncharacteristic break, sitting on the front room’s settee, her head in her hands. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She jumped up and grabbed Dulcie’s coat off the overburdened coat tree before Dulcie could reach it herself. ‘Lost in thought.’ She forced a smile as she stood there, smoothing down her skirt with nervous hands.

  Dulcie wondered again about the assistant’s involvement with Roger Gosham. Clearly, something was amiss. Dulcie could relate: it seemed like she and Chris barely saw each other these days. But that was end-of-the-semester craziness. Polly seemed to be insecure enough to blame herself.

  ‘He’s lucky, you know.’ Dulcie leaned toward the older woman, feeling a surge of sisterhood. ‘You’re quite a catch.’

  Polly gasped and jerked back, her eyes glazed with horror.

  ‘Polly? What is it?’ Dulcie reached for Polly, her hands barely making contact with the other woman’s bony arms before she pulled free and ran into the kitchen.

  ‘Polly?’

  Behind the door, she heard the other woman sobbing.

  TWENTY

  ‘Polly?’ Dulcie leaned against the kitchen door, speaking as softly as she thought would still be audible. ‘Whatever I said, I’m sorry.’ There was no response. ‘Would you like to talk?’

  The door stayed closed and after a few more tries, Dulcie stepped back. That brief moment when Polly had started to talk about research had made her feel like they had a bond. Sisters in academia. But clearly Dulcie had overstepped. Not all relationships were like hers and Chris’s. To be honest, she wasn’t even sure what theirs was like anymore. It was time to leave.

  But as Dulcie started buttoning her coat, she looked around. Even with the professor locked in his office and the assistant in the kitchen, Dulcie had a strange sense of being not quite alone, as if some other presence remained – and was trying to reach out to her. After the earlier hubbub, the old brick townhouse was quiet. No street noise made it up here a
nd the high walls, lined with books, acted as additional insulation. So what was that feeling? She was beginning to get ever so slightly creeped out when she remembered that missed phone call. Of course, conscience was a funny thing. And nobody would mind if she checked her messages, would they? Sure enough, Lindsay’s call had been far from urgent. Something about wanting a recommendation for a program next summer. Mystery solved, Dulcie turned the phone off. She’d deal with it in the tutorial, maybe try to teach these kids about boundaries.

  But as she tucked the cell back in her pocket, she found herself looking around. Something was drawing her, she could feel it. All those books – they were like so much catnip to a scholar. Floor to ceiling built-ins, with additional volumes and strange curios taking up any extra space, they gave the old house the feeling of a treasure room, a scholar’s den. Knowing she shouldn’t, and that she certainly didn’t want to be caught, Dulcie walked softly, almost tiptoeing, back down the hall and into the sitting room. Behind the settee, tall windows let in the last of the afternoon sun. Half-opened lace curtains kept the light off the books that flanked the far wall, and it was to those shadows that Dulcie gravitated. Humphrey Clinker, a biography of Aphra Behn, short works by Smollett: all earlier than Dulcie’s beloved Gothics, but still her century. Essays on Fielding and, yes, finally, a collection of critical pieces on Gothic great Ann Radcliffe. Had she read that one?

  Reaching for the volume, Dulcie had to squeeze a bit. An oversized leather armchair was pressed close to the shelves, leaving a space only big enough for someone Polly’s size to slip through. The coat added a few inches, of course, but Dulcie made a mental note to start doing sit-ups again, as she pushed in. The book was just slightly out of reach.

  A clattering of metal made her jump back, scraping the big chair on the hardwood floor.

  ‘Damn! Sorry!’ Dulcie reacted automatically, looking down to where the chair’s thick legs had left a scuff on the polished wood. ‘Oh, hell.’ Spitting on her finger, she bent to rub at the spot, hoping to erase the evidence before anyone came to investigate. Nobody did and after a few seconds she gave up. The floor wasn’t in pristine shape anyway. But as she was pulling herself up – the coat was heavy as well as bulky – a glimmer caught her eye. A miniature sword, no more than ten inches long, lay half under the chair. That must have been what she’d brushed against, the noise that had made her jump.