Grey Matters

by Clea Simon

  Dulcie reached for the little sword, wondering where to replace it. It seemed an odd curio, more fitting for a professor of the Romantic nineteenth century than Bullock. In her hand, it felt strangely heavy, its curiously worked handle held some kind of inset stone, dark in the shadow of the chair. In The Ravages of Umbria, Hermetria saw a sword, but it was a phantasm, a vision sent by the ghost of the old family retainer. This little weapon, Dulcie ran her finger along one edge, was quite solid. And surprisingly sharp.

  Of course! The realization hit her like a flash of sunlight reflected off the blade’s surface. She’d found Professor Bullock’s missing letter opener.

  ‘A letter opener,’ Dulcie corrected herself, unaware that she’d spoken out loud. For all she knew, Bullock had one for each room. Still, this little doodad had the look of a cherished piece: the molded curlicues in the hilt picking up the shapes outlined on the pommel. This could very well be the one the professor had misplaced, and Dulcie stood to leave. If she dared to knock on the professor’s office door, she might win herself some credit with the tenured grouch.

  Or, she realized, she might simply annoy him. The combination of the sword-shaped opener and the closed door combined and Dulcie saw herself in armor, bracing to take on a dragon in its den. ‘Wrong period,’ she joked, to give herself courage.

  But as she started toward the hallway, a strange sound stopped her. It wasn’t loud, but Dulcie had grown so used to the silence that the sound – a light tap – was quite distinct.

  ‘Polly?’ Dulcie heard her voice crack. Stepping into the hall, she saw that the kitchen door was still closed. So was the professor’s office. And somewhere, down below her, she heard what was most definitely a footstep.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ She was speaking out loud to give herself courage, but even as she said it, she realized she was gripping the little sword. Most likely, Polly had recovered her composure and was now down in the basement, doing the professor’s laundry or darning his socks or something. Or maybe the professor himself had emerged and gone off to seek some old draft of an article, kept in a storage area below.

  ‘Professor?’ It had to be Polly. There was no way the professor could have gotten past her so quietly. Maybe there was a service stairwell, leading directly down from the kitchen. Dulcie peered down the hallway. ‘Polly?’

  Just then, she heard a sniff. The unmistakable sniff of someone who has been crying and wants it to be noticed. The sound of Polly, coming from inside the kitchen. Dulcie looked down at the tiny sword in her hand. Despite its weight, it was a curio. A letter opener.

  ‘Run, Dulcie! Get out of there!’ Even before she heard Mr Grey’s voice, she knew that something was wrong, very wrong. Dropping the pretty toy, Dulcie spun around toward the front of the house, threw the heavy door open, and ran out to the street.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Wow, I guess you put your foot in it.’ Suze’s voice on the phone was only partly comforting. Dulcie had jumped when her cell had rung as she walked back through Cambridge Common in the fading light. But hearing her roommate – and talking about dinner plans – had started to bring her back to reality.

  What had happened at Professor Bullock’s house had not made any sense. But as she gave the facts to Suze, at least it seemed a lot less scary than it had only minutes before.

  ‘You mean, with Polly?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, who knows what’s going on with her. She sounds a bit ghoulish.’ Suze chuckled. ‘Hey, maybe the professor really is some kind of vampire! Maybe you heard Lloyd, chained up in the basement.’

  ‘Very funny.’ The fright had worn off, leaving Dulcie edgy and a little sick. Just then, she got the double beep of an incoming call. She checked: Raleigh Hall. With only the smallest ping of guilt, she ignored the student and flipped back to Suze.

  ‘As long as you’re working on your thesis, I think you’ll be safe.’ Suze had obviously kept on talking. ‘But actually, I was thinking about that letter opener.’

  ‘Why? What do you mean?’ Maybe Dulcie had missed something.

  ‘The professor’s?’

  ‘No, I know.’ Dulcie pictured the miniature sword. She’d meant to put it back on a shelf, but she couldn’t remember if she had – or if in her rush, she’d just thrown it back to the floor. Well, if it was in the middle of the room, the professor or Polly would find it. ‘But what about it?’

  ‘Think about it, Dulcie.’ Suze had listened with interest as Dulcie had described the pretty piece with its fanciful design. ‘Cameron was stabbed, right? Maybe you just found the murder weapon.’

  Dulcie caught her breath, as Suze continued with the kind of good, practical advice she could be counted on for. Dulcie should call the police. She should tell them about the letter opener, about the suspicious behavior. Since she’d already touched the thing, she should consider retrieving it. But as Suze went on with her sensible list, Dulcie started remembering everything else that had happened since she and her roommate had had a real heart-to-heart. She hadn’t gone into detail about her talk with the police, for example, which meant that Suze didn’t know that the police were already considering Professor Bullock – her thesis adviser – as a suspect. Dulcie had no urge to protect a killer, but she couldn’t just blindly do anything that would sink him further. Besides, what Suze was saying about the letter opener didn’t make sense.

  ‘But, why?’ Before her roommate could start listing motives, Dulcie finished her thought. ‘I mean, why would someone have left it there after, well, you know?’ She paused. There was something else she hadn’t mentioned: Mr Grey had led her to that letter opener. And Professor Bullock had said it had been lost. Maybe he’d wanted it lost. ‘You think, maybe, that it wasn’t really lost? But that I was supposed to find it?’

  Eager to explain herself, Dulcie gave Suze the rest of the story, about the strange lure of the library and that voice, that last warning to flee, that had sent her stumbling down the stairs, running until she reached the open space of the Common, where Suze’s call had found her.

  The silence on the line lasted so long that Dulcie checked to make sure they were still connected.

  ‘Suze,’ Dulcie said finally, kicking at a small pinecone. ‘You think I’m losing it, don’t you?’

  ‘I think you’re under a lot of stress,’ said Suze, the perpetual diplomat. ‘But, you know? I also think there may be something to this. Like, maybe, Mr Grey is coming to you for a reason. Not to point out clues, but maybe . . .’ Here she paused, and Dulcie waited, wondering just what her hyper-rational roommate would say. ‘Maybe Mr Grey is appearing to you,’ Suze started talking again, ‘because you’re in danger.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  The promise of eggplant lasagna went a long way toward mollifying Dulcie after that bombshell. Dulcie hadn’t been quite sure that her roommate believed in the feline ghost, and to hear that she had – and that she took the warning seriously – shook Dulcie to the core. Luckily, although Suze had neither a huge range of recipes nor enough time to cook on a regular basis, occasionally both urge and opportunity coincided.

  ‘You need some good home cooking. Well, some home cooking at least,’ Suze had said. ‘And I need to do something brainless and immediately gratifying.’ Suze had gone on to explain about an ongoing study group report on the implications of some Supreme Court ruling or other. ‘Call Chris, too. I’ll be making enough to freeze, but you know it’s better fresh.’

  She had called while the sauce was simmering, and while they talked had begun layering the pliant pasta into the large, square bake pan the roommates had found at a yard sale only a month before. Just the sound of Suze’s prep work did a good job of calming Dulcie after the fright of the afternoon, and she promised to be home in time to enjoy the final masterpiece while it was still hot.

  ‘Want me to pick up anything?’ The idea of a real meal with friendly faces had buoyed Dulcie considerably. ‘Some more of that Algerian red?’

  Suze made a gagging noise. ‘Just b
ring Chris. I’ll tell Ariano to pick up some wine.’

  As they signed off, Dulcie had to fight the slight sinking feeling she’d had at the mention of Suze’s beau. Ariano was a perfectly nice guy. He and Suze had met during her summer internship in Washington, and he’d followed her up north, trading in a Georgetown University job for one at Harvard, handling information technology for the university libraries. Which meant that he could help out when the roommates ran into computer problems. Plus, as one of the few gainfully employed men in their circle, Ariano was the source of much superior vino.

  ‘May the days of Algerian plonk be over!’ Dulcie called out to the yard in an attempt to rally her feelings that only succeeded in scaring a squirrel. It was just that after the last few days, Dulcie would have liked to have Suze to herself. Especially, she admitted to herself, because she knew Chris wouldn’t make it.

  ‘Hey, Chris?’ Her call had gone straight to voicemail, and although she left the relevant details – lasagna, decent wine, love and affection – she felt her good mood draining even further away. ‘If you really can’t get away, let me know?’ Talking to voicemail was like pouring that wine down the drain. ‘Maybe I can bring a plate over.’

  Hating the pleading sound in her own voice, she clicked the phone shut. She’d reached the Union by then and after one glance up at the warm red of the bricks, decided to stop in. Thursday afternoons, Lloyd had office hours and she ran the risk of disturbing him during a student conference. But these days, students usually emailed or called, and he used the time to catch up on his own work; they both did. And sometimes an interruption would be welcome.

  Dulcie felt her spirits lifting as she descended the steps toward their office. So what if Chris wasn’t available? She had other friends. Besides, Lloyd might be able to cast some light on Professor Bullock’s odd behavior. The more she thought about it, the more the visit to the professor’s townhouse seemed like a bad dream. A crazy professor, his haunted assistant, and some strange sounds in the basement . . . It was all beginning to sound like one of her books. Yes, that was exactly the kind of plot device that would have her undergrads rolling their eyes. But maybe, mused Dulcie, for her it made sense. When one spent so many waking hours among the ghosts and haunted castles, why wouldn’t ordinary life start to show signs of the paranormal?

  Plus, Dulcie admitted, ghosts were somewhat less scary – and a lot more fun – than many human motivations. Would anyone really care about Hermetria, for example, if the poor young woman was only dealing with loneliness, bills, and the care and upkeep of a drafty old castle? Dulcie felt a pang of remorse; the way she was thinking, she might as well be her mother, viewing the world as filled with her portents and omens. Well, she’d call Lucy later tonight. Maybe by then Lloyd would have some insight on the mysterious book that Lucy had warned her about.

  But as she turned down the hall of offices, she saw neither Lloyd nor Raleigh, nor the open, welcoming doorway she’d expected. Instead, an impossibly thin young woman in a long suede coat slouched against the wall like a super-chic faun.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ The thin girl’s greeting sounded strangely like a reprimand.

  ‘Hi.’ Dulcie was confused. ‘Are you waiting for Lloyd?’ The girl shrugged, lanky blonde hair obscuring her face. Dulcie reached for the doorknob. Midterms were over, but maybe a particularly difficult assignment had his students queued up.

  ‘It’s locked,’ suede girl said, just as Dulcie tried the door. ‘Don’t bother.’

  Dulcie fished out her key and opened the door. Not until she switched on the light and saw the empty space, both desks as cluttered as always, did she realize she’d been holding her breath. No, there was nothing strange here. Except for Lloyd’s absence.

  Dulcie turned and realized that the skinny girl had followed her in. ‘Did you have an appointment?’

  ‘He’s supposed to be here now.’ The girl strolled over to Lloyd’s desk and with a bony hand, nails bitten to the quick, began poking through his papers. ‘I’m in his class.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Dulcie tried to put some authority in her voice. The combination of whine and nosiness wasn’t attractive. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave those alone.’

  Something must have worked. The girl looked up, a spark in her hooded eyes. ‘Oh, you’re the other grad student. Dulcie Schwartz?’

  Dulcie blinked and the girl nodded toward the sign on the door. Of course.

  ‘You’re the one with the ghost stories.’ Lloyd’s student leaned back against his desk, appraising Dulcie. ‘Funny, I thought you’d look different.’

  ‘Black hair and lipstick?’ Dulcie had been through this before. ‘Funereal attire? Unearthly pallor?’

  The other girl shrugged, overplucked eyebrows arching.

  ‘Wrong Gothic. Like Lloyd, I specialize in the fiction of the eighteenth century. Not rock and roll.’

  ‘Pity.’ The girl pushed off the desk and sauntered toward the door.

  ‘Shall I tell Lloyd you came by?’

  The girl half turned and looked back over one suede shoulder, her shadowed, angular face as glamorous and dismissive as a movie star’s. ‘Whatever.’ And she was gone.

  Dulcie closed the door behind the skinny student and sat down at her desk, more to reassert her claim on the space than to get anything done. In front of her, a pile of student papers silently loomed, and she pulled them toward her. There was no visible dust on them, not yet, but their very presence served as a reproach.

  ‘Imagery in the Sermons of Jonathan Edwards.’ Great. More burning insects and fiery pits. Dulcie flipped through the three-pagers to find five more iterations of the exact same title. No wonder she hadn’t been able to start on these. Couldn’t her students at least pay lip service to originality? She closed her eyes, the mound of papers before her becoming something more lofty and yet strangely welcoming. If only the only task before her was to scale a mountainous peak, like the ones surrounding Hermetria. Never mind that there were no rocky crags in Umbria, not like the ones depicted in The Ravages, anyway. For a moment, she let herself imagine being locked away, in a ‘lofty retreat, poised as it were, like a cloud atop the mighty precipice.’ Then she’d be able to get some work done.

  How was she supposed to work on her own thesis when she had a full section of English 10 students, most of them clueless freshmen? Not to mention three very clued-in junior tutorial students, who had no respect for her. And now one supremely confident senior, who seemed to expect Dulcie to drop everything and help her with her undergrad thesis.

  She opened her eyes with a start. Is that what Cameron had done? Given her extra attention? Dulcie let the papers fall back on to the desk, momentarily forgetting her more onerous duties. She – and the police, apparently – had been focused on where Cameron had died. Specifically on the professor. But Cambridge wasn’t that big a city and if someone had a personal grudge, it would have been easy to follow the handsome grad student across the open Cambridge Common. It certainly would have been easy enough to see an opportunity in the overgrown front yard of the brick townhouse.

  Had Cameron angered someone with his attentions to Raleigh Hall? Any kind of involvement between a tutor or teacher and a student was strictly forbidden, and Raleigh had denied any relationship. But she did seem to be quite familiar with her former adviser. Not to mention that Raleigh was an older undergrad, probably more like Cameron’s peer than his protégé. Plus, Dulcie had to admit, both Raleigh and Cameron were gorgeous. Perfect physical specimens. They’d have looked great together.

  Dulcie thought back to the gossip she’d heard about her late colleague. Cameron Dessay had certainly invited lust. ‘Byronic’ was the term most often bandied about, at least by the English Department. With his black curls and fine-featured face, the other departments probably just called him ‘dreamy.’ Had he been linked to anyone, male or female? Graduate or undergrad?

  Dulcie tried to picture Cameron as he had been. Tall, slim, but with a lean grace that hinted at mu
scle underneath. That dark hair almost too long against his fair skin. She could almost visualize him, driving in his little convertible, his arm around someone equally slender and pale. A blonde? A brunette? It was no use. The more she tried to focus, the more she saw him as he’d last appeared – too still. The blue-white skin specked with blood.

  She pushed herself from the desk. She wasn’t going to get anything done here. As a last-minute thought, she stuffed the English 10 papers into her bag. Maybe after a few glasses of wine, she’d be able to stomach grading them.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Honey, I’m home!’ Dulcie called up the stairs.

  ‘Dulcie?’ The voice that called back was male, but the face that peered down at her was female and covered in fur.

  ‘Kitty!’ Dulcie mounted the steps and picked up the kitten, carrying her into the kitchen despite some squirming and an annoyed mew. ‘Hey, kitty, what’s wrong?’ The kitten stared up at her, but said nothing as Dulcie set her down. ‘Wow, Ariano, what’s that?’ Suze’s boyfriend was standing over the stove stirring something that smelled faintly of vinegar, pepper, and some unidentifiable herbs. Dulcie pushed by. ‘Smells wonderful.’

  ‘Watch it!’ Suze’s stocky beau held up a wooden spoon defensively and Dulcie backed off. ‘I just burned the skin off these peppers and they are super hot. But there’s bread and cheese on the table.’ He pointed with the spoon and Dulcie cut herself a wedge of cheese. At her ankle, the kitten chirped softly and so Dulcie broke her off a piece, too.