Grey Matters

by Clea Simon

  It wasn’t until they’d hung up and Dulcie was trotting across the Yard that she thought of another possible suspect. Unless her eyes were fooling her, she’d seen Raleigh slipping away from Lloyd’s building the day before. From all she knew, the pretty undergrad didn’t need money, but she was an unsettled young woman. And both physically and mentally capable of climbing up the building’s fire escape. Could she have been scoping out Lloyd’s apartment for some reason? Could Raleigh Hall have broken in and trashed the place?

  Dulcie’s phone rang again as she dashed across the Common. It was Lucy. Probably felt bad about being so hard on her only child. Well, she’d call her mother back later. Maybe she’d have reason to come home soon. But as she closed the phone unanswered, letting the call go through to voicemail, Dulcie felt a strange pang. Guilt? It was true that she’d just unloaded on her mother, and now she was avoiding her. But Lucy had wanted her to get on with her life, hadn’t she?

  Or could it be something other than guilt, that strange momentary flush? For a moment, Dulcie paused. Was she that afraid of what would happen? Over on Garden Street, a bus went by. In its wake, the breeze picked up, tossing a handful of leaves into a short-lived flurry. She watched them dance and smiled. They were free, and she . . . she was being silly. So she might have to find a new adviser; that didn’t mean the end of the world. For that matter, even if she had to change her thesis, she still had time – and if she ended up exposing The Ravages of Umbria as a nineteenth-century cheat, a Gothic pastiche, so what? Whatever its origins, the work she had come to know and love was still a wonderful book, a piece of literature that spoke to her on so many levels. That alone made it worth her time. Dulcie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was tired of being afraid. What was it Mr Grey had told her? She had to have faith. The key was in the book.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Polly opened the door looking like she’d seen a ghost. Pale, vaguely sweaty, Polly might have been ill, were it not for the red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Polly, are you all right?’ Dulcie stepped into the foyer and reached for the other woman. But Polly stepped back, almost wincing, and Dulcie dropped her hands. ‘Polly?’

  ‘I’ll tell the professor you’re here.’ Polly turned away, wiping her hand under her nose. But Dulcie wasn’t about to let her go.

  ‘Polly, please. Is someone . . . Has someone hurt you?’ She stepped forward to see into Polly’s face, but the older woman ducked her head, all the while shaking it in denial. Dulcie remembered that other visit, when Gosham had turned on her. ‘Was it Roger Gosham, Polly?’ She tried to keep her voice gentle, but she wasn’t going to let a case of abuse go unquestioned.

  In response, she got a mumble.

  ‘I’m sorry, Polly, I couldn’t hear you. Was he here?’

  ‘I didn’t let him in.’ She sniffed again, but Dulcie relaxed. This seemed more a matter of the heart than of physical violence. ‘But I’ll have to.’

  Dulcie straightened up. Had she heard that correctly? ‘Polly, you don’t have to let anyone do anything.’

  ‘He knows.’ Polly sniffled, her already soft voice muffled as she stared at the threadbare rug. Dulcie thought she made out one more word: ‘Cameron.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Polly. I wasn’t thinking.’ So much had happened, Dulcie was surprised how little she had thought about her late colleague recently. But if Polly had been involved with him, as sounded likely, then their discovery just the week before would have been especially traumatic. She kicked herself for being insensitive and reached again to embrace the older woman, her voice gentle and soft. ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘Miss him?’ Polly reared back, her voice a hiss. ‘Cameron? I hated him!’ And with that she turned on her heel and stormed out the front door without her coat, leaving Dulcie standing in the hallway, shocked into silence.

  ‘Ah, Miss Schwartz.’ Before she could recover her wits, Professor Bullock had stuck his head out of his office. ‘Come in, come in.’

  Her mind still reeling from Polly’s sudden outburst, Dulcie followed her professor into his office. At least here everything seemed solid. No matter what else was about to happen, she could look around here and see life unchanged. The overflowing ashtrays, the shelves of books; the professor’s own great work prominently displayed. With a sigh, Dulcie sank into the desk chair – and immediately jumped up again. She’d sat on a book. Elizabethan Short Prose. Taking it in her hand, she sat again and looked it over. In front of her, Bullock had settled in behind his desk and was hard at work lighting his pipe.

  ‘Professor . . .’ Disparate ideas were beginning to come together. She opened the book in her hand. It seemed more like a bound catalogue, listing sources and brief biographies for sixteenth-century writers. ‘That book you had. The one that you reported stolen?’ Someone – Lloyd maybe – had used this book, the one in her hand, to begin to uncover the truth. It was here that the questions were first asked, the questions that seemed to have been solved when Lloyd sent the supposedly rare text off to an antiquarian in Texas.

  ‘Oh, that. Nothing much. Mistake all around.’ The professor was making a much bigger fuss over his pipe than Dulcie thought necessary. She looked from the reference work to her adviser. Under his bushy eyebrows, his eyes looked clear, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze and instead started examining his pipe. Reaching into his top desk drawer, he pulled out a small scraper and began cleaning out its bowl. The light of his desk lamp cast deep shadows on his face, concealing his expression even as it illuminated the hand-carved bowl and the professor’s gnarled hands. He muttered something, and tapped the pipe against the ashtray again, clearly hoping to draw out the procedure.

  He was, Dulcie realized, embarrassed. And for a moment, all her own worries faded away. Yes, she might be facing a setback, but for Professor Bullock, everything was at stake. ‘Maybe I should refile this.’ She stood up and walked over to the bookshelf, intending to give him a moment to recover. Give them both an opportunity to change the subject.

  And that’s when she saw it. Over on the shelf, next to Bullock’s magnum opus, almost obscured in the shadows. The letter opener. The one she’d seen Polly pocket only a few days before.

  Dulcie turned toward her mentor. He’d been so upset. Did he know it had resurfaced? The best approach, she decided, was the direct one. ‘Professor,’ she said, lifting the miniature sword. ‘You found it!’ She turned the little sword in her hands, noting again how heavy it was for its size. Catching the dappled light that came through the ivy-covered window, its jeweled hilt glinted and glowed.

  ‘What?’ The professor looked up, glancing from Dulcie to the letter opener. But although his eyes seemed clear and focused, there was no recognition in his face.

  ‘Your letter opener.’ Dulcie held the item out to him. ‘The one from your gift set?’

  He reached out to take it, the pipe momentarily forgotten. Turning it over in the light of the desk lamp, she could see him admiring the workmanship, the emerald-green stone that glowed like a living thing. ‘Charming,’ he said. ‘A little Excalibur, isn’t it? Pretty little thing.’

  Dulcie caught her breath. Of course. He was forgetful. He couldn’t even remember missing it. Unless it hadn’t been the letter opener that had gotten him so upset. But what . . . Suddenly, an odd thought popped into Dulcie’s head. Could this be the emerald, the one she’d been dreaming of? But why? What did it mean? For the first time she started thinking back toward her own sources of information. Could it be?

  ‘You weren’t given this letter opener?’ She kept her voice level, posing a theory to be tested. ‘It wasn’t a gift after you spoke at McGill?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’ His voice was calm and sure. ‘I’ve never seen this object before in my life.’

  ‘Professor Bullock?’ She eased into her chair, unsure of how to continue. ‘That book, the one that Lloyd took care of for you? You didn’t buy it, did you?’

  He looked up and quickly back down again. ‘Must have.’ He
turned the sword over in his hands and made a small parry with it, as if it were indeed a full-sized weapon. ‘It was in my library, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Something he had said – something about the miniature sword being a ‘pretty thing’ – had triggered a memory. Someone else had spoken about liking pretty things. The same someone who had told her that the professor was being robbed. ‘In fact, I’m wondering if there are other things in your house that you didn’t buy. That, in fact, nobody bought.’

  He looked up and although his confusion was clear on his face, Dulcie felt he was following her every word.

  ‘Wait a moment, please, Professor Bullock.’ Pushing back her chair, Dulcie went toward the door. Where had she seen that paperweight? The ornate blown-glass one that she had so admired in the Harvard Square boutique. That she and Polly had both been admiring. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  She ran down the hall, the realization of it all making her head spin. Lloyd hadn’t been stealing; Polly had. Only, not from Professor Bullock. Instead, she’d been shoplifting in the Square – and bringing her treasures to his house, her haven. The letter opener, the paperweight. And maybe even the troublesome book. The professor might be sinking into dementia, but he hadn’t purchased a forged Elizabethan work. He had enough sense left to rely on Lloyd, and Lloyd was neither a thief nor a charlatan. But once that supposed rarity was in his house, in his library, Bullock must have assumed it belonged – and that in his decline he’d overlooked a treasure that might rebuild his reputation. No wonder he’d been frantic, and then horrified by the truth.

  Dulcie closed her eyes for a moment to think all of this through. When the store clerk had been so rude, she’d felt bad for Polly, rather than herself. Polly, after all, was not much more than a shadow, a woman whose life had passed her by. Could that be why she stole, why she pocketed the ‘pretty things’ she could not afford? Was it because she felt so helpless in other aspects of life? Or did it all have to do with the professor’s decline? Perhaps she was paying tribute to him. Bringing him treasures to brighten his declining years.

  Whatever it was, it had to stop. And right now Dulcie believed the professor would grasp the problem. Maybe as a last act, he could get help for his troubled assistant. At the very least, Dulcie knew, she had to reveal Polly’s secret. She’d get the paperweight and explain its history. Professor Bullock would understand.

  Feeling the necessity of seizing the moment, Dulcie searched through the library. She could clearly envision the paperweight, the heavy globe with its swirl of blue. It had been opposite the door, hadn’t it? But when it didn’t show, she kept looking, climbing up on the dusty settee to check the highest level of the built-in bookcase. Finally, she was down to the last shelves, behind the opened door. Clearly, these were little used: the row of alumni reports on the bottom was coated with dust while the oversize books on top – Swinburne and the Neo-Gothic Roots of Romanticism – were positively fuzzy. It was no use, she realized. Polly must have a dozen hiding places in the big, old house, and Dulcie had no desire to root around further. In an ideal world, Professor Bullock would deal with his longtime assistant in private and, Dulcie hoped, with mercy.

  As she pulled herself to her feet, however, she realized that the confrontation might come sooner than expected. The sound of a door opening and then shutting came from down the hall. Polly had slammed out only minutes before. But perhaps she’d already come back, her fit of temper cooled off by the November wind. Dulcie hesitated. If Polly had gone into Professor Bullock’s office, she really didn’t want to intrude. Still, she herself had run off without explanation. The professor seemed to be alert and interested in what she was saying. And besides, once again, Dulcie had left her bag in the professor’s office.

  Then she heard the shouting.

  SXTY-TWO

  ‘No, Professor!’ The voice was male, gruff but pitched high with strain. ‘I’d never!’

  Dulcie ran back to Bullock’s office to see the professor facing off against Roger Gosham. Although the bookbinder was younger and significantly more muscular, he was the one cowering as the elderly Bullock advanced on him. ‘I wouldn’t!’

  ‘This man broke in.’ Bullock spoke without turning, his eyes on the frightened bookbinder. ‘I stepped into the kitchen for a moment and came back to find him here, looking through my shelves.’

  Dulcie glanced at the bookbinder and back at Bullock. Could this be his dementia in action? ‘This is Roger Gosham, sir. The book restorer.’ She tried to hold her voice steady, but the bizarre nature of Bullock’s anger scared her.

  ‘I know that!’ Bullock snapped at her. ‘But he came into my office!’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Gosham had his hands raised, as if in surrender, and started inching around the wall. ‘Nobody answered and the door was open.’

  Bullock glowered, and Dulcie chimed in. ‘Polly sort of ran out, Professor Bullock. And, well, this is an old building . . .’

  Either her tone or her explanation must have mollified the old academic. With a grunt, he dismissed Gosham and walked over to his desk. To Dulcie, it looked even messier than it had when she’d stepped out. Whatever the professor had been hoping to find in the kitchen, perhaps he’d sought it among his papers first. As he sat, something caught his eye and he reached under a journal.

  ‘So, how may I be of service?’ His voice was faintly mocking, and Gosham seemed taken aback. He stood there silent as the professor removed a tennis-ball-sized object from under an open Times Literary Supplement and wrapped his long fingers around it. ‘Well?’

  ‘I was looking for one of my projects.’ Gosham stepped closer to Bullock’s desk, but his eyes were on the shelves. ‘A piece that wasn’t finished. Shouldn’t have left my studio, really.’

  ‘Do you mean a particular volume?’ Bullock passed the object from hand to hand. Even in the dim light, Dulcie caught a glimpse of blue. ‘An Elizabethan romance, perhaps?’

  Gosham winced. ‘There was a mistake. I just need it back.’

  For a moment, Dulcie felt for the man. He looked pained, as pale as his dark skin could get. But Bullock was a man enraged. ‘You! You were trying to make a fool of me. You thought I was past it. That I wouldn’t know.’ The professor was practically spitting. ‘It was you who sold me that . . . that . . . false book!’ He shook the object in his hand, and Dulcie could see that it was indeed the glass paperweight. As Bullock shook his fist, it caught the light, the swirl inside sparking like a blue flame.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’ Dulcie stared at the paperweight, pulling it all together in her mind. ‘He wouldn’t. He needs you too much for his name, his reputation.’ She looked up at Gosham and saw surprised recognition in his eyes. ‘It was Polly, wasn’t it? She must have seen it and admired it. She stole it and brought it here.’

  Both men turned to stare at her. ‘That’s what you had over her, wasn’t it, Mr Gosham?’ Dulcie stared at the wolflike man. ‘But she figured out that it was a forgery – a counterfeit – and then she had a hold over you, as well.’

  Gosham opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Bullock jumped in with a roar. ‘You used me!’ He was shouting now, shaking the paperweight in the other man’s face. ‘My name. My reputation. Your shoddy, little workshop—’

  Before Dulcie could do anything, Gosham was on him, his hands around the older man’s neck. The heavy paperweight fell to the floor with a thud. ‘Roger! Mr Gosham!’ Dulcie pulled at the big man’s arm, but he simply swatted her back and she tripped over the desk to sprawl on the carpet.

  ‘For God’s sake, man. It isn’t worth it.’ Bullock’s voice was hoarse. He gasped, and Dulcie saw the small, sharp blade Gosham held. She immediately thought of the letter opener. Would that ornate toy really serve as a weapon? ‘It’s just a book,’ Bullock gasped.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Dulcie caught her breath and slowly, carefully stood up. ‘It’s his new business. It’s how he’s succeeding, despite the economy. Despite the rising rents. D
espite . . . well, everything.’

  Gosham glanced over at her, but kept the menacing blade up to the professor’s throat. From this angle, Dulcie could see that it wasn’t the pretty toy. No, what she saw was steel. One of the honed tools from Gosham’s workbench. With such a slender blade, it wouldn’t be hard to jimmy the lock, not on this old house. Is that what he had done? What he had tried to do at her office – or at Lloyd’s? Is that what he’d been intending to do the day Cameron was killed?

  ‘You were here that day.’ She heard the rasp in her own voice.

  He didn’t ask which day she meant. ‘She’d taken it. I knew she had. Knew she had light fingers, the little minx.’ His hand moved a bit as he talked and Dulcie saw the professor jerk back slightly. Gosham wrapped his big hand around the back of the professor’s head and kept talking. ‘I thought I could catch her. Maybe sneak in and get it. There would have been no harm done.’

  ‘She went out shopping, I bet. Windowshopping to cheer herself up after you’d threatened her. But Cameron saw you.’ She looked for a spark of recognition. ‘Cameron knew, didn’t he?’ The pieces were falling into place. The eyes – those watching eyes. Emerald eyes. Hadn’t Lucy said something about a watcher, about someone who sees? Yes, Mr Grey had been watching out for her – but Cameron had green eyes, too, and he’d been watching them all. Looking for any weakness, for any opportunity. Asking questions. ‘Cameron saw you. Cameron figured out your secret, just like he knew Polly’s.’ A small gurgle from the professor. ‘And Professor Bullock’s, too. He was blackmailing them – and he figured he could add you to his list.’

  Gosham acted fast. He threw the professor back toward the wall, toppling his chair. The older man hit the shelf with a bang and tumbled to the floor. With a cry, Dulcie darted toward him – stopping only when she saw that wicked blade in Gosham’s hand.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t. I’ve worked too hard for this. For all of this. And nobody – not you, not the professor here, not some smartass grad student who never had to work a day in his life – is going to take it away.’