Death With Dostoevsky

by Katherine Bolger Hyde

  ‘I guess the first thing to do is to talk to the student whose work he supposedly stole. What was his name again?’

  ‘Pacifique Morel. I know him. He has taken one or two French lit classes. He is an intelligent young man, a good writer, with original ideas. His work would be worth stealing.’

  ‘And he’s had classes with Richard?’

  ‘Bien sûr, he majors in English. Why, I do not know, when he could so easily do French, but …’ She gave an eloquent shrug.

  ‘Is he on campus for Paideia?’

  ‘Je ne sais pas. I have not seen him, but I do not frequent the student haunts as much as you do.’ Marguerite’s disdain for Commons food was well known. She would skip lunch if necessary rather than stoop so low.

  ‘And then we’ll also need a copy of the journal in which the article appeared.’

  ‘I believe there is one in the faculty lounge. Unless Richard has removed it.’

  Emily put down her lox-topped bagel with a sigh. ‘I feel like I’m wallowing in a mud puddle. Just when we get out of having to prosecute Taylor, since she’s dead, now we have to deal with Richard. Thank God I’ve decided to retire.’

  ‘There is always the option of letting it go, of saying nothing. No one knows but us and Goldstein, and I do not think he cares as long as his precious Svetlana is not affected.’

  Emily’s gorge rose at the thought of letting Richard of all people get away with such a heinous offense. ‘Pacifique Morel knows. He probably trusted Taylor to do something about it – more fool him. But he needs a faculty member to stand up for him, or it’ll go nowhere.’

  ‘C’est vrai. And to say the truth, chérie, one way and another, I have put up with Richard for as long as I care to. I will not be sorry to see him go when there is such a good reason to take him down.’

  They went by the faculty lounge first to look for the issue of the Journal of Modern Literature in which Richard’s article had appeared. It was nowhere to be found.

  ‘That is suspicious in itself,’ Marguerite said. ‘No doubt Richard has removed it lest anyone else should suspect.’

  ‘Probably. But we should be able to find a copy in the library.’

  They checked the library’s periodicals reading room, but that particular issue of the journal was missing from the shelf. Nor was it lying on any of the tables or abandoned under a chair. Journals could not be checked out. It was conceivable someone could have taken it to another part of the library and neglected to bring it back, but under the circumstances this absence was even more suspicious than the first.

  ‘Can we find the article online?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Bien sûr,’ Marguerite replied, leading the way to one of the library’s public computers. ‘Richard cannot hide the entire internet.’

  Marguerite navigated to the website and downloaded the article, ‘The Idea of Order in Wallace Stevens’s Middle Period’. Writing credit was given solely to Richard McClintock, PhD. She printed the article on the library printer, and Emily skimmed it.

  She was out of practice interpreting poetry and had always found Stevens obscure, but the arguments in the article seemed cogent and well expressed. ‘Yeah, I doubt Richard could write this well.’ She handed the pages off to Marguerite.

  Marguerite read a few paragraphs and nodded. ‘Richard’s writing is invariably pedantic and abstruse. This is clear and easy to read. It is definitely not his own work.’

  ‘Right. Let’s go find Pacifique.’

  A glance at the campus directory revealed that Pacifique had a room in MacNaughton, one of the three dorms built in sixties-modern style with no sensitivity to the stately dignity of the original college buildings, from which they were fortunately set some distance apart. The group of dorms was not-so-affectionately known as ‘God’s revenge on Tudor Gothic’, and being assigned a room there was often considered to be a punishment for some egregious wickedness in a former life.

  Pacifique Morel proved to be in residence. His handsome if somewhat careworn face registered astonishment at seeing two professors at his door. ‘Bonjour, Pacifique,’ said Marguerite. ‘This is Professor Cavanaugh. May we have a few moments of your time?’

  He glanced into the cluttered interior of the room, which contained but a single hard desk chair. ‘Of course, but … may we talk in the social room?’ His rich bass voice held a slight Caribbean lilt.

  ‘Certainement. But bring your laptop.’

  Looking confused, Pacifique grabbed his computer, unplugged it, and led the way to the dorm’s social room. Following his tall, sculpted ebony form down the stairs, Emily could understand what Taylor had seen in him. But she would content herself with admiring him from a distance.

  The three of them sat around a rickety table. ‘May I get you anything?’ he said, standing and looking blankly around. ‘Perhaps some tea?’

  ‘Thank you, no. We have just eaten.’

  He sat back down. ‘What is this about? Am I in some sort of trouble?’

  ‘Pas du tout. But it has come to our attention that you have a grievance against another professor, and we have come to look into the matter.’ Marguerite produced the printed copy of the article and laid it in front of Pacifique.

  He recoiled. ‘Oh. That.’ Then he looked up at them, baffled. ‘But how did you find out about it? I never told anyone except …’

  ‘Except Professor Curzon? We learned of it – indirectly from her. How exactly is not your concern. But we would like to know if it is true that this article is in fact your own work.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it is true. I told Tay— Professor Curzon, and I thought she was going to do something about it. But she never did.’ He stared at his folded hands. ‘Then she … moved on, and I did not want to bring it up again.’

  ‘Can you show us the original article on your computer?’ Emily spoke for the first time.

  ‘Of course.’ He opened a directory window and highlighted the file name. ‘Look – it says here, created eleven/fifteen/seventeen, last modified twelve/ten/seventeen. And that journal issue did not come out until October 2018. So I could not possibly have copied it.’ He opened the file. ‘Here. Read it for yourself.’

  He turned the screen toward them. Emily compared the wording of the first few paragraphs with that of the printout. They were virtually identical, with only a word changed here and there – all changes for the worse, she noted.

  ‘Did you write this for McClintock’s class?’ she asked.

  Pacifique nodded. ‘It was my final paper for Modern Poetry.’

  ‘May we take a copy of the file?’ Marguerite asked. ‘I have a flash drive. But first make sure the file properties show you as the author.’

  Pacifique took the tiny device Marguerite handed him, which to Emily looked like a miniature cigarette lighter, and stuck it into a port in his laptop. A minute later he handed it back.

  ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘Now we will show these to the academic review board. They will take the matter from there.’

  ‘Will I have to … testify or something?’

  ‘Possibly. But it should not be necessary for you to confront Professor McClintock directly.’

  ‘Good,’ Pacifique said. ‘I do not know if I could control myself if I did. Do you know he had the gall to fail me in that class? He claimed I never turned in a final paper at all. Just wiped it out of existence. Until it turned up in that journal, that is.’

  ‘I think you may be sure that Professor McClintock will have his comeuppance now, Pacifique. And you should have a brilliant career ahead of you. It is a terrible thing to have one’s work plagiarized, of course – but it is a great compliment as well. Especially from professor to student.’

  Pacifique allowed himself a small smile. ‘I do not know how you got involved in this, Professor Grenier, and I do not want to know. But thank you. Merci bien. Thank you both very much.’

  As they walked back from MacNaughton toward Vollum, Emily said, ‘Revealing Richard’s plagiarism ma
y be the only good thing Taylor ever unknowingly and unintentionally did.’

  ‘Oui, c’est ça. It goes to show that no life is wasted, non?’

  They allowed themselves a small laugh over that.

  NINETEEN

  On the way across campus, Emily and Marguerite encountered Douglas, who was coming out of Eliot Hall. He nearly passed them completely, looking preoccupied and almost dazed, oblivious to his surroundings. Emily hailed him, and he blinked like one coming out of a dream.

  ‘Oh, hello, Emily, Marguerite. How are you this afternoon?’ His courtesy was ingrained but Emily sensed no real attention behind it.

  ‘Fine, thanks. How are you holding up?’ Emily realized with a jolt that she hadn’t seen him since discovering Taylor’s body.

  ‘Me? Oh, you know. I couldn’t say I’m exactly grieving for Taylor – not as she was lately – but there was a time when we loved each other. Or at least when I loved her. Her death brings up such memories and at the same time makes it absolutely certain that those days can never return.’ His eyes grew misty, and Emily wondered if she should have said nothing.

  ‘What brings you back to campus?’

  He waved his hand to include all of Eliot Hall, where the administrative offices of the college were housed. ‘Business. The ugly business of death.’ He grimaced. ‘It seems wrong, unkind, that one should have to deal with such emotional upheaval and such petty practicalities all at the same time.’

  Emily had the thought that at least he did not have to plan a funeral just yet, since the police would not be releasing Taylor’s body right away. But she didn’t think Douglas would find that especially comforting.

  Marguerite put in unexpectedly, ‘This is not a time when you should be alone, I think. Come to dinner this evening. Both of you. We will drink wine and eat real French food and all your troubles will be washed away.’ She flashed Douglas her most winning smile.

  He brightened. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ He blinked and smiled from one woman to the other. ‘I feel better already.’

  Marguerite gave him her address and a time, and they continued on their separate paths. ‘That was very kind of you, Margot,’ Emily said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be so spontaneously hospitable. Usually you want at least a week to plan.’

  Marguerite put a finger to her lips. ‘I am not being kind. I am being cunning. We will ply him with drink and disarm him with our charm, and then we will winkle his whole story out of him. You will see.’

  At Marguerite’s insistence, Emily put on her green velvet Christmas dress with its slightly daring V neckline and swooshy mid-calf-length skirt over the highest heels she owned, which did not quite attain three inches. She arrived at Marguerite’s modern, mostly white apartment a few minutes before the stated time of seven o’clock so she could help with last-minute preparations. But Marguerite had everything in hand. Her table was set with sparkling china and crystal and adorned with a single blue orchid in a sinuous white porcelain vase.

  Marguerite’s white Persian, Colette, greeted Emily with a leg rub and a purr, decorously demanding the attention that was her due. Emily obliged, picking the cat up and scratching her head as she talked to Marguerite in the streamlined white-and-stainless-steel kitchen. Marguerite’s slim red silk sheath stood out like a splash of blood against the spare background.

  ‘Do you have a definite plan for winkling information out of Douglas, or are we going to wing it?’

  ‘We will improvise according to the opportunities of the moment,’ Marguerite replied as she tossed the salad. ‘You will notice I have put on some jazz to sharpen our improvisational skills.’ Emily heard Stéphane Grappelli and Django Reinhardt in the background.

  ‘Good. The best-laid schemes gang aft agley anyway.’

  ‘What means this “gang aft agley”? Monsieur Burns is so obscure with all his Scottish words and peculiar grammar.’

  ‘I think it means “‘go oft awry”. But as we are neither mice nor men, perhaps it won’t apply.’

  Marguerite laughed. ‘No. We are two attractive women entertaining a susceptible man. We are sure to succeed.’

  But at what cost, Emily wondered. Never mind; if Douglas did get a little too amorous, Marguerite would be sure to divert his attentions solely to herself, and she would be able to handle them.

  The doorbell rang, and Emily deposited a slightly huffy Colette on the couch as she went to answer it. Douglas stood on the threshold with a bottle of wine in one hand and a bunch of white roses in the other.

  Coals to Newcastle on both fronts. But Emily smiled graciously and let him in, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Margot, Douglas has come bearing gifts,’ she called. ‘I’ll take the flowers and put them in water.’

  ‘Douglas brought wine,’ she whispered to Marguerite in the kitchen. ‘What shall we do with it?’

  ‘Let him uncork it. It will not hurt to have two wines with dinner. Is it a decent wine?’

  ‘I didn’t see the label, only that it’s red. He could afford something good, though, assuming he knows how to pick it.’

  ‘Red is wrong for the meal, but ce n’est rien. We can linger over it with the cheese.’

  Marguerite finished the salad and carried it to the dining area, where the other dishes stood ready: individual servings of coquilles Saint-Jacques on chargers at the three places, and platters of chicken cordon bleu, potatoes au gratin, and braised asparagus with hollandaise sauce waiting on the sideboard. Marguerite must have been busy since the moment they parted.

  Douglas cast an appreciative eye over the spread and the two hostesses. ‘You ladies are a vision of loveliness, and this meal is worthy of Gourmet magazine. This is just what I needed to soothe my wounded soul.’

  He pulled out their chairs for them one by one, then sat and unfolded his linen napkin from the flower shape Marguerite had created. ‘How on earth did you manage all this on the spur of the moment? It’s like a five-star restaurant.’

  Marguerite smiled mysteriously. ‘We Frenchwomen have our ways.’ She filled his glass with the white wine she had chosen, a mid-range Sauvignon Blanc. ‘We will keep your wine for the cheese course.’

  Douglas took a long sip and addressed himself to his coquilles St Jacques. ‘Delicious,’ he said after the first bite. ‘We don’t get seafood like this in Chicago.’

  ‘You live in Chicago?’ Emily asked. ‘I assumed you were from England.’

  ‘Many years ago, yes,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve been in America most of my adult life.’

  ‘Do you ever miss your native land?’

  ‘I miss certain things about it. The gardens, for instance. The cool summers. The village pubs. But honestly, England is no longer the country of my childhood. The population has exploded, and its face has changed completely. Ethnic Brits are practically the minority now. Not that I’m racist, but the influx of other cultures means the old traditions are dying out. Especially in the cities.’

  ‘America is at least equally diverse, surely,’ Emily said.

  ‘Yes, but – pardon me – you never had the centuries-old traditions to begin with. Your culture has always been in flux. So it’s less disturbing here. Besides, there are many things I prefer about America. The openness and friendliness, for one. It’s possible to have too much of the famous British reserve.’

  That accounted for his forwardness when they first met, Emily thought. And it boded well for this evening’s conversation also.

  ‘What about you, Marguerite?’ Douglas asked. ‘I assume you’re from France originally. Do you miss it?’

  ‘Mais oui. The French do everything better – food, wine, fashion, to name a few. But France also is changing. I visit every summer, see family, do some shopping, and that is sufficient to assuage my homesickness.’

  Marguerite rose to clear the starter plates and bring the other platters to the table. Emily helped her and refilled Douglas’s glass.

  ‘Where did you and Taylor meet?’ she
asked Douglas when they’d filled their plates, hoping to steer the conversation in the desired direction.

  ‘Chicago. My business is based there, and she taught at the University of Chicago before she came here. We met at a fundraiser for the university.’

  ‘How long were you together?’

  ‘Only five years. We weren’t starry-eyed teenagers; we’d both been married before. But in the beginning I deluded myself that it could work. She was less … restless then. The itch seemed to grow on her as she got older, strangely enough.’

  Marguerite and Emily exchanged glances as Marguerite filled Douglas’s glass, which was already empty again. The two women were still on their first glass each.

  ‘It is not so strange,’ Marguerite said. ‘It was peut-être her form of mid-life crisis. When a woman who has always relied on her sex appeal starts to lose it, sometimes she tries to reassure herself by pursuing younger men. Hormones can also play a role. It is not so different for many men.’

  ‘True. But for my own part, I have always valued the wisdom and experience of women d’un certain âge. I suppose that was my mistake – marrying a woman a decade younger than myself. The experience was there, in spades, but the wisdom was rather lacking.’

  ‘Age doesn’t necessarily equate to wisdom,’ Emily said. ‘Some never acquire it, while others have it from a relatively young age. Svetlana, for instance. She’s quite an old soul.’

  Douglas turned an inquiring face to Emily. ‘Svetlana?’

  ‘A student of mine. The female half of the young couple I mentioned whose lives Taylor was making rather difficult.’

  ‘Ah. And that young man they’ve arrested – Daniel? – is he the other half?’

  Emily nodded. ‘Only I’m sure he’s innocent.’

  Douglas spoke carefully. ‘He had sufficient provocation, surely.’

  ‘Yes, but I just have a feeling about it. Everything doesn’t quite seem to add up.’

  Douglas finished his chicken and dabbed at his mouth. He took a last long drink of wine and looked longingly at the empty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.