by Clea Simon
By the time they got off the phone, Dulcie was exhausted. Sometimes, it seemed, these long-distance conversations were worse than no contact at all. Here she was, curled up on the sofa, an afghan over her lap and warm, fuzzy socks on her feet. Chatting with Chris should have been a cozy end to the evening. Instead, it had left her feeling unsettled and even more alone.
‘Why is that, Esmé?’ The round tuxedo cat had left the room as her voice had gotten heated and only now returned to regard Dulcie with a quizzical glance. ‘Why can’t we just have a conversation?’
In response, the feline jumped up on the sofa, landing heavily.
‘Watch it, kitty!’ Dulcie pulled her feet out of the way as Esmé gave her a cool look, indecipherable by human standards, and began kneading the edge of the blanket.
‘It’s not like I’m exactly alone here.’ Dulcie watched as the little cat worked, her whiskers directed forward as she concentrated. ‘It’s not as if …’ She paused. Maybe that was what was bothering her. It wasn’t just that Chris was acting as if Dulcie didn’t have any common sense. That was bad, but in truth she knew she tended to get carried away sometimes. Books just seemed so much more real than, well, mundane events. It was that he was doubting their other feline companion – Mr Grey. Her beloved pet had never let her down. Surely, he would watch out for her now. He would warn her if she were in any real danger, wouldn’t he?
‘Mrrup,’ Esmé chirped, which Dulcie took as agreement. But when the feline turned and sat, Dulcie realized she may simply have been congratulating herself on a job well done.
‘Well, we all have our own projects and concerns, don’t we, Esmé?’ Dulcie watched as the little cat settled down, purring. ‘And at least you and I are getting our work done.’
Careful not to disturb her pet, Dulcie reached for her laptop. Before Chris had called back, she’d been looking over her notes for the latest chapter of what would, at some point, be her dissertation. This chapter dealt specifically with the new pages she had found, handwritten pages that appeared to be part of a forgotten work by the anonymous Gothic novelist who was the focus of the dissertation. Identifying them among the unclaimed papers file of the esteemed Mildon Rare Books Collection had been Dulcie’s latest coup.
Dulcie had been given a head start, she acknowledged that, in the form of printed pages that read like part of this same book which had been included in a gift to the library the previous year. Those pages told of a seductive yet evil lord, a murder and a mysterious stranger. The documents she was working on now seemed to contain an earlier part of the story – the heroine was obviously being abducted, perhaps by that same evil lord. While Dulcie had yet to find a surviving copy of the finished novel, her years of study had given her the skill to recognize various phrases and descriptions in the battered and torn sheets and to attribute them to her subject, the anonymous author of a little-known Gothic, The Ravages of Umbria.
It was exciting stuff, and Dulcie was eager to see how the story turned out. But the work was slow and painstaking. Through careful reading, Dulcie had pieced these fragments together, deciphering their faded and stained writing, until now she had a good thirty pages that were clearly part of the larger manuscript. They were essential in building the case to consider this novel as part of her subject’s canon.
But writing about it, writing in the strangely dense and self-conscious style demanded by academia, was not easy, and at this point in the evening Dulcie was finding it difficult to get her concentration back. She almost wished that Chris hadn’t called. Of course she missed her boyfriend. Their tiny apartment was too quiet without his lanky presence, and even Esmé’s rambunctious frenzies – those mad dashes the little cat made from room to room at random intervals – seemed less energetic without him around.
To get back into the mood, Dulcie decided, some re-reading was in order. After all, this new novel was a major discovery – her discovery. Just because piecing the story part of it together was fun didn’t mean it wasn’t work. Besides, now that she was safe at home, she could read on a proper-sized screen, and not have to worry about where she stepped.
She gasped for air as the hand withdrew from over her mouth. Gasped and braced for a cry, when another sensation – one more chilling still – caught her breath once more and still’d her heaving bosom. Cold Steel, the touch of its fine edge as indisputable as the threatn’ng words now whispered in her ear. ‘Choose carefully, my Lady, for your cry may be your last and Pity would it be for such a voice as yours to fall Silent from the world.’
‘Unhand me.’ She struggled to hold her voice both steady and soft. ‘Leave me be, and go, for I know of your villainy and will not disregard such a threat.’
‘Your Knowledge matters not, my lady.’ The deadly pressure eased, though not the grip that tightened ’pon her e’en as he answered, his silken voice a Serpent’s hiss into her ear. ‘For who would believe one such as you, dishonored and befouled. A Mad woman, as all shall know, who has fled the safe Haven of her husband’s hearth to pursue phantoms of the mind.’
Dulcie was so engrossed that when her phone burbled again, she ignored it. The number was familiar: the kitchen phone from the commune where her mother, Lucy, lived. Her mother hadn’t liked the idea of her daughter staying alone in the city, despite her own history as a single mother and free spirit. To be fair, Dulcie reasoned as she glanced at the phone, Lucy had never been much for solitude. Even before Dulcie’s father had decamped – his last missive was from an ashram in India – Lucy had favored groups, and most of Dulcie’s childhood had been spent in the commune – what Lucy called an arts colony – in the woods of the Pacific North-West.
She’d call her mother back later, Dulcie decided, shrugging off the nibble of guilt. It wasn’t like her mother would know her only child had dodged her call, no matter what psychic abilities she claimed to have.
Dulcie only had a few more minutes of peace before the phone started up again. The sound – half chortle, half mew – was one Chris had sampled for her from Esmé’s increasingly odd vocabulary. It signaled a text coming in – something from the university. Out of the corner of her eye, Dulcie could see the phone, skittering from its own vibration across the small coffee table. With a determined sigh, she turned back to the screen.
‘Whadda?’ The sound quality was really quite amazing.
‘Mrup?’ Esmé responded to the sound by jumping on to the table beside it.
‘It’s nothing, Esmé.’ Dulcie reached out blindly to calm her pet, her face still in the laptop.
‘Meh!’ Her forefinger connected with the wet leather of the little cat’s nose.
‘Sorry, Esmé.’ Dulcie withdrew her offending hand as the phone burbled again.
‘Heh!’ With a grunt, Esmé leaped from the table, kicking the phone as she launched her stout body.
‘Whadda … ’ The burble faded in an ominous way, and Dulcie gave up. Ducking down, she found the phone half under the sofa, and flicked it on. It had taken a lot of abuse, between the predations of the cat and Dulcie’s own carelessness, and Dulcie found herself holding her breath as she hit the buttons to wake it.
‘Come on …’ Dulcie wasn’t sure when she’d started talking to inanimate objects. It worried her, sometimes, that she was becoming like Lucy, who evoked the concept of a greater spirit whenever anything – from a hand mixer to her own adult child – didn’t behave as she wanted. That was an issue for another time, however. For now, her entreaty worked and the little machine lit up.
Alert! the small screen read. There has been another incident on campus. Possible attempted burglary has resulted in one injured party … A real alert, then, not simply another warning. She scrolled down, past the contact numbers for those who had concerns and questions and past the reminders to stay safe. Down below, a longer version of the emergency message read like a news story, albeit a very terse one.
The incident occurred soon after six near the back entrance of Widener Library. The suspect, a former membe
r of the university community, has been described as male and in his late fifties … She didn’t need to read further. With a gasp of horror, it hit her. The ‘incident,’ as they were calling it, had happened less than an hour after she had left. The suspect they were describing had to be Jeremy Mumbleigh.
THREE
’Twas a night much like that which she remembered, whipp’d by winds that howled like Wolves as she fled the fiend as she would Damnation itself, leaving as she did behind all that she had once held dear and close. The Storm beyond the narrow pane hammered, loud and livid in its fury, as if the desire to return her to those Terror-drenched nights were perforce the sulfurous Fuel that burned so wild and fierce. As a whine and cry like that of a Creature neither vital nor at its peaceful rest pierced the night, she hunched o’er her desk, desperate to get this last Testimony on to the page before her, into its Secret store where safe from prying Eyes it could remain till that Time when Fate and Friendship might vouchsafe its Warrant.
Thoughts of such a Future safe from all Woes and Turmoil shook her then, as the frantic Winds could not, loosing a Tear that dashed upon the Page. One drop and yet she gasped. One such mark could betray her, could unmask all her desperate Hope. She could not risk such a Traitor to survive.
A Traitor. The word was on Dulcie’s lips as she awoke, the dream as vivid as the text that had inspired it. Probably because she had fallen asleep reading, a habit that she indulged in when Chris wasn’t around. Partly, she acknowledged, because she felt that she had been a bit disloyal. Not to Chris. Even as she was enjoying the brief respite, she knew her life would be much more warm and full once he returned. But to her mother, Lucy. Whose call she had not returned.
She reached for the phone now to see if her mother had left a message.
‘Hello, is this on?’ the voice mail began.
Dulcie smiled. Her mother might claim to converse with the spirits, but she was at least three decades behind more mundane forms of communication.
‘Dulcinea, I hope you are listening.’ Then again, maybe her mother wasn’t as clueless as she’d thought. ‘I have a message for you. It’s the mark of the beast, dear. The beast that you are bound to.’
With that the call ended, whether by design or a mechanical mishap of her mother’s, Dulcie had no idea. The mark of the beast, well, maybe her mother did have a vision. Dulcie could still see the scratches from her latest play session with Esmé. ‘I’m certainly bound to you, aren’t I?’
‘Mrup!’ Despite the early hour – the cloudy sky outside was barely light – the tubby little cat was wide awake. And, if the lashing of her tail were any indication, ready to play.
Reaching under the bed, Dulcie located the well-chewed catnip mouse that was Esmé’s current favorite prey and tossed it. As the cat pounced, Dulcie checked the clock. Too early to call the west coast, particularly if her mother had been on one of her vision quests – Dulcie suspected a peyote potluck – with her friends. Besides, she decided, she had something more important that she needed to do. As quickly as she could – with a few pauses to toss the mouse – Dulcie dressed and readied herself to go out.
Only someone else had other another idea. ‘What?’
Esmé had dropped the toy at her feet and now stared up at her. ‘OK, one more.’
Dulcie reached for the battered mouse, but it soon became apparent that Esmé had lost interest. ‘Rather like you have … ’ The thought, like the stray swipe of claws across skin, made her wince.
‘I have not, Esmé.’ She paused. ‘Why am I even talking to you?’
She wasn’t avoiding work. Not at all. She could complete this one errand and still be at her carrel by nine. And, despite the skeptical look in Esmé’s round green eyes, Dulcie knew she was doing the right thing. Pulling on an extra pair of socks – the inside of her boots had not yet dried – she geared up for the walk into the Square.
‘I have to go, Esmé.’ She reached for her scarf, a present from Chris. ‘It’s my civic duty.’
‘Meh!’ The tuxedo cat threw herself at the trailing wool. Maybe the long fringe at the edge was irresistible – a novel alternative to the long-loved mouse. But Dulcie couldn’t help wondering if something else was on her pet’s mind.
‘Esmé, no!’ Dulcie pulled back, only to find the cat still attached. ‘Are you stuck?’
‘Eh!’ The cat’s cry turned to one of distress as she struggled to disengage her claws.
‘OK, come here.’ Scooping up her pet and the rest of the dangling muffler, Dulcie carried both over to the sofa. ‘You’d think that with retractable claws, you’d be able to get out of this kind of jam. I mean – wait!’
Esmé, perhaps sick of being lectured, had started to struggle. Dulcie could feel the little cat’s hind claws through her jeans.
‘Let go!’ The voice, female and insistent, sounded in Dulcie’s head, even as her cat gave a more typical mew. ‘How dare you!’
‘Hang on.’ Dulcie managed to get the wriggling animal between her legs and then used both hands to unhook her claw from the offending scarf.
‘That was unfair!’ The cat jumped down and immediately began to wash her paw, using her teeth to pull out the threads of wool still caught in the claw. ‘I never … ’ The voice faded away into growl-like grumbling.
‘Esmé, if you hadn’t pounced in the first place …’ Dulcie bit her lip. Feline dignity could only take so much of an insult. ‘It was a case of wrong place at the wrong time, kitty,’ she concluded, as she carefully wound the muffler around her neck. ‘That’s all.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ The low grumble continued. Dulcie turned away to hide her smile. ‘You wanted what I had, and I won’t forget it.’
With a mental note to store her scarf carefully upon her return, Dulcie pulled on the matching hat and made her way to the door.
Esmé misses you, Dulcie texted as she walked along the sidewalk. Not having Chris there made her realize how much she’d grown used to their daily interactions. Even when he was working nights, he’d rouse for a bit in the morning, long enough for them to touch base.
When no response popped up, she typed more. She attacked the scarf you gave me. With a ping, the message went off into cyberspace. She thinks it belongs to her, and that I was stealing it. Maybe she thinks I’m the local thief?
Dulcie crossed the street before checking her phone again. There was no answer. It meant nothing. Chris might be having breakfast with his mother. He might still be asleep. But the stillness of the little screen made Dulcie feel that much more alone.
‘Ms Schwartz! Good morning.’ The hearty welcome that greeted her did a little to banish the empty feeling. Detective Rogovoy might look like an ogre, but his heart was as big as the rest of him. But although Dulcie had asked for the detective specifically upon arriving at the ultra-modern headquarters of the university police, she still jumped at the sound of his voice, full of growl and grumble despite the friendly words it conveyed. ‘Why am I not surprised to see you here?’
‘I’m answering the call for information,’ Dulcie explained. She wasn’t sure, but she thought the big man rolled his eyes. ‘The university text alert,’ she clarified.
‘We weren’t necessarily …’ The big man made a sound like rocks rolling down a mountain and wiped his hand over his mouth. ‘Never mind.’ He sighed, sounding strangely tired for first thing in the morning. ‘You’re here. Come on back to my office.’
He turned and she followed, feeling a little like a pebble in the wake of an avalanche. At least, she thought as they made their way down a long interior hall, his staff liked him. Several of them smiled up at him as they passed, and only one – another large gentleman, with a buzz cut like a stiff, grey brush – stared with something like concern.
‘So, Ms Schwartz, is your thesis all done? All your students packed off for the break?’ Rogovoy settled heavily behind his desk, leaving Dulcie to sit in the scratched-up wooden chair facing him. ‘You don’t have enough to do?’
‘What? No.’ She smiled to think that he had so little understanding of the grad student’s lot. ‘I’m utterly swamped. To be honest, I was hoping that I could simply throw myself into writing during the break. Make some real headway on my dissertation, but—’
‘But you saw the latest alert and decided you had to help us solve the crime wave.’ He definitely sounded tired. ‘Because you had some special insight.’
‘Exactly!’ Dulcie remembered why she liked the detective. ‘Only, it’s not an insight exactly. It’s an actual bit of information. You see, I was at the library last night.’
‘What a surprise.’ Rogovoy had slouched over and seemed to be talking into his hand.
‘And I know that you have the wrong idea about your so-called suspect—’
‘Oh?’ Rogovoy sat up. ‘And how do you know this?’
‘Because I know.’ Dulcie paused. She needed to be clear. ‘Because I deeply suspect that you’ve picked up Jeremy Mumbleigh. The man everyone calls Mumbles. He fits the description, and I know he was hanging out in the entrance to Widener last night. But, Detective, I have to tell you, you’re wrong if you think the recent break-ins have anything to do with Jeremy. He wouldn’t do anything like that. He was a degree candidate at one point.’
The large policeman looked at her, his face twisted like he was in pain.
‘Detective, are you all right?’
He dropped his head and shook it, and Dulcie rose from her seat. ‘Detective?’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ He raised one plate-sized hand to stop her from approaching. ‘It’s just … your logic …’