by Clea Simon
‘Mr Griddlehaus?’ It had taken Dulcie another twenty minutes, but she had found him, hunkered down in the reading room. Like circulation, the vast room was nearly empty, the green-shaded lamps over its central wood table glowing like a sign of spring. And at the very end of the table, balding pate reflecting that soft light, was the little librarian, bent over what looked like a large-format book.
She had walked up as quietly as she could, not wanting to disturb him, and then waited, watching as he ran his finger down one page. He was so intent on it that she began to regret her silent approach. Surely, no one likes to be snuck up on.
‘Excuse me?’ She spoke as softly as she could, but still he jumped, spinning around so quickly he almost lost his glasses.
‘Ms Schwartz!’ He reached up to adjust those glasses, their large, square frames too big for his face. ‘I’m so sorry. I hadn’t thought that you would be waiting around and what happened – the alarm …’
‘It’s OK, Mr Griddlehaus.’ She pulled out the chair next to his and sat. ‘It shook me up as well, and I knew you were going to inquire.’ A horrible thought hit her. ‘You weren’t – the collection – it’s …’
‘It’s safe.’ He reached out to pat her hand, then quickly withdrew again. ‘I located Mr Truckworth and he assured me that the flood is nowhere near the Mildon. It has played havoc with the electrical grid, I gather, although our circuitry seemed to be in fine shape. However, according to the powers that be, without the elevator and without the proper lighting and alarms in the hallway, the collection is considered unsafe. We are banned until further notice.’ He sighed. ‘Sometimes, I wonder if this is all even necessary.’
Dulcie nodded, responding as much to the skepticism in his voice as his words. ‘Ruby was telling me something about the extra work they’re doing. Something about the foundation?’
He nodded, and the light shone off his lenses. ‘You’d think they would have properly excavated, but never mind. I don’t want you to worry. The Mildon is safe as – well, safe as the upperclass houses. Well, as safe as they are now, at any rate.’
‘That’s good to know.’ It was, and despite Griddlehaus’s strange phrasing, Dulcie felt her anxiety level ratchet down a notch. ‘But I was actually hoping to talk to you about another matter.’ She paused, unsure how to continue. ‘I gather you know Jeremy Mumbleigh?’
‘Of course.’ Griddlehaus blinked up at her. ‘I’ve known Jeremy for years.’
‘You have?’ This was unexpected.
He nodded, those glasses flashing again. ‘I remember when Jeremy first came to the university for his studies. He was, well, he was not unlike you, Ms Schwartz. So earnest, so committed.’
He paused, lost in thought, and Dulcie felt her spirits sink. It was true, then. Only a dissertation stood between her and being called Mumbles.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want you to think …’ Griddlehaus reached out again, his hand, soft and pink on her wrist. ‘I didn’t mean …’
Dulcie held up her own hand to stop him. Clearly, her concern had shown on her face. ‘It’s fine, Mr Griddlehaus. I am going to finish my dissertation.’
‘If only that was all it was,’ Griddlehaus said with a sigh. But before Dulcie could probe further, he went on. ‘You were asking for a reason, no doubt?’
‘Yes.’ She gathered her thoughts. ‘I was told that you identified a book that Jeremy had on him when he was taken to health services last night.’
‘A book?’ Griddlehaus’s eyebrows shot up as enlightenment dawned. ‘So that’s who found it! Well, that explains it.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Everybody in the library system knows Jeremy, Ms Schwartz.’ Even though they were alone, the librarian leaned toward Dulcie, his voice low. ‘Some of us old-timers have even been known to let him use that outdated card he still carries. Nothing so valuable, of course, but he clearly loves books, and he manages to take good care of them, somehow.’ Griddlehaus paused, momentarily lost in thought. ‘Anyway, this was clearly a mix up – but it did prove useful.’
Dulcie shook her head, utterly confused.
‘The book.’ Griddlehaus looked at her as if his point were obvious. ‘It was a first American edition – well, part of the first edition. The 1833 He Could Not Tell Her was printed in two volumes, you know.’
‘Of course,’ said Dulcie. ‘But – I’m confused. You sound as if Jeremy did you a favor, but you’re one of the reasons he’s been arrested.’
‘I am?’ Griddlehaus blinked in shock, looking more than usual like a white mouse. ‘But I thought … all I did was identify the volume. The university police officer asked for my advice. I immediately recognized the binding. It had been partially restored, you see. Half of the binding had been replaced here in the university.’ Seeing the expression on Dulcie’s face, he redirected his thoughts. ‘My assumption was that someone on the staff had been able to locate it, either through diligence or sheer good luck. That perhaps it had been misfiled, somehow. Perhaps during some previous renovation.’
‘You didn’t know that Jeremy has been accused of stealing it?’ Dulcie asked in disbelief. ‘The police seem to think he might be involved with the break-ins on campus.’
Griddlehaus only shook his head, a stunned look on his pale face. ‘But that makes no sense. It’s not like someone simply grabbed it and took off with it. As you know, Ms Schwartz, it’s a minor work, although an important part of our collection. But it’s been missing since 1989.’
SEVEN
‘But why …’ Dulcie paused, unable to sort out the questions that flooded her mind. ‘Why do they think Jeremy stole it, even though it’s been missing for so long?’ That one, at least, got out.
Thomas Griddlehaus shrugged. ‘It is university property,’ he said. ‘And it did disappear from the collection around the time of the stacks heist. I’m sure you’ve heard of that.’
Dulcie shook her head.
‘Before your time,’ said the librarian. ‘But I would’ve thought … At any rate, that’s why we have our current security protocol. And why, I am sure, the university is being so careful about the current construction work. Work was being done on the library that summer, and a portion of one of the more recently acquired collections went missing and was presumed stolen. Most of the works were recovered eventually, but not all. Between you and I, there was talk about how perhaps there was never a theft on a grand scale, and that instead, in all the hubbub, many works were merely misplaced. They weren’t the most showy books in that particular collection, and frankly many of them were not highly valued by the powers that be. The book found on Jeremy’s person was one of those.’
‘Then maybe it wasn’t stolen at all.’ Dulcie knew she was grabbing at straws. ‘Maybe it had been misfiled and Jeremy found it.’
‘It is true that he would have recognized it,’ said Griddlehaus, looking thoughtful. ‘He is – was – quite the scholar in his day.’
‘You don’t think he’s had it for all these years, do you?’ Dulcie couldn’t help but wonder.
‘I don’t know.’ Griddlehaus looked as mystified as she was. ‘Where would he have kept it?’
‘So you think he’s homeless, too?’ All those times she had seen him in doorways, shivering, came back to her now.
‘I don’t know what to think, Ms Schwartz,’ he replied, the reading-room light reflecting off those big glasses. ‘Do you?’
The conversation had gone downhill from there. Griddlehaus had been unable to tell her when the Mildon would reopen; his only answer – ‘not long, not long at all’ – seemed to be born more from wishful thinking than from any hard evidence. Her friend had also been unable to answer her questions about Jeremy. Not only did he not know where the injured scholar spent his nights, he also didn’t know if the poor man had any family – or any contact at all with the past, beyond the university.
‘And now,’ he’d said finally, blinking up at her through those thick lenses, ‘there is a matter I was involved in rese
arching …’
‘Of course.’ Dulcie nearly jumped back. ‘I’ll let you be.’
‘Maybe it’s just as well if he gets hooked up with social services,’ Dulcie said to herself as she made her way down the street. Although few of her questions had been answered, her dormant appetite had re-emerged. Jeremy might not be able to enjoy Lala’s yet, but she could.
‘Welcome!’ Lala herself was at the counter when Dulcie walked in. As always, she took a moment to acclimate herself. The tiny storefront was fragrant with spices and grilled meats, and Dulcie’s stomach grumbled in appreciation. ‘Just you?’
‘Just me.’ Dulcie heard the note of sadness in her voice. So did Lala, and the big proprietress looked over her shoulder as she led Dulcie to a small table, the question clear in her eyes.
‘Chris is visiting his mom,’ Dulcie explained. ‘And Trista, well, all of them are gone. In fact, I was wondering …’ She stopped. How welcome would a threadbare street person be in a restaurant, even one as welcoming as Lala’s?
Lala pulled out a chair and sat, clearly waiting for Dulcie to continue.
‘You ever think about something too late?’ Dulcie sat opposite her. Something about the big woman was comforting. ‘Something that maybe you should have done for someone?’
‘It is rarely too late.’ Lala’s voice was soft and deep.
‘Maybe not.’ Dulcie thought back. ‘I was wishing that I had followed through and taken someone here to eat. But maybe … well, I’m not sure he would have been welcome.’
Lala’s eyebrows went up, and before she could protest, Dulcie rushed to explain.
‘Not because of you. I mean, he’s – well, he’s kind of odd. And he’s clean. At least, I think he is. But he may be homeless.’
‘You mean Jeremy?’ With her accent, the ‘J’ sounded soft as a caress.
Dulcie sat back in surprise. ‘You know him?’
‘Of course.’ Lala sounded surprised. ‘He is as much a part of the Square as you or I, or Out of Town News.’
‘I guess.’ Dulcie looked at her friend with new respect. ‘I was thinking … he’s so skinny.’
‘Appetite like a bird. No.’ Lala held up a hand as if to stop herself. ‘A bird eats more. Now, for a cold day, soup.’ Having prescribed for Dulcie, she stood up.
‘Wait, Lala?’ Dulcie hadn’t realized what a font of information the big restaurateur would be. ‘Do you know if Jeremy has any family? Or where he lives – or anything?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know where you live. Or you me.’ She turned to walk toward the kitchen. ‘This is the city,’ she called over her shoulder.
A slim young waiter showed up less than a minute later, bearing not only a wide saucer of Lala’s famous split pea soup but also several slices of herb-crusted flat bread.
Dulcie dipped her spoon into the soup and for a little while thought of nothing else. It had been a while since she’d indulged. When Chris was home – Dulcie couldn’t help but think of their Cambridgeport apartment by that term rather than her boyfriend’s natal New Jersey – they had been working on cooking more together, and even packing lunches for the days when they were stuck on campus. This had been Chris’s idea: he’d applied his math skills to their budget, and even Dulcie had been able to understand the resulting numbers. Now that Chris was no longer working the more profitable overnight shifts, if they wanted to take any kind of vacation this summer – out west to visit Lucy or maybe even a brief sojourn at the Cape – they had to start cutting back somewhere.
By the time she’d moved on to the bread, though, other thoughts began to intrude. Who was Jeremy Mumbleigh, really, and how had he come into possession of a rare book? Dulcie did not want to believe that the skinny, scared man was a thief. She couldn’t believe that he’d been carrying around the missing volume for more than twenty-five years. There had to be another explanation. But the first step toward finding it – and to helping him clear his name – was to uncover a bit more about the man himself.
But how? As she dragged her bread through the last puddle of thick green soup, she found herself wondering about trails and traces. And about how she could find out more about Jeremy Mumbleigh.
The university offices were closed for the break, even those that weren’t having their basements excavated. Besides, any authorities with any information were unlikely to share it with Dulcie: her experience at the health services had driven that home. She wasn’t a family member, and she had no legal reason to delve into Jeremy’s past. As she walked, she thought about what Lala had said. Was it true that in a city nobody really got to know anybody else? She thought of Chris and their absent friends – but they had all met through the university, and that was more like a village than the surrounding city.
Jeremy was part of the university too, she told herself, her thoughts circling back. And yet all she knew about him—
She stopped. His library card. He had been a member of the community. A small, well-knit community. And while his heyday was probably long before the rise of the Internet, there had to be some trace of him in one of the databases. A paper or a class schedule or …
Pushing her bowl aside, Dulcie pulled her laptop from the oversized denim messenger bag she always carried and set it up on the table. As she waited for her various search functions to wake, she licked the last of the breadcrumbs from her fingers and started typing: JEREMY MUMBLEIGH. It would do for starters.
She got the phone book. There was the Jeremy Mumbleigh who owned a dry cleaners in Topeka. Another whose wedding photo showed a very different individual. The one intriguing lead – Jeremy Mumbleigh Convicted – proved to be from seventy years before, too early by any stretch of the imagination.
‘You are done?’ Dulcie looked up to see Lala glaring, her heavy arms crossed over her chest.
‘I – I’m sorry, Lala.’ Dulcie reached for the last piece of bread, swiping it over the remnants of the soup. ‘I just had an idea about Jeremy.’
‘Huh.’ Lala didn’t sound convinced, and as she reached for the laptop, Dulcie had to fight the urge to grab it back. It wasn’t much of a machine, but Chris kept it running in tip-top condition. If the chef smacked it to the ground in a fit of pique, she’d be hard pressed to replace it.
Dulcie held her breath as Lala lifted the laptop like a pizza, on one flat palm. With the other, to Dulcie’s surprise, she began typing. ‘Your search is too broad,’ she said, without looking up. ‘Here.’
Dulcie reached up for the machine and lowered it back to the table. Lala had accessed what looked like the university news offices. Mumbleigh Wins Dorchester Prize, read one entry. Scholar Identifies Mystery Gift as Legacy of Early American Collector.
She clicked through to find a picture of a tall young man, bearded, standing rather awkwardly over the short round figure of the late Dean Goodman. It was Jeremy, all right, even down to the awkward slouch – the result, Dulcie guessed, of always being the tallest person in the room.
‘Now, dessert?’ Lala was beaming. ‘I have honey cake.’
‘That would be lovely, Lala.’ Dulcie smiled right back, relief and gratitude warming her even more than the soup had done. ‘Thank you.’
Later, back in her carrel, Dulcie wished for more of that honey cake and, even more deeply, for more of Lala’s formidable research skills. That article and the three that had followed had given her a much better sense of who Jeremy Mumbleigh had been. A rising star in her own field, though he never looked any more comfortable in front of the camera, he had been instrumental in analyzing the work of several early nineteenth-century authors. He had won the Dorchester – the largest of several prizes the university devoted to library research – for his work with an anonymous donation that had come in years before and had mystified the library staff.
Dulcie smiled to think of it. Griddlehaus, she was sure, would not have been thrown by the worn traveling cases and their confusing contents. She pictured him as she had left him, bent over a reference work with furi
ous intent.
Jeremy must have had similar zeal. Thanks to him, Dulcie read, the collection, a bequest whose paperwork had somehow been lost, had belatedly been credited to one Josiah Stavendish, a distant American cousin of the eighteenth Earl of that name. As befitted a wealthy American with close ties to European nobility, he had collected several important pieces, of which the two-volume He Could Not Tell Her, a minor American Gothic, had been only one of the lesser prizes. The most valued, the piece that had made the collection headline news, was an early, privately bound copy of the Islington Bible, which Stavendish had reputedly won from a South African collector in a high-stakes poker game. The book was a treasure in its own right – one of the few surviving copies of this particular translation, which had been done illegally and smuggled into England during the Reformation. But what had garnered all the attention was its jewel-encrusted cover, bestowed upon the faded and hand-copied manuscript in the flurry of new wealth following the Glorious Revolution of 1688.
Dulcie knew the Islington Bible, of course. Everyone who studied in the department did. To scholars, like Griddlehaus and herself, the Islington’s fancy cover was beside the point – the gilding on the lily. What were really of interest were the colloquialisms inside – what the proscribed translation revealed about the language and the mindset of the time. Those words might as well have been scrawled in blood for all their rarity, and their frailty – light and the years had already nearly done the text in. But to the tourists who queued up to gape at it during the two days a year that it was on display, those cabochon-cut emeralds and rubies were the treasure.
True to form, the next three stories she clicked to were all about the Islington Bible. Close-ups of the jeweled cover and the creation about its special display case, along with the plans for public viewing, were given in detail. A jeweler’s appraisal of those large stones had resulted in a bit of disappointment: for all their size, it seemed they were flawed. ‘Too showy,’ Dulcie muttered to herself.