by Clea Simon
Dulcie couldn’t help but see it as a message, maybe from her own Mr Grey. Maybe one that had relevance to her own work.
Hidden in the old binding like that, the mark’s meaning had not at first been clear, despite its resemblance to her late, great cat. But as she reread that passage in the manuscript, she could not help but wonder – what if the hiding place referred to was not a secret compartment within the walls of the library, but within another book? That would explain why the slight warping of a teardrop would cause such concern … Wasn’t there a line about that? She began to scroll back over her notes, looking for something … a reference. A line. That blotted tear, for example. Couldn’t that mean …?
She scrolled through the text for several minutes, as Griddlehaus softly hummed beside her. Maybe it was that humming – the little man had no sense of rhythm – that stopped her. She was being overly literal. Almost structuralist, one might say, which while it might please Thorpe, her adviser, was not appropriate to the work in hand. The Gothic novelists, her author included, tended to go overboard with their imagery and mix and match their metaphors simply for the effect. The heroine blotting a tear might be a clue – a semiotic signifier, if you will – or simply a way to signal regret to the reader. Still, Dulcie wondered.
What if this novel had been hidden in the bindings of another book not by chance but by design?
She looked over at Griddlehaus, bent over his work and silent once again. What was the point of working with a colleague if she couldn’t ask for a consult? But, no, she didn’t dare disturb him. Not when he had opened his sanctuary up to her.
Besides, the idea was a silly one. Most of what Dulcie had uncovered of this new novel had come from a known collection. The Philadelphia bequest had contained references to a much-loved romantic adventure, as well as pages of the book itself from an edition printed in the early 1800s. This was not some kind of forbidden text, like the Islington Bible had been in its day. This was a novel. A fun work of fiction, designed to thrill and entertain.
Unless there was more to it. Dulcie sat back and closed her eyes, trying to think it through. There was a line she had read, she was sure of it. Something that referred to secrecy or to hiding manuscripts away.
She needed to consider this rationally, as an academic and not as some overheated fan. Odds were, the novel that meant so much to her had been used as scrap simply because it had not been highly valued. Most of the Gothic novels were not, even in their own day, and time had not been kind to the genre – or its reputation. Many had been lost to age and lack of concern, much like so much popular fiction of our own time was probably destined to be pulped. Just because one scholar or a collector had admired the work – and that letter Dulcie had found did prove her author had her fans – did not mean that this opinion was widely shared.
Besides, she thought, staring at the top of Griddlehaus’s head, other factors could have come into play. Perhaps once the work was printed, the original manuscript had been discarded intentionally, as so much rough copy or paper to be sold as scrap. From what Dulcie knew of the anonymous author, she was a self-supporting woman, a writer who lived by her novels and by the proceeds of a series of political essays – and perhaps by the sale of her unwanted or used materials. Everything she had written, under a variety of pseudonyms, shared certain distinctive phrases as well as a decidedly modern, egalitarian – and, yes, frugal – mindset.
Much like the heroine of this novel. The thought sprang into her head as if it had been whispered.
‘Mr Grey?’ She mouthed the words silently, resisting the urge to turn around, to search for the cat.
Silence. In truth, she wasn’t sure she had heard anything. The scratching of her companion’s pen. His gentle breathing. The voice – if voice it was – had merely followed her own train of thought. Dulcie had begun her thesis with the study of a different novel, The Ravages of Umbria. In that, Dulcie had discovered not only the author’s unique voice but also a strong feminist sensibility, a moral sense turned into enthralling entertainment through the use of vivid characterization and hair-raising adventure. This new book, though, was something different. Yes, it still relied on many of the Gothic conventions: its heroine was first seen fleeing from some kind of demonic – or at least really nasty – suitor. And that suitor – Dulcie was pretty sure it was him – was then found bludgeoned in a library, possibly by the heroine herself.
Yes, it was fantastic – in all senses of the word. It was also, Dulcie had begun to suspect, based on real-life experience. Although she had no hard proof, Dulcie was becoming increasingly certain that the author had fled England, fled an abusive relationship. Therefore, if she chose to write about her life, she had reason to fear what reaction such a tale might provoke. Even cloaked in the guise of fiction, what she was saying was strong: speaking out for the right of women, even married women, for self-determination. Taking a stand against abuse, even by ‘the Lawful Mate to whom both Church and State grant Power o’er our lesser Selves, e’en as his bodily Might brooks no Challenge.’
Yes, she might have feared the publication of this book.
Dulcie opened her laptop, which sprang awake with a swirl of light and color, and was about to start typing, when another question stopped her hand. If, she thought, fingers poised above the keyboard, writing such a work was so dangerous, why do it at all?
Dulcie sighed. This is where her argument fell short. Sure, there were a dozen possibilities. Perhaps the author thought her story would prove more palatable as fiction, its essential message of equality sugar-coated with the trappings of a wild adventure. Perhaps the author hoped to smuggle the book to somewhere more permissive and the cover of fiction was to ease its passage. Perhaps she was waiting for someone – her abuser, perhaps, or his family – to die. Perhaps she was writing for her own posterity. Some of her pieces had hinted at a child, a daughter, who might one day seek to learn about her parentage and who would treasure the truth, even if she came of abuse and violence.
And perhaps Dulcie would never know. For now, however, she should concentrate on what she did know – or what she could determine. Shaking her head to clear it, she focused once more on the notes in front of her, the notes that she had compiled through long hours of serious study. At the very least, she had more information now about the source of some of those pages she had worked so hard to read. If the conservators could tell her any more about where those pages were found, well, that might give her more clues to follow. Real facts would trump idle speculation any day.
TWENTY
Stowed so safely in the Hold secure, a Passenger of faith within her Berth …
That was the line! It had taken her an hour at least, but once she found it, it was all Dulcie could do to not crow with glee. There it was – the phrase she had remembered, that had been tickling her consciousness. It wasn’t proof – not in the sense that Chris would understand proof – but in her search for meaning, it was something upon which she could build a case.
These pages – the real, physical documents Dulcie had studied – were the stowaways to which the author was referring, Dulcie was sure of it. The author – her author – had wanted these pages to be read, even as she feared their reception.
It followed then that whether concealed with deliberate secrecy or hidden away by lucky fate, these pages had come down to her, Dulcinea Schwartz, for a reason. No, not a reason as Chris would understand it – he could be frighteningly literal – but in the sense that everything hidden deserved to be found. Or …
No, she would make that argument later. What mattered now was the text. Stowed so safely … She began a search for the metaphor of a ship, a passenger, or a passage. With furious fingers, she found herself backspacing over sentences, erasing hours of work about the author’s use of symbolism as simple social commentary. Well, she stopped herself, maybe some of that was still true. The demon wolves, for example, were probably stand-ins for a larger contemporary problem, rather than the author’s own personal bête noir or, sh
e shuddered to think of it, actual possessed beasts. In fact, the two might intersect. She paused. Had she erased too much?
‘Bother,’ she muttered, rereading what remained. She had.
‘What’s that?’ Griddlehaus sat up.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Dulcie said, looking up. She had become so involved in her own work that she had forgotten her friend trying to concentrate on his own reading close by.
‘No, not you.’ Griddlehaus silenced her with a raised hand, his head tilted as if on alert. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Schwartz, I thought I … yes, what is that?’
A muffled sound, like a bark. Or no, Dulcie thought, a man’s voice shouting.
‘Could the burglars have broken in again?’ She rose from her seat before Griddlehaus could restrain her.
‘Ms Schwartz, perhaps we shouldn’t—’
She was already out the door. Sure enough, the source of the ruckus was right near by: a cluster of people outside the back entrance of the library. From the hall, she could see Ruby and two of the uniformed police she had dealt with earlier. Stuart Truckworth was there, too. He was the one who had been yelling, apparently. His face red with effort, his fists clenched, he was leaning in toward one of the young officers, who was staring wide-eyed at the older man.
‘Sir!’ he was saying. ‘Sir, please!’
‘No!’ Truckworth yelled back, his voice hoarse but recognizable as the deep bark that had permeated Griddlehaus’s sanctum. ‘Please, you’ve got to understand. He’s my son.’
‘I kn-know he’s your son,’ the young cop managed to say, a slight stutter slowing his words. ‘We know that, sir.’
Dulcie stepped forward toward the library exit, only to find herself stopped by the outstretched arm of another officer. ‘Please, Miss.’
Still, from here she had a better view of the scene. Stuart Truckworth’s body was heaving, his face red. And behind the young officer, the one charged with answering the angry man, was Truckworth’s son: Kyle, his long, thin arms behind his back as another police officer read the skinny guard his rights.
‘Kyle?’ Surprise forced the question from Dulcie’s mouth. The officer blocking her way turned slightly but said nothing. None of the small crowd that had gathered seemed to hear her, either, though she thought Ruby was looking in her direction.
‘Excuse me, Officer?’ If she was going to be restrained, Dulcie figured she should at least be told why. ‘What’s happening here? Why are they holding Kyle like that?’
‘I’m sorry, Miss.’ His eyes were straight ahead again, avoiding hers. ‘I don’t have any information for you.’
‘Well, fine then.’ There were advantages to being short and so, without another word, Dulcie ducked down under the officer’s arm and darted out toward her friend. Ruby would know what was going on.
‘Miss!’ The officer reached for her, but she sprinted away. He stayed by the door, apparently charged with keeping people out of the scene – but not with seizing those who might evade him.
‘Ruby!’ She found her friend toward the back of the small crowd. Truckworth was still arguing with the officers. His lanky son, meanwhile, was being placed in the back of a cruiser. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s crazy,’ Ruby said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘They think Kyle was involved with the burglaries. That he was the inside source.’
‘But why?’ The crowd was growing, as the flashing light on the cop car drew curious bystanders from the street. Even with the campus largely deserted, it seemed, there were still enough people around to make up a small, bloodthirsty pack. Now that Kyle was out of sight, they were focusing on Stuart Truckworth. Still red-faced, his hands were no longer clenched. He was pleading, his voice grown hoarse with emotion.
‘He’s my son!’ He was reaching out, grabbing the arm of one of the cops, a big man in a knit cap. ‘You can’t think—’ She turned and, although Dulcie couldn’t see the cop’s look or what he said, she saw Truckworth let go suddenly and step back.
‘No idea. I mean, they’d started to search everyone’s lockers, but then the big cop said something to the uniforms.’ Ruby’s voice obscured the harried man’s pleas. ‘And they went straight to Kyle’s.’
‘Did they get a tip?’
‘Maybe.’ Ruby shrugged. Truckworth, meanwhile, had gone from pleading to a more general wail.
‘A thorn in my side!’ He was crying out to anyone who would listen. ‘All these years!’
‘We were all hanging around, wondering if we could go back to work soon, and a cop trotted over from the direction of Holyoke Center,’ Ruby was saying. ‘That older guy – the big one with the hair – asked Kyle for permission to go into his locker, and he said, “Yeah, sure.” The next thing I knew, they had asked Kyle to step aside and then they were putting cuffs on him.’
‘Poor guy.’ Dulcie didn’t know the red-haired guard well, but she found it hard to believe that anybody who worked in the library would betray it like that.
‘Yeah, really.’ Ruby was looking past Dulcie. ‘And after everything he’s been through with his father, too.’
‘His father didn’t have anything to do with it. Did he?’ Dulcie turned. The man had his face in his hands.
‘You heard him.’ Ruby nodded once toward the stricken man. ‘Going on about Kyle that way.’
‘Hang on,’ said Dulcie. ‘I just realized what’s happened.’
Ruby looked at her, waiting.
‘Someone must have told them to look in his locker.’ Dulcie paused to work through the ramifications. ‘Jeremy Mumbleigh must be awake.’
TWENTY-ONE
‘What are you talking about, Dulcie?’ Ruby asked.
‘The tip – the cop,’ said Dulcie. ‘You said one of them was coming from Holyoke, from the health services. The tip had to have come from Jeremy, from Mumbles. He must have identified his attacker. Hang on.’
Now that Kyle had been removed, the officer who had been standing guard on the library’s back entrance had stepped aside, and Dulcie ducked back in to get her coat and bag.
‘Ms Schwartz.’ Griddlehaus was still seated, although his expression showed his concern. ‘You ran off.’
‘I did. I’m sorry.’ She quickly pulled on her coat and threw her laptop and papers into her bag. ‘Thank you so much for letting me work here this afternoon. It’s a wonderful room,’ she said. ‘A real sanctuary.’
He looked down, a little abashed but obviously pleased by the compliment. ‘I’m so glad you appreciate it,’ he said. ‘I’ve not invited many people here, you know.’
‘I can understand that.’ Dulcie did. Not only was the reading room small, it took some of its charm from its hidden nature. More than a private study, the room was a charming nook – like the private den of a small animal. ‘And I’m very happy you did.’
‘You may use it whenever you’d like, you know.’ He was facing her now, though the pink in his cheeks was evidence of his earlier discomfort. ‘I believe you saw where we leave the key. It isn’t much of a secret, but we do like to keep the room locked, and as long as you promise to replace it when you are done, you should feel free to come and go. I myself find this room wonderfully conducive to research. In fact, I was also wondering if you might be interested in what I’ve uncovered.’
‘Thank you, Mr Griddlehaus. That would be wonderful.’ Dulcie was aware of the honor he was doing her. She was also aware of the passage of time. ‘But I’m afraid I’ve got to run now.’
He blinked, and her heart sank. She had not wanted to insult the gentle man.
‘I am interested, and I’d love to come here again, Mr Griddlehaus. Really,’ she said, feeling a bit warm in her coat. ‘But right now, well I’m not sure, but I think Jeremy Mumbleigh may have woken up.’
‘Oh, my!’ His reaction was not what she expected, as he jumped up and grabbed his own coat. ‘We’ve got to go then!’
Griddlehaus was a small man, not much taller than she was, but he was striding forward with energy, head down into a
wind that had grown much colder with the onset of dusk.
Some of his rush, Dulcie suspected, came from the time: visiting hours at the health services were roughly the same as with any hospital. But the fervor of the little man’s drive seemed to come from a deeper source. Dulcie wondered how much her questions had awakened old memories, and as she worked to keep pace with him, what those remembrances were.
‘Jeremy Mumbleigh.’ He was asking at the front desk while she was still catching her breath.
‘Third floor,’ she managed to gasp out, even before the receptionist located the name. ‘Thanks anyway.’
She led the way to the elevators. Just because Jeremy might have been able to talk to a cop didn’t mean he would be considered up to receiving visitors – especially visitors who could not claim to be immediate family. ‘Maybe we should come in below the radar,’ she said softly to her colleague as the elevator pinged and rose.
‘This way.’ The doors had opened on to the third floor, and Dulcie stepped forward. She had meant to warn Griddlehaus about the restrictions on visiting, but nobody stopped them as they proceeded. Perhaps it was the hour, but Dulcie credited their approach. The key, she belatedly remembered, was to look like you knew where you were going. This was a lesson she had picked up from Esmé, although the little cat’s occasional clumsiness often undermined her dignified – and seemingly entitled – mien.
The door to Jeremy’s room was ajar as they approached. A chubby young man was taking notes on the numbers that glowed and beeped on a monitor. Dulcie paused, unsure about how to respond if questioned. But her concerns evaporated when he turned toward her and nodded. ‘I’m almost done,’ he said. ‘You can come in.’
Dulcie wasn’t sure what she had expected. For him to be sitting up and eating his dinner, perhaps. At least for him to be awake and talking. What she saw instead lying there, so still she was grateful for the glowing beeps and lines of the machines, was a shock. It was Jeremy – she knew that from the shaggy silver hair that had been brushed back from his forehead. But beyond that, he was nearly unrecognizable. The lines in his long, patrician face looked deeper, as if carved. Against the pallor of his winter-white skin, the red of his chapped cheeks appeared fake, as if someone had applied make-up to a wax mannequin. Even his hands, which lay on top of the faded blue coverlet, looked foreign. She had never seen those long, slim fingers so still.