by Clea Simon
‘Are we really expected to do all the reading?’ They peppered her with questions. ‘What’s going to be on the midterm?’
By the time she had calmed them down, another twenty minutes had passed, and she barely had time to bring up that week’s assignment. Luckily, one of the juniors had actually read all three sermons and managed a reasonable contrast and compare. While the freshmen scribbled furiously in their notebooks, Dulcie looked around, hoping for one other alert face.
‘Anyone want to comment?’ She looked around the table. One hand, raised by a spotty young man. ‘Dwayne?’ She smiled to put him at ease.
‘Is it true that you found a dead body in Dardley House?’ His voice, quiet but high, carried clearly. ‘And that you might be arrested for murder?’
By the time the section was over, Dulcie was exhausted. And by the time she’d cleared the room – yes, you do have to read it all, and, no, I fully expect to be here next week – it was time for her junior tutorial. Three students, all thesis-bound, who were looking to her to fulfill their requirement of a ‘pre-1850’ course. None of whom seemed to actually care about the books she assigned.
‘I have an idea,’ she said, as they took their seats. ‘Let’s try something different today.’ The tutorial took place in the departmental offices, a rather rundown clapboard house on a quiet side-street. This early in the season, the office windows were open for the breeze, and Dulcie was doing her best to ignore a robin as she talked.
Julie, her best student, perked up. The other two were staring out the window, and Dulcie had to fight the urge to close it.
‘To get more in the spirit of these books, let’s try to imagine what life was like for an author in 1804. For one of the Gothic she-authors, for example. What would she be dealing with?’
‘Sexism,’ Julie chimed in. ‘Family expectations. I mean, if she were married, she might have children.’
‘That’s true today, too.’ Sheila turned toward her colleague, and Dulcie smiled to see her become engaged. ‘Though at least we have birth control now.’
‘Well, how many women really wrote in those days, anyway?’ As the only male in the class, Damien tended to take a contrary viewpoint. ‘And, really, what does gender have to do with what you write?’
This was fertile ground for Dulcie, and for the first time that morning she forgot her problems, talking about the rise of the women authors of popular fiction. ‘You could say they set the stage for much of what is happening in publishing today,’ she concluded.
‘Depends how you look at it.’ Damien didn’t seem to think the subject was closed. ‘I mean, back then, maybe a woman writer was killed in childbirth. But, hey, look at what happened to the visiting scholar over at Dardley House. You were there, right?’
Clearly, it was going to be a long day. At last, however, she was alone, the upstairs conference room a peaceful refuge from everything but her thoughts. For a moment, she closed her eyes. That robin was still singing, and with the warm breeze, she could almost pretend it was still summer break. Still last week, even, before her world had fallen apart.
There was no going back, however. Mr Grey had said something to that effect, and she knew it to be true. And so she opened her bag and took out the stray manuscript page once more. Turning it over, she examined it – locating the sticky spot on its back. It wasn’t, she realized with relief, blood. Instead, it felt like a glue stick or syrup, something that had caused it to adhere to her own pad. But when? Dulcie ran through the possibilities in her mind. Her pad had been in her desk, but she’d had her bag with her when she’d gone to Dardley House. And, yes, she had dropped her bag on the floor when she’d entered and first seen the Poe statue, lying on the floor. Had she picked it up then? Had it somehow adhered to something in or near her bag? Try as she might, Dulcie couldn’t reconstruct how she had left that room – only the sound of her own horrified screams and the quiet steady voice of Mr Grey, telling her to flee.
Still, that was the only opportunity she could imagine for the page to have gotten into her bag. And hadn’t the police looked through her bag anyway? She’d heard horror stories, but somehow she couldn’t see Detective Rogovoy planting the page in there.
She read the page again.
‘Her own misspent life . . .’ A grim chuckle escaped her lips. The writer – Melinda – had most likely been referring to the anonymous author of The Ravages. Right now, however, Dulcie felt like it applied to her. If only she could flee. If only oceans were as big a barrier now as they were then.
Though maybe, the thought struck her, they weren’t. Her author had gotten some attention for The Ravages, but then had fled the Old World, and gone into hiding here. Dulcie had always assumed the trouble was new, something to do with American politics. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe something – or someone – had pursued her. Dulcie shook her head. Whatever had happened, her author deserved better than Melinda’s cheesy wordplay. This had been a woman in danger of her life, desperate to write – to let her voice be heard.
So why had she gone quiet all those years ago? When she’d first hit these shores, her essays had announced her presence. Her distinctive voice – and progressive opinions – had helped Dulcie track her down. Then . . . nothing! Granted, if there was indeed a missing novel, then maybe that was part of the reason. Dulcie had enough trouble teaching and writing her dissertation. Working on a novel and also selling political essays would be tiring, to say the least. But if that was the case, how did she live? The Ravages had too much about poverty, about the hunger and scrimping that faced the impoverished, if noble Hermetria, for Dulcie to believe its author had been a wealthy woman.
Had she gotten a job of some sort here in the New World? Had she – Dulcie stumbled on a novel thought – married?
‘Too often, those bonds cripple us, tearing all natural joys from our hearts, our babes from our arms, and our affections from all that we would hold dear. No, ’tis better for a woman to stand alone, for to be friendless is to know that which is true for our Sex.’
No, how could the woman who wrote such things about the legal standing of married women have allowed herself to be so enslaved? More likely she was a well-to-do widow, Dulcie told herself. Someone who had experienced the ‘disequal bonds’ and lived to tell the tale.
If she had lived. Unbidden, the image of Melinda, her glossy hair all mucked up with blood, came to Dulcie’s mind, pulling her back to the present. Any chance she would have of solving the mystery of her author, or of finishing her thesis, centered on getting this case cleared up. The police had cleared her of murder. Or had they?
Detective Rogovoy had been trying to reach her, she remembered with a twinge of guilt. And Suze had warned her that the investigation was still ongoing. But the big detective had seemed so sympathetic. He’d agreed that the timing didn’t make sense, that Melinda had been dead for at least a bit before Dulcie had entered the library. Had he changed his mind? Her own department seemed to think she had stolen Melinda’s work. And then, what? Killed her in a confrontation?
Dulcie sat back hard, struck by the realization. It did make sense, all of it. She could have had some kind of argument with Melinda, fighting over the research or defending herself from the visiting scholar’s accusations. Then, if she had killed her, she could have left and then come back, only to ‘discover’ the body.
Granted, she’d have to be a much more cold-blooded type to pull off such a feat. But, well, someone had.
Voices in the hallway broke her out of her daze, and suddenly she looked down at the page before her in a new light. If anyone saw this, they would think . . .
‘No!’ With an involuntary shout, Dulcie shoved the paper back into her bag.
‘Everything all right in here?’ Martin Thorpe’s balding head appeared in the doorway.
‘Just dandy,’ replied Dulcie, her voice unnaturally high. She swallowed, her mouth dry, and waited for the inevitable follow up. ‘Looking over my notes,’ she added.
�
�Fine, fine.’ The head withdrew. Thorpe, she realized, was about as eager to talk with her as she with him. Still, he was her adviser, and before she even thought about calling Rogovoy back, she needed to find out where she stood with the university.
‘Mr Thorpe?’ Making sure her bag was securely shut, Dulcie ventured into the hallway. As the acting chair, Thorpe had his own office down the hall. ‘May I come in?’
He looked up nervously. ‘Yes?’
It was a question, not an answer, but she entered anyway and sat in the chair reserved for visitors, tucking her bag between her feet.
‘I wanted to ask about the process for my – ah – hearing.’ There, the words were out.
‘Oh.’ He looked down at his blotter, but apparently the answer wasn’t written there. ‘What did you want to know?’
‘The dean didn’t really explain what happens. Should I be doing anything?’ Or not doing, she was tempted to add.
‘No,’ he said and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. The dean will appoint a committee, and that committee will examine the suspected work, and then we will receive a ruling.’
Something struck Dulcie as odd. ‘What work?’ She didn’t mean to be rude, but the question came out sounding abrupt.
‘What work?’ Her adviser seemed startled.
‘Yes.’ Dulcie was on to something now. ‘What did I write that has supposedly been plagiarized? My paper was totally vetted before it was published.’ She remembered the weeks of worry. Peer panels were notorious for acting on minor grievances and jealousies. ‘And it was approved with very few changes.’ A scholar at Princeton, she recalled, had objected to her use of the word ‘feminist’, calling it a ‘contemporary, nay, postmodern reinterpretation of what was essentially a humanist argument.’ She had hemmed and hawed about that one for a bit but finally, on Thorpe’s urging, rephrased the offending sentence to avoid the word. ‘As you may recall.’
‘Well, they missed something.’ Thorpe dismissed those weeks of work with a wave. ‘I seem to have as well, because it has come to the dean’s attention that some of your writing, some of the writing that would potentially make up your doctoral dissertation, paralleled the work of the late Melinda Sloane Harquist and—’
‘My dissertation isn’t finished.’ Dulcie didn’t mean to interrupt. He was still her adviser. This, however, was too much. ‘How could he have read any of it?’
She stopped and watched as her adviser turned red. As the flush crept up his cheeks, her own warmed with the realization. Trista had been right. ‘It wasn’t just the paper. You showed him my work. You gave him the chapters I’ve been writing.’
‘I . . . Well, that is to say . . .’ Thorpe sputtered and grew even redder. ‘He asked, Dulcie. And, I mean, he’s the dean.’
‘But, but . . .’ Now it was her turn to grasp at words. ‘But why?’
Her adviser shook his head. ‘All he told me was that he’d been tipped off. That someone had said that you were planning on stealing Ms Sloane Harquist’s work.’
His voice grew quieter, and he looked at Dulcie with what seemed like honest sympathy. ‘You might ask yourself the same question, Ms Schwartz. You might want to look around, and see who your enemies might be.’
THIRTY-TWO
The page in her bag had to be an accident. Dulcie wandered away from the old house, repeating that like a mantra. It was sticky. She’d leaned on it, or put her pad down on it. Something. Nobody would have put it in her bag – why would anyone?
Could she really have an enemy – enemies – who would want to frame her for murder?
Despite her new-found discomfort with her adviser, Dulcie had been temped to stay in the cozy clapboard. Thorpe might not be much for defending her, but at least she knew him. And once he’d gotten over the shock that her disgrace could bring to his career, he’d been, well, if not helpful, at least honest. Someone had accused her of plagiarism, he’d told her, and she believed him. Thorpe was too much of a sycophant to misquote a dean. If Haitner had told Thorpe that someone had tipped him off about Dulcie, then someone had. Someone who had access to her dissertation in the works. Someone who also knew Melinda.
Dulcie had reached the corner and automatically turned toward home. It was nearly lunchtime, and even if Chris weren’t awake yet, Esmé would be better company than her own thoughts. Maybe Mr Grey would have some advice as to how to proceed. Maybe Mr Grey . . .
She stopped short, a vision of staring green eyes appearing suddenly before her. That gaze said it all, or should have. Mr Grey had been a hunter. He would want her to help herself. Dulcie could easily picture the large grey cat as he had been in life, grabbing a pen cap off her desk for a quick game of pen hockey. Or maneuvering the kitchen cabinet open so he could get at his treats. Mr Grey looked out for her, she knew that, but he was ultimately a cat of the Kipling style: a cat who walked alone. Dulcie wasn’t alone, but she needed to do what she could to help herself.
Besides, she realized, she’d become all too reactive. The last proactive move she’d made had been to approach Andrew Geisner. She’d given up when she’d seen him meeting with Darlene and Rafe, and when she’d heard Chris’s message – saying that Darlene was working for the dean – she’d been too distracted to pursue the handsome undergrad. Today, she had no excuse, and as she turned back toward the Square, her conviction was rewarded. There, just ahead, ducking under a hedge, was a large grey longhair. He turned to peer up at her, regal in stature, and with the kind of intelligent, pointed face that looked more Siamese than Persian. For a moment, he paused, fixing her with his intent green eyes. Then he lashed his tail and pounced on some unseen prey, and he was gone.
‘Thanks, Mr Grey,’ Dulcie said under her breath. She couldn’t resist: she had stopped at that hedge and peeked under it. She’d seen nothing and hadn’t really expected anything else. But she felt her resolve strengthen with a new sense of purpose – and feline support.
The question, she realized as Memorial Hall came into sight, was how to find Andrew – alone. Her original thought had involved running him down at Dardley House again, but she had no idea if he’d be there, or who he’d be with. For a moment, she wavered. It was close to lunch; maybe she should take a break first.
The ringing of her phone broke off her deliberations. ‘Hello?’ She answered without checking to see who was calling. ‘Chris?’
‘No, it’s Lloyd. Are you busy?’ Until she heard her office mate’s voice, Dulcie hadn’t realized how badly she wanted to patch things up with her boyfriend. For now, however, it would be better to let him sleep.
‘Not really. What’s up?’ As soon as she asked, she had a second realization. She wanted this to be about office hours, or some mundane maintenance issue concerning the listing of midterms. Anything but what Lloyd said next.
‘I managed to get a hold of Rafe. It was . . . interesting.’ The pause in his voice was anything but encouraging. ‘Do you have a minute to talk about it?’
‘Sure,’ said Dulcie. She was only a few blocks from their office. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Enemies. Dulcie didn’t know if the word was coming from Mr Grey or from her own fears. Her own dreams had hinted as much, and Thorpe himself had warned her. Now, as she walked, all she could think about was how silly she had been to not tell Lloyd her suspicions. If Rafe really was behind all her troubles, then taking him into their confidence had been a huge mistake. But Lloyd liked the senior tutor. Trusted him . . .
With a heavy heart and feet that felt similarly leaden, Dulcie passed through the security gate and clattered down the stairs to the basement corridor. At least, she realized as she walked up to their open office door, Lloyd was here alone. If he’d brought his buddy for a chat, she wasn’t sure what she’d have done.
‘Hey, Lloyd.’ She shrugged off her bag, and took as much time as possible tucking it into that messy bottom drawer. ‘What’s up?’ she asked finally.
Lloyd rolled his chair up toward her desk and leaned in befor
e speaking. ‘Something’s wrong, Dulcie. Rafe is uneasy,’ he said, his voice low. ‘And he thinks you should be, too.’
‘Huh?’ This wasn’t what Dulcie had expected. Unless it was all some kind of misdirection. ‘Why should he be worried about me?’
‘He thinks you’re close to something. Something big.’ Lloyd looked so serious, but Dulcie didn’t buy it.
‘That’s nonsense.’ She pushed back her own chair. ‘I’m a graduate student studying an obscure book from a maligned discipline. Nobody cares about what I discover. Well, nobody except for Melinda.’
‘That’s just it.’ Lloyd pulled his chair closer still. ‘He thinks it’s all about The Ravages author, and Melinda’s thesis.’
‘Lloyd.’ She had to stop him, to explain. ‘Look, I should have told you yesterday. I know Rafe is your friend and all, but I think he’s involved – and not in a good way. I ran into his girlfriend in the library yesterday. He had her tracking down some quotes, basically, doubling up on books that I’ve been working on. I think we’ve been looking at this the wrong way, because we’ve thought of him as an American specialist, while my dissertation and –’ she swallowed before adding – ‘Melinda’s is on a London-born author. But she came to the United States and she wrote here, too. And I think he’s looking for the missing work himself.’
‘Well, of course he is!’ Lloyd’s interruption stopped her short. ‘He has to. He’s under suspicion, too. I mean, I told you they used to go out, right?’
Dulcie shook her head. ‘No, I don’t mean he’s looking for Melinda’s thesis. I think he’s looking for the missing novel – the one Thomas Paine wrote about. The one by my author.’ Quickly, she filled Lloyd in on her research, the letters, the printed page she’d found, and the manuscript fragment she’d managed to read before the Mildon was closed to her. ‘Didn’t I ever tell you?’