Authors: Clea Simon
Dulcie looked. The pen in the professor’s hand was a common ballpoint. Something odd was going on, and suddenly she didn’t want to share her fears. Still, he was looking at her, his blue eyes piercing.
‘Well, I was wondering about authenticating a lesser known work, actually.’ She was hedging and he knew it. His bushy eyebrows rose. ‘I mean, we accept so much at this point and we don’t really question the veracity of books once they’ve entered the canon, do we?’ She was waiting for him to slap her down. After all, earlier this week, he’d nearly laughed her out of the office for her curiosity about an author.
Much to her surprise, he seemed to be considering her question. ‘Interesting,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Do you have a particular work in mind?’
‘Well, of course I’m thinking at least a little about
The Ravages
.’ Saying that much wasn’t giving her suspicions away. He had to know that any questions would touch on her thesis. ‘After all, there are several versions of the surviving manuscript – of the surviving fragments, I mean. How do we know which version to trust?’
She was stalling. In truth, one of the best known studies of
The Ravages
, out of Berkeley, had already dissected the slight variations about five years before. It had attributed the minor changes to either subsequent editions or unauthorized reprints, much as Shakespeare’s works continued to change over the centuries, with editors modernizing spellings and adding stage directions. But how could she say that she was beginning to doubt that
The Ravages of Umbria
was even written in the late 1700s? That it might in fact be a hoax? Some later scholar’s idea of a joke? She might as well question her entire discipline. ‘What if a book isn’t what it seems? I mean, faked texts are being exposed all the time.’ There, she’d said it.
‘You’re thinking like a scholar, Dulcie.’ The professor chuckled slightly, startling Dulcie, who thought she was doing anything but. ‘In fact, I may have an interesting case. A previously undiscovered work.’ He got up and started looking through his bookshelf.
‘I was thinking more of falsified texts,’ Dulcie said. But the professor was on a roll. Browsing through the shelves, he pulled one book and replaced it, then another. ‘Professor?’
With a shake of his head, he turned around. ‘Nevermind. This is off the point for you, Miss Schwartz. I think you have your hands full with
The Ravages
.’
‘But I was talking about
The Ravages
—’
Bullock interrupted her. ‘Now, now, let’s not go off on tangents. We’ll meet when you have your next chapter ready. Ask Polly to schedule something.’ She was being dismissed.
‘Okay.’ She stood up. ‘Thanks, Professor.’ But Bullock remained deep in thought. Only as she let herself out did she see him start rustling through the papers on his desktop again. She could have sworn she heard him say something about a pen.
‘Polly?’ The assistant was taking an uncharacteristic break, sitting on the front room’s settee, her head in her hands. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes.’ She jumped up and grabbed Dulcie’s coat off the overburdened coat tree before Dulcie could reach it herself. ‘Lost in thought.’ She forced a smile as she stood there, smoothing down her skirt with nervous hands.
Dulcie wondered again about the assistant’s involvement with Roger Gosham. Clearly, something was amiss. Dulcie could relate: it seemed like she and Chris barely saw each other these days. But that was end-of-the-semester craziness. Polly seemed to be insecure enough to blame herself.
‘He’s lucky, you know.’ Dulcie leaned toward the older woman, feeling a surge of sisterhood. ‘You’re quite a catch.’
Polly gasped and jerked back, her eyes glazed with horror.
‘Polly? What is it?’ Dulcie reached for Polly, her hands barely making contact with the other woman’s bony arms before she pulled free and ran into the kitchen.
‘Polly?’
Behind the door, she heard the other woman sobbing.
TWENTY
‘
P
olly?’ Dulcie leaned against the kitchen door, speaking as softly as she thought would still be audible. ‘Whatever I said, I’m sorry.’ There was no response. ‘Would you like to talk?’
The door stayed closed and after a few more tries, Dulcie stepped back. That brief moment when Polly had started to talk about research had made her feel like they had a bond. Sisters in academia. But clearly Dulcie had overstepped. Not all relationships were like hers and Chris’s. To be honest, she wasn’t even sure what theirs was like anymore. It was time to leave.
But as Dulcie started buttoning her coat, she looked around. Even with the professor locked in his office and the assistant in the kitchen, Dulcie had a strange sense of being not quite alone, as if some other presence remained – and was trying to reach out to her. After the earlier hubbub, the old brick townhouse was quiet. No street noise made it up here and the high walls, lined with books, acted as additional insulation. So what was that feeling? She was beginning to get ever so slightly creeped out when she remembered that missed phone call. Of course, conscience was a funny thing. And nobody would mind if she checked her messages, would they? Sure enough, Lindsay’s call had been far from urgent. Something about wanting a recommendation for a program next summer. Mystery solved, Dulcie turned the phone off. She’d deal with it in the tutorial, maybe try to teach these kids about boundaries.
But as she tucked the cell back in her pocket, she found herself looking around. Something was drawing her, she could feel it. All those books – they were like so much catnip to a scholar. Floor to ceiling built-ins, with additional volumes and strange curios taking up any extra space, they gave the old house the feeling of a treasure room, a scholar’s den. Knowing she shouldn’t, and that she certainly didn’t want to be caught, Dulcie walked softly, almost tiptoeing, back down the hall and into the sitting room. Behind the settee, tall windows let in the last of the afternoon sun. Half-opened lace curtains kept the light off the books that flanked the far wall, and it was to those shadows that Dulcie gravitated.
Humphrey Clinker
, a biography of Aphra Behn, short works by Smollett: all earlier than Dulcie’s beloved Gothics, but still her century. Essays on Fielding and, yes, finally, a collection of critical pieces on Gothic great Ann Radcliffe. Had she read that one?
Reaching for the volume, Dulcie had to squeeze a bit. An oversized leather armchair was pressed close to the shelves, leaving a space only big enough for someone Polly’s size to slip through. The coat added a few inches, of course, but Dulcie made a mental note to start doing sit-ups again, as she pushed in. The book was just slightly out of reach.
A clattering of metal made her jump back, scraping the big chair on the hardwood floor.
‘Damn! Sorry!’ Dulcie reacted automatically, looking down to where the chair’s thick legs had left a scuff on the polished wood. ‘Oh, hell.’ Spitting on her finger, she bent to rub at the spot, hoping to erase the evidence before anyone came to investigate. Nobody did and after a few seconds she gave up. The floor wasn’t in pristine shape anyway. But as she was pulling herself up – the coat was heavy as well as bulky – a glimmer caught her eye. A miniature sword, no more than ten inches long, lay half under the chair. That must have been what she’d brushed against, the noise that had made her jump.
Dulcie reached for the little sword, wondering where to replace it. It seemed an odd curio, more fitting for a professor of the Romantic nineteenth century than Bullock. In her hand, it felt strangely heavy, its curiously worked handle held some kind of inset stone, dark in the shadow of the chair. In
The Ravages of Umbria
, Hermetria saw a sword, but it was a phantasm, a vision sent by the ghost of the old family retainer. This little weapon, Dulcie ran her finger along one edge, was quite solid. And surprisingly sharp.
Of course! The realization hit her like a flash of sunlight reflected off the blade’s surface. She’d found Professor Bullock’s missing letter opener.
‘
A
letter opener,’ Dulcie corrected herself, unaware that she’d spoken out loud. For all she knew, Bullock had one for each room. Still, this little doodad had the look of a cherished piece: the molded curlicues in the hilt picking up the shapes outlined on the pommel. This could very well be the one the professor had misplaced, and Dulcie stood to leave. If she dared to knock on the professor’s office door, she might win herself some credit with the tenured grouch.
Or, she realized, she might simply annoy him. The combination of the sword-shaped opener and the closed door combined and Dulcie saw herself in armor, bracing to take on a dragon in its den. ‘Wrong period,’ she joked, to give herself courage.
But as she started toward the hallway, a strange sound stopped her. It wasn’t loud, but Dulcie had grown so used to the silence that the sound – a light tap – was quite distinct.
‘Polly?’ Dulcie heard her voice crack. Stepping into the hall, she saw that the kitchen door was still closed. So was the professor’s office. And somewhere, down below her, she heard what was most definitely a footstep.
‘This is ridiculous.’ She was speaking out loud to give herself courage, but even as she said it, she realized she was gripping the little sword. Most likely, Polly had recovered her composure and was now down in the basement, doing the professor’s laundry or darning his socks or something. Or maybe the professor himself had emerged and gone off to seek some old draft of an article, kept in a storage area below.
‘Professor?’ It had to be Polly. There was no way the professor could have gotten past her so quietly. Maybe there was a service stairwell, leading directly down from the kitchen. Dulcie peered down the hallway. ‘Polly?’
Just then, she heard a sniff. The unmistakable sniff of someone who has been crying and wants it to be noticed. The sound of Polly, coming from inside the kitchen. Dulcie looked down at the tiny sword in her hand. Despite its weight, it was a curio. A letter opener.
‘Run, Dulcie! Get out of there!’ Even before she heard Mr Grey’s voice, she knew that something was wrong, very wrong. Dropping the pretty toy, Dulcie spun around toward the front of the house, threw the heavy door open, and ran out to the street.
TWENTY-ONE
‘
W
ow, I guess you put your foot in it.’ Suze’s voice on the phone was only partly comforting. Dulcie had jumped when her cell had rung as she walked back through Cambridge Common in the fading light. But hearing her roommate – and talking about dinner plans – had started to bring her back to reality.
What had happened at Professor Bullock’s house had not made any sense. But as she gave the facts to Suze, at least it seemed a lot less scary than it had only minutes before.
‘You mean, with Polly?’
‘Yeah. I mean, who knows what’s going on with her. She sounds a bit ghoulish.’ Suze chuckled. ‘Hey, maybe the professor really is some kind of vampire! Maybe you heard Lloyd, chained up in the basement.’
‘Very funny.’ The fright had worn off, leaving Dulcie edgy and a little sick. Just then, she got the double beep of an incoming call. She checked: Raleigh Hall. With only the smallest ping of guilt, she ignored the student and flipped back to Suze.
‘As long as you’re working on your thesis, I think you’ll be safe.’ Suze had obviously kept on talking. ‘But actually, I was thinking about that letter opener.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’ Maybe Dulcie had missed something.
‘The professor’s?’
‘No, I know.’ Dulcie pictured the miniature sword. She’d meant to put it back on a shelf, but she couldn’t remember if she had – or if in her rush, she’d just thrown it back to the floor. Well, if it was in the middle of the room, the professor or Polly would find it. ‘But what about it?’
‘Think about it, Dulcie.’ Suze had listened with interest as Dulcie had described the pretty piece with its fanciful design. ‘Cameron was stabbed, right? Maybe you just found the murder weapon.’
Dulcie caught her breath, as Suze continued with the kind of good, practical advice she could be counted on for. Dulcie should call the police. She should tell them about the letter opener, about the suspicious behavior. Since she’d already touched the thing, she should consider retrieving it. But as Suze went on with her sensible list, Dulcie started remembering everything else that had happened since she and her roommate had had a real heart-to-heart. She hadn’t gone into detail about her talk with the police, for example, which meant that Suze didn’t know that the police were already considering Professor Bullock – her thesis adviser – as a suspect. Dulcie had no urge to protect a killer, but she couldn’t just blindly do anything that would sink him further. Besides, what Suze was saying about the letter opener didn’t make sense.
‘But, why?’ Before her roommate could start listing motives, Dulcie finished her thought. ‘I mean, why would someone have left it there after, well, you know?’ She paused. There was something else she hadn’t mentioned: Mr Grey had led her to that letter opener. And Professor Bullock had said it had been lost. Maybe he’d wanted it lost. ‘You think, maybe, that it wasn’t really lost? But that I was supposed to find it?’
Eager to explain herself, Dulcie gave Suze the rest of the story, about the strange lure of the library and that voice, that last warning to flee, that had sent her stumbling down the stairs, running until she reached the open space of the Common, where Suze’s call had found her.
The silence on the line lasted so long that Dulcie checked to make sure they were still connected.
‘Suze,’ Dulcie said finally, kicking at a small pinecone. ‘You think I’m losing it, don’t you?’
‘I think you’re under a lot of stress,’ said Suze, the perpetual diplomat. ‘But, you know? I also think there may be something to this. Like, maybe, Mr Grey is coming to you for a reason. Not to point out clues, but maybe . . .’ Here she paused, and Dulcie waited, wondering just what her hyper-rational roommate would say. ‘Maybe Mr Grey is appearing to you,’ Suze started talking again, ‘because you’re in danger.’