Authors: Clea Simon
‘Lloyd, where are you when I need you?’ Dulcie keyed in his number on her cell, but only got his voicemail. Of course, the big date.
As she sat there, trying to think of whom else she could talk to, Dulcie was hit by how small a field she really worked in. Sure, the English Department was decent-sized. But Trista probably hadn’t read anything this early since she’d passed her general exams. For Sarah the medievalist, this would be several centuries too late. For Jeremy – no, never mind Jeremy. He’d gotten so caught up in Anglo Saxon that he found Chaucer decadent. Which left . . . who? Professor Bullock? Dulcie shuddered. Yes, if push came to shove, she would have to talk to her thesis adviser. He had never really liked
The Ravages of Umbria
and had only approved her thesis because her supposed discovery meant it had a good chance of getting published. With this turn of events, he’d be positively gleeful.
‘What a wonderful fraud, Dulcie!’ She could hear him chortle. ‘This will show them all!’
Sitting there, she could imagine him gloating, his heavy eyebrows no longer hiding the sparkle in his eyes. That one phrase was it: the missing link. Would it be enough to ensure an academic career? Or was Raleigh right? As much as she trusted the professor, she could easily imagine Bullock claiming credit. She’d be a co-author, the student he’d shepherded to a great discovery. Of course, it might still be enough.
But no, she didn’t care. Finding out that
The Ravages
wasn’t all she had thought was not like Chris debugging a program. It was more like discovering that there was no Santa Claus. Not even a beneficent Mother Time, as the gift-giving patron of the solstice holiday was known back on the commune.
Thinking of Chris didn’t help. He would try to be comforting, but he was the source of too much uncertainty himself these days. Dulcie was in no mood for vague reassurances – or second-hand psychobabble. She needed to do some work on this, to see if there was a rational explanation for this late, and possibly fatal, reference.
Lloyd would have been the best source, as close to Professor Bullock as she could get without alerting her adviser to the issue. But he wasn’t the only one. Hadn’t Dulcie shared a scholarly spark with Polly not that long ago? And now that the two woman had bonded, however awkwardly, over men, maybe the older woman would feel sympathy for Dulcie’s dilemma. The only question was, how to reach her? With a splash of shame, Dulcie realized she had never had a conversation with the woman except by accident. She had no idea if Polly had a cell or could take calls at the Bullock house. And at – she checked her watch – six p.m. on a Saturday, she might reasonably be assumed to have other plans. For all Dulcie knew, Polly Heinhold was Lloyd’s hot date.
That thought made her laugh out loud, and the laugh brought Dulcie back to life. What she needed to do was to reach out. It wasn’t that far to Professor Bullock’s house. If she were lucky, this would all be cleared up before she was due to meet Chris.
Crossing the Common in the lengthening shadows, Dulcie found herself formulating excuses. After all, she wanted to speak to Polly, not Professor Bullock, and on the off chance that the professor himself came to the door she didn’t want to have to explain why. Should she give some girly excuse, claim that she needed to ask the other woman about clothes or a date? Once again, Dulcie found herself laughing, startling a jogger. Polly wasn’t a bad-looking woman, just way too pale and worn for her age. With a little more color – Dulcie pictured that bright beret – she’d come back to life. But Dulcie was hardly the girl-talk type. As the years had gone by, she’d become much more comfortable with her bohemian-by-necessity style, and she had enough male attention, even before Chris, to know that not every man wanted a model-thin woman. But the idea that she’d walk across town for fashion advice was ludicrous. And for any other words of wisdom, she had Suze. Suze had grown up in a conventional household and had pulled Dulcie out of more than a few social straits.
Nothing for it, she decided as she headed up Brattle. If Professor Bullock answered the door, she’d just wing it. But when she got to the row of brick houses, she hesitated. By now, the shadows of the day had lengthened, throwing the small front yards into shadow. Holly, dark and glistening, took on a menacing aspect, and Dulcie hesitated, her hand on the low iron gate, remembering.
‘Cameron didn’t die because of you.’
The voice came out of nowhere, causing her to jump. ‘Mr Grey!’
‘He touched many lives, but not yours.’
Dulcie blinked. There, on the high slate steps, sat a long-haired grey cat, his flag of a tail neatly wrapped around front paws. ‘You were not part of this, Dulcie. And you are a scholar.’
‘You’re right, Mr Grey.’ She pushed the gate forward and stepped in, hoping against hope that in a few steps, she’d be able to pick up her beloved pet once again. But as she walked forward a cold blast of wind rattled through the shrubbery, sending a rush of dust and leaves. Dulcie blinked against the onslaught. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
His purpose, however, was clear. Mr Grey wanted her to investigate, and while Dulcie could only mull over the exact meaning of his message, she got the gist of it.
‘But I am touched by this,’ she was saying to herself as she reached for the brass knocker. Just then, the door swung open.
‘Hello?’ Dulcie stood on the stoop and called in. ‘Professor Bullock? Polly?’ Nobody called back, and for a moment Dulcie worried about what she would find. Cambridge was a city, and an open door could mean another break-in – or worse.
Then she remembered her vision of Mr Grey. He wouldn’t lead her into danger. In fact, he was usually warning her away from it. An unlocked door was probably simply a sign of the professor’s absentmindedness.
‘Hullo!’ She stepped into the foyer and looked into the study, where Polly stood apparently examining a shelf of books. ‘Polly?’
‘Oh!’ The thin blonde whipped around, a spot of color coming into each cheek. ‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dulcie smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. The door was open.’ She stepped in and closed the door behind her, making sure she heard it latch.
‘Professor Bullock.’ Polly shook her head dolefully. ‘He just ran out. I swear sometimes he’s so preoccupied.’
‘Really?’ Dulcie was just making conversation, grateful for a simple solution to her dilemma. But Polly seemed to take her query seriously.
‘Well, he’s got a ton on his mind, you know.’ The color in her cheeks drained away. ‘His research is eating up his time. The new book is going to be tremendous.’
Dulcie nodded. She’d been hearing about the professor’s ‘new book’ for as long as she’d been at Harvard. What concerned her now was something she’d noticed as the other woman had turned around. Dulcie really just wanted to get to the point, to ask Polly about nineteenth-century essayists who might shed some light on the strange connection between that one piece and
The Ravages of Umbria
. But she couldn’t help but wonder why, as Polly had turned to greet her, she had seen the other woman slipping something into the pocket of her skirt. Something that looked suspiciously like the professor’s fancy letter opener.
FORTY
I
t all happened so fast, Dulcie doubted her own sight. Could it have been some other trinket? A pair of sewing scissors? No, she’d seen the ornate hilt of the little sword. The glint of the green stone.
‘So, did you want to leave a message for him?’ Polly was standing there, waiting, and Dulcie realized that she must look like a dolt.
‘No, no.’ She quickly recovered. Whatever Polly had been doing, she had come here for help. ‘I was actually hoping to run into you.’
Polly smiled ever so slightly, and the years dropped away. Dulcie began to see why men might have fought over her.
‘It’s an academic question, really.’ She paused. How to explain without spilling her worst fears? ‘A question of authorship. Are you familiar with the collection
Women Writing on Women, 1780–1840
?’
‘The Gunning? Certainly.’ Polly stepped into the hallway and motioned for Dulcie to follow. ‘Would you mind? I was just cleaning up.’
Dulcie breathed a sigh of relief. Polly was straightening up! She probably pocketed the errant letter opener, meaning to return it to the professor’s office. But now the older woman led her into the kitchen, where she put the kettle on the stove.
‘Tea?’ Without waiting for a response, she reached for a teapot on an upper shelf. Dulcie glanced at the clock. She had envisioned a short chat – a few questions, some quick answers, and then she’d be off. But this woman was clearly starved for company.
‘Sure.’ She settled into a kitchen chair and tried to plot out a line of questioning.
‘Chamomile OK?’
Dulcie swallowed hard. Chamomile was one of Lucy’s favorite cure-alls. But, hey, maybe Polly would cure what was ailing her tonight. She nodded and hoped her smile didn’t look overly strained.
‘It’s interesting that you brought up the Gunning.’ Polly brought over mugs and a plastic bear filled with honey. ‘That was one of the first major collections of British feminist writings, you know.’
‘I hadn’t realized that,’ Dulcie responded, half her mind on her own questions. ‘But there is one essay in it—’
‘Oh yes,’ Polly broke in. ‘Although it wasn’t published until, oh, mid-1840s, which is shameful, when you think about it. After all, many of the ideas espoused in those essays had been circulating for decades. But it was Horace Gunning who came up with the idea of anthologizing them, raising a subscription of more than five hundred for a first edition—’
‘Actually, it was the date on one of them.’
‘Really?’ Polly poured more tea, and then continued as if Dulcie had never spoken. ‘Gunning himself was said to have been influenced by his wife, an early follower of Mary Wollstonecraft . . .’
It was no use, Dulcie realized. Polly was on a roll. Either she had been denied a chance to discuss her favorite topics for so long that the pressure was unbearable. Or, and Dulcie felt a twinge of guilt at this thought, the older woman’s loneliness was more complete than she had realized. When Polly finally paused to take a sip of her own tea, which had to be cold by then, Dulcie tried one more time.
‘Polly, maybe you can help me.’ She spoke quickly, hoping to get her question out. ‘I’m worried because I found a phrase in an essay and it’s the same as one in a book that was supposedly published at least forty years earlier.’ She paused. Polly stayed quiet. ‘And I’m afraid it’s a fraud.’ There, she had said it.
‘Impossible.’ Polly’s pale face wrinkled up at the thought, and Dulcie felt a flood of relief.
‘Really? Thank you.’ Dulcie breathed easier than she had in an hour, and when Polly got up to heat more water, she vowed to do whatever was in her power to pay the older woman back. She’d have tea with her once a week. Even chamomile.
‘Definitely.’ Polly refilled the pot. ‘Those texts were all authentic. I know some people have questioned his methods, but Gunning was quite rigorous in his standards, collecting original documents and comparing versions. By the second edition . . .’
Dulcie groaned and caught herself. Polly had misunderstood – and she was trapped. ‘Would you excuse me?’ The tea made a convenient excuse, but in truth she just needed a moment alone to figure out a better strategy or an escape. The hallway was dark; the early dusk had fallen. She’d been in this house often enough to know where the bathroom was, even in the shadows. But she wondered at the lack of light. Was the professor saving energy? Should they turn on a lamp, just to welcome him home?
On her way back to the kitchen, Dulcie looked again into the library. Maybe she could convince Polly to let her look at the professor’s books. Bullock was no feminist, but in the interest of history, he undoubtedly had some other complete anthologies. There had to be an explanation. She reached to turn on the tall, ornate floor lamp and heard footsteps.
‘Were you looking for something?’ Dulcie turned to find Polly standing behind her.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Dulcie smiled to disarm the other woman, who had started to frown. Perhaps she felt Dulcie was brushing her off? ‘It’s just that I’m looking into an authentication, and I was wondering about other anthologies?’
‘The Gunning is the definitive work. Alpha and Omega.’ Polly stood, waiting for Dulcie to pass, back into the kitchen, but Dulcie couldn’t resist one last glance at the crowded library. Only the dim glow of the street lights came through the windows, but as a car drove by, the flash of headlights sent a wave of illumination over the room.
‘Oh, that’s so pretty.’ Before the light had faded, a flash of blue had caught her eye. Blue and a little gold, all set in a glass globe. ‘Is this from that store?’ She started toward it, and felt a hand on her upper arm.
‘That’s the professor’s.’ Polly pushed by her and drew the drapes. ‘And since he’s not here, I really couldn’t allow—’
Just then, Dulcie’s cell phone rang, startling them both. Although she didn’t recognize the number, she flipped it open.
‘Dulcie! Thank God I got you.’ It was Raleigh. On a Saturday night. Dulcie’s sense of relief turned to annoyance. Didn’t students have any sense of boundaries? But before she could remonstrate, Raleigh broke in. ‘You’ve got to help me. Help us. It’s Lloyd. He’s been arrested!’
‘What?’ Dulcie must have yelled, because Polly stopped short. But volume didn’t work with Raleigh, who was too upset to make much sense. Finally, Dulcie got her to explain that Lloyd had been taken from his apartment by the Cambridge Police. What the distraught undergrad had been doing there she hadn’t said.
‘It’s Lloyd,’ Dulcie said as soon as she’d gotten off the phone. Polly blinked once, which Dulcie took as recognition. ‘He’s been arrested.’ Suddenly, she realized that she didn’t know the charges. Could there be some sensible explanation? A bad check or disgruntled landlord? So much had happened recently that she had automatically assumed the worst . . .
‘That makes sense.’ Polly’s calm declaration interrupted the whirl of her thoughts, and as if that had settled everything, she turned to walk back into the kitchen.