Grey Matters (26 page)

‘It was my dad.’ Raleigh now stood, shifting from one foot to another, as Dulcie dropped her bag on the desk and reclaimed her chair. ‘He’s a partner in a big-deal firm, so really all I had to do was call him, and he handled everything.’

‘And believe me, I am grateful.’ Lloyd took his feet down and sat up, his moment of celebration over. ‘I’ll call him later today.’

‘He just sent an associate.’ Raleigh seemed embarrassed, and Dulcie studied her face.

‘He saved my butt.’ Lloyd picked up a pen. ‘But, you know, I should get to work now.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ Raleigh made for the door.

Dulcie called out. ‘Wait, Raleigh?’ The girl turned, her uncertainty splashed all over her face. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve finally caught up with your thesis notes. You’ve done some great work here.’ Raleigh flashed a smile that reminded Dulcie of the laugh she’d heard only moments before. ‘And thanks.’

For the next few minutes after the senior had left, Lloyd appeared to busy himself with papers, scribbling notes and shuffling through the layers that Dulcie had examined only the day before.

‘Lloyd?’ Dulcie finally interrupted him. ‘May I interrupt?’

He looked up, the fatigue more apparent now. ‘Uh, yeah, sure, Dulcie. But I’m really kind of behind.’

‘What happened, Lloyd?’ There was so much she wanted to know, but this seemed the simplest way to start.

He didn’t seem to think so, and sighed heavily as he put down his pen. ‘You mean on Saturday?’ Dulcie nodded. He wasn’t getting off that easy. He took a deep breath and Dulcie watched as he let it out, wondering how much he was preparing to tell. Finally, he started talking. ‘The police came over to my place around five. I let them in without thinking about it. I figured they had some questions about the professor. There, well, there have been some things going on.’

Dulcie nodded again. She’d get the details later.

‘They asked me to come down to the station, and I thought they might want me to look at some things. But it very quickly became apparent that they didn’t want me as a witness. They wanted me out of the way so they could search my apartment. As the two detectives were escorting me to their car, another team was on its way in.’ He looked pained at the memory and Dulcie felt for him. Lloyd was so private, so meticulous.

‘Were they looking for objects . . .?’ She wasn’t sure how to phrase it. ‘Things that you shouldn’t have had?’ She tried to keep her voice gentle.

‘What? No.’ Lloyd’s face wrinkled up and for a moment she was afraid he would cry. ‘They were looking for a murder weapon.’

There had been silence for a few moments after that, while Lloyd remembered – and Dulcie tried to piece together all she had heard.

‘I didn’t know,’ she started, and then tried again. ‘Polly had said something about things going missing.’ She stopped and thought of the wrapped package, so clearly a book. ‘There was that book, the one Professor Bullock was so keen on and then reported missing . . .’

She left the sentence unfinished and looked at him. But Lloyd only shook his head. ‘There was no book, Dulcie.’

‘No book?’ His face was set and he only shook his head slowly. ‘But, Lloyd, Raleigh had left something for you while you were out. I thought . . .’

He continued shaking his head. ‘That wasn’t anything.’ He sounded sad. ‘Certainly not a rare book.’

‘Oh.’ Dulcie wasn’t sure what to make of that, but kept talking. ‘When we heard you were arrested, well, I was hoping it was that. That maybe the professor had accused you of . . . well . . .’ No book? ‘Something.’

‘Better a thief than a murderer, right?’ Lloyd’s voice had some life back in it. Either the time spent in their office or the talking seemed to be bringing him back. ‘No, when Bullock makes his case, he goes all the way.’

‘Professor Bullock? He was the one who had you arrested.’

Lloyd nodded grimly. ‘So much for the years of loyal service, huh?’

Dulcie shook her head, not understanding. ‘But why? He can’t really think you did it.’

Lloyd tilted his head and smiled. It was not a happy smile. ‘Good old Bill Bullock has some issues with me, and he’s not one to cross, Dulcie. I’ve found that out the hard way.’

FORTY-EIGHT

D
ulcie wasn’t going to let such a tantalizing statement go without questioning it. But just then Lindsay, from her junior tutorial, showed up at the open door and, without knocking, slumped down in the one visitor chair the two officemates shared.

‘So, I was thinking about what you were saying the other day in class.’ Without so much as a greeting, the lanky junior seemed to be off and running. ‘And I was wondering, you know, what you meant by a fake or falsified or somehow ‘untrue’ book. I mean, there are so many options here, and, really, the way you posed the question contained just too many ambivalent features. I mean, when you say “book,” what do you mean? Were you talking about the book as an object or the text, which, after all, is really what the book is about?’ She stopped here to make quote marks with her finger. ‘I mean, what is the book as we know it in an epistemological sense?’

To her right, Dulcie could hear Lloyd snort. At least he was amused.

‘I mean the text, Lindsay.’ She glanced over at Lloyd, in part to resist deconstructing her student’s use of air quotes and in part to keep her from seeing that she was rolling her eyes. He met her gaze, but turned away quickly to start shoving books into his bag.

‘Lloyd?’ She really needed to talk to him.

‘Later,’ he said, shooting a glance at Lindsay. Then he stood and closed the bag. ‘Of course, you’re presuming a structuralist approach.’ He had assumed a more authoritative voice, one that Dulcie recognized as borrowing from Professor Bullock. ‘An approach in which some kind of absolute, some standard, exists.’ He walked to the door and paused. ‘Not only is that ultimately an anti-humanist approach, it’s impractical. Books are written by people, for other people, which means you may want to consider the uncertainty principle, too.’

With that, he hiked his bag on to his shoulder and left, leaving Lindsay with her mouth hanging open and Dulcie stifling a giggle. This was a side of her chubby officemate she’d never seen. But as she sat there, listening to his soft steps echo down the empty hallway, she realized she couldn’t let him go, not like this.

‘Hang on a minute.’ Dulcie ran out into the hallway. ‘Lloyd?’

He turned, and even at this distance she could see the strain in his face. ‘Not now, Dulcie. Please.’ She started to protest, but he held up one hand. ‘I’ll explain, I promise. But right now I’ve got to do what I can to defend myself.’ And with that, he was gone, leaving Dulcie to return to her student.

‘You were saying?’ Letting Lindsay rattle on gave Dulcie time for thought. As enigmatic, and troubling, as his farewell had been, something about Lloyd’s earlier brief but effective speech had sparked an idea. At first, Dulcie thought it was simply its usefulness. She’d never been a literary theorist, but she would go back to her Foucault and Derrida if it helped keep her students in line. No, it was something else, the Heisenberg reference. But Lindsay had taken her silence as censure, and had shifted into a pleading mode. Something about her final paper, about losing her research through a power surge, and Dulcie, distracted, let her ramble on. Maybe she just needed to act more assured, she thought, even as she longed for simpler days, when hungry dogs were blamed. Maybe it wasn’t what one knew, but how one presented everything. With that thought circling her brain, Dulcie finally got her tutee to leave, hinting at the possibility of an extension. Chris’s classes ran longer than hers, anyway, so they wouldn’t be leaving for his mother’s till nearly Christmas. A moment of doubt clutched at her: Chris hadn’t mentioned the invitation recently, not since he’d started disappearing into work . . . No, she decided, she wouldn’t go there.

Still, it was a relief, when she finally locked up the office and walked out, to find that Chris had called. She reached him on the first ring, but any hope she had for some real-time company was quickly dashed.

‘Sorry, sweetie, I should’ve been at work fifteen minutes ago.’ He paused, as if he could hear her thoughts. ‘Another tutorial. But, hey, think we could grab some dinner? And they’re showing the Olivier
Rebecca
at Dunster House tonight. I know you like that one.’

‘Maybe.’ It was a peace offering, she could see that. She did love the old movie, with its mystery and murder and blackmail, all set in a much more romantic location than her own. But she wasn’t crazy about going to the undergraduate houses for movies. Too much chance of being cornered by an anxious student. Some of her reluctance, she knew, was irrational. ‘I’m sorry, Chris. I’m just feeling . . .’ She stopped to think. Ignored? Inconsequential? ‘Lonely,’ she said at last. She was standing outside the Union at this point, students rushing every which way around her. ‘That sounds silly, right? I mean, I’ve got a great roommate and you’re there.’ Except that Suze now had Ariano, and Chris had, well, he seemed to be working an awful lot. ‘And the new kitten, of course.’

‘’Course, Dulcie.’ That wasn’t the reassurance she wanted, but she could hear the distraction in his voice as he hurried off. ‘Speaking of the kitten. I was talking to Jerry and, you know, he wouldn’t mind taking care of it – her, I mean – if something came up.’

‘You mean, like the winter break? But I thought we could take her. I mean, we’ll be taking the bus, right?’

‘Yeah, that’s fine. My mom loves cats. I just mean, well, if something else comes up.’

Dulcie bristled. ‘Look, I know you and Suze don’t think I’m being fair to the kitten. But, it’s been difficult for me to get over Mr Grey. Especially since . . .’ She paused, afraid of who might overhear. ‘Since he’s not really gone. But I’ve taken on the responsibility of caring for this animal, and I’m not about to give her up.’

Chris, to her surprise, was laughing. ‘I didn’t mean you had to give her up! It was just an offer. That’s all!’

‘Good.’ Because as the heat of her anger subsided, Dulcie found herself thinking of the little furball and how she had cuddled up against her just that morning. This kitten would never replace Mr Grey, but she was a good little creature, in her way.

Setting off to get a lonely lunch, Dulcie tried to figure out what was bothering her. Lloyd’s departure, dramatic as it was, had left too many questions. While she was grateful for the way he had shut down her student’s more pompous ramblings, she kept thinking about uncertainty. ‘I wish I had some uncertainty,’ she muttered as she slid on to a stool at Lala’s. Her problem was that she was becoming all too sure that
The Ravages
was faked, in every sense. But there was something else. An image of Mrs Danvers, the crazed villain behind all of the fictional Rebecca’s problems, came to mind. Was there someone like that lurking in the background? No, she thought as she browsed the menu, knowing in advance what she was going to order. The only madwoman in her life was Lucy, and she was a good witch.

‘I should call her,’ Dulcie said to the waitress. ‘And I’ll have the three-bean burger, extra hot sauce, please.’ The waitress moved on without blinking. In Harvard Square, she got all types. But what was it about Mrs Danvers – or about Lloyd? Suddenly, Dulcie remembered what Lloyd had said about Bullock, moments before they’d been interrupted. Lloyd seemed to feel that the arrest was personal, that their professor had it out for him. And Lloyd certainly knew the professor better than anyone, except maybe Polly. What had he meant about protecting himself? From the back of her mind another memory surfaced, something about research, about stealing students’ work . . .

Could Lloyd be blackmailing Professor Bullock?

FORTY-NINE

T
he possibility consumed the rest of Dulcie’s day, interrupting her reading and making her short with the freshman who cornered her on the Widener stairs. Didn’t they see she had other things on her mind beside their final papers? But remembering her earlier resolve, she bit back her planned retort and listened, the wind whipping across the Yard, as the freshman, an anemic-looking brunette, started spinning a story about an untenable roommate situation and the general difficulties of dorm life.

‘It can be trying.’ Dulcie smiled at her, thinking how lucky she was to have met Suze in freshman year. ‘But can’t you always go work in one of the libraries?’

‘But they’re so . . .’ The girl paused, looking past Dulcie, up the steps to the university’s main library. ‘So anonymous. It’s creepy.’

Dulcie raised her eyebrows, unsure of how to respond. ‘They’re the greatest resource you have as a student here.’ She paused. ‘Maybe I should talk to the professors about incorporating a research project into the curriculum.’

The look on the freshman’s face stopped her short. She hadn’t meant it as a punishment, but the query was enough to send the student on her way. Not that it mattered. Even when Dulcie had settled into her carrel down in the depths of the library, her focus eluded her. Partly, she admitted to herself, that was because she didn’t want to find out more. The book of essays was still on her desk at home, waiting for her to re-read it – to confirm her initial impression that it repeated phrases she knew well from
The Ravages of Umbria
. Before she did anything else, she should check into the source of that essay. Perhaps the phrase – that line about emeralds – had been a literary convention. A cliché, even.

It was no use. Dulcie had read enough from the era to recognize the standard phrasings, to smile, even at the hackneyed phrases of the day. The ‘shadow’d peaks’ and ‘loves forlorn.’ That was why she had loved
The Ravages
. It had seemed so fresh. So unlikely. So . . . fake.

She gave up and closed her eyes. At least down here she was probably safe from undergrads. But as she sat there, feet up on the carrel, drifting toward sleep, another thought shook her. Undergrads. Raleigh. First the young woman worked with Cameron, then she bailed out Lloyd. Could she have been involved with her former tutor, or with his murder? And, if so, what did that mean for poor Lloyd?