Authors: Clea Simon
‘Time for ice cream?’ The kitten looked up and for a moment Dulcie waited, holding her breath. Just one word . . . But the only reply was a very quiet ‘mew.’
FOURTEEN
B
y the time Dulcie dragged herself out of bed, she was already late. Chris had failed to appear, though his midnight call had sounded both sweet and stranded, with no mention made of their tiff. She’d finished the dumplings, then, and the combination of the doughy wrappers and the spicy dipping sauce had probably contributed to her evil dreams. Throughout the night, she’d found herself in a windswept wasteland, alone except for some spiked bushes and the disturbing smell of smoke. Each time, she was holding a book –
The Ravages
, she assumed – and in each iteration the dream followed the same plot. ‘The key,’ she’d hear, although each time the voice seemed further away. ‘The key to secrets lost.’ She’d start turning the pages, looking for something, she wasn’t sure what, as the wind tossed the pages before she could read them, stinging her eyes with the suggestion of ash. ‘The key . . .’ And then that wind, howling and cold, would rip the book from her hands, and as she dived for it, scratching herself on barbed leaves, she’d find herself face to face with Cameron, cold, white, and dead.
‘Enough already!’ she’d yelled after the third time she’d woken up, sweating and tense, at some pre-dawn hour. She’d sat up with a start, eager to shake off the horror of that sight, the dead eyes so close to her own. The movement had been enough to dislodge the kitten and as she saw the small tail dip over the side of the bed, Dulcie had to wonder. Those scratchy bushes – was this kitten developing some bad habits?
‘Look who’s talking.’ The voice startled Dulcie awake. It was the same voice she’d heard in her dream, only closer.
‘Mr Grey?’ She looked around the small bedroom, seeking the grey cat. But everything was grey in this light, the muted glow of the moon or, more likely, a nearby streetlight, casting shadows. Did something move by her desk? Was that the kitten, there, by the waste basket? Or was it her old friend, back to offer comfort and a soft purr?
Silence greeted her, and a sudden memory of Mr Grey’s sensitive ears. If she’d yelled like that when he was around, they would have flattened out. He would have left the room. The little kitten probably felt the same way.
‘I’m sorry I yelled.’ Dulcie felt a sudden stab of remorse. ‘I guess I’m not much fun these days.’
‘Dulcie, Dulcie.’ A soft thud on the foot of the bed announced the arrival of a larger feline than the one she’d chased away. ‘Will you never learn?’
‘You don’t mean the dumplings, do you, Mr Grey?’ As much as she wanted to reach out, to feel for the long, soft fur, Dulcie held back. A wave of fatigue washed over her and she lay back down. Somewhere, at the foot of the bed, a rhythmic motion like a cat kneading had started. Along with the quiet hum of a purr, the effect was hypnotic.
‘No, Dulcie, not the dumplings.’ She longed to sit up, to pull the heavy grey cat toward her and hold him once more. He must know about her thesis troubles. If only he weren’t so cryptic. If only she weren’t so sleepy. ‘We’re trying to help you, but you’ve got to do your part, too, Dulcie. You know what makes a heroine.’ He must have heard her, but before she could respond, the voice came back. ‘Now you must learn to trust yourself.’
What did self-confidence have to do with her thesis? With
The Ravages of Umbria
? With anything?
‘Rest now, Dulcie. You’ll need your wits about you if you’re going to find the key.’
The kitten was sleeping on her pillow when she’d woken the next time, the weak November sunshine flooding the room.
‘Watch it, kitty.’ She’d been careful to move around the kitten, her little mouth slightly open as she slept on. ‘Sorry about last night.’
In response, one small white paw twitched, but that was all. And Dulcie did her best to shower and dress quietly, slipping out of the room without disturbing the feline further.
FIFTEEN
‘
S
o, where’s the beef?’ Lindsay Potter was Dulcie’s least favorite student. A smart modernist with a tendency to mistake advertising slogans for real writing, Lindsay tended to dominate Dulcie’s Thursday tutorial.
‘Good morning, Lindsay.’ Dulcie dropped her bag and put her travel mug on the table. ‘Good morning, Greg. Good morning, Karen.’ She unbuttoned her coat and hung it on the hook at the back of the door. The departmental office had a coat closet, but Dulcie had been running so late, she’d simply bounded up the stairs to the second floor conference room. No time to ponder last night’s dream, she’d barely managed to refill her mug from downstairs. ‘I hope you’ve all been able to do this week’s reading?’
‘Never mind the reading.’ Lindsay wasn’t letting go. ‘I want to know about the murder.’
Dulcie opened her planner and used the moment to think. When she looked up, three eager faces were watching hers.
‘Well?’ Lindsay seemed to be speaking for all of them. ‘Spill.’
A bitter taste that couldn’t be blamed on the departmental coffee rose in Dulcie’s throat and she struggled to keep from making a face.
‘I gather you’ve heard about Cameron Dessay’s death.’ She decided to keep it simple. Clinical. ‘Yes, one of our graduate students was killed on Monday. No, I don’t know anything about the investigation.’
‘I heard you were the one who found him.’ Greg seemed to have finally found a topic that interested him.
‘I really have nothing more to say on this subject.’ Dulcie pulled the planner close and tried to summon a sense of authority. Was this what Mr Grey had meant about trusting herself? ‘Please, people, we have work to do – and limited time.’
As Greg and Karen pulled out laptops, she heard Lindsay muttering.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’ The blonde junior started chewing at the end of her pen. ‘Only, yeah, why can’t we talk about this? It’s more relevant to our academic career than any of this stuff.’ Her gesture could have encompassed the books that Dulcie had pulled from her bag, the table where all their notes now lay opened, or the English Department itself.
‘More relevant than character development in the late-eighteenth-century novel?’ Dulcie started to chuckle. ‘I don’t think so.’
Her students didn’t even try to stifle their groans. Not one of them shared her interest, but all of them needed a pre-1850 tutorial in order to qualify for honors.
‘Would you rather be in Lippcott’s tutorial?’ Dulcie felt a spasm of disloyalty. Earl Lippcott couldn’t help it. A Chaucerian, with a special interest in the minor poems, he was known for his extreme shyness. Anyone who had listened while he stammered and blushed through a reading of even the most decorous of the
Canterbury Tales
would think twice about spending any serious study time with the man.
‘I’d rather be working on something relevant.’ Lindsay spat out the last word. ‘Golden Age detective fiction, maybe.’ She said it like a challenge, and Dulcie fought down the urge to bark back. Thinking of Mr Grey helped, and as she did, an idea came to her.
‘If you’re interested in detecting,’ she said, starting to pull stray thoughts together. ‘I have an idea.’ What had she been telling Lucy? ‘Why don’t we talk about provenance? So much of what we’re reading this semester comes to us with questions. Which versions are the best ones, the ones the author intended? How do we decide on an author when authorship is disputed?’ For a moment, Lucy’s second warning flashed through her mind. How ‘poking about’ could be dangerous. But Dulcie shook her head. That was just Lucy, wanting her daughter to believe. To have some kind of spiritual attachment. Well, she had faith in research. ‘How can we research this?’ She addressed her students. ‘How can we prove the authenticity of anonymous writings?’
Lindsay snorted, but Greg and Karen looked intrigued, so Dulcie kept talking. ‘For better known works, we have a clear history. We know something about an author. We have the publication history, sometimes even the first reviews. But what about the works that didn’t take off? Or the ones that only exist in fragments?’
‘Like
The Rampages of Austria
, you mean?’ Lindsay’s voice had taken on a mocking tone.
‘Like
The Ravages of Umbria
, yes.’ Dulcie fought to hold her voice steady. She was the adult here. But as Lindsay sat up to speak again, Dulcie jumped in. Why risk a battle? ‘This is a legitimate scholarly topic. After all, there have been some famous frauds.’
‘Such as?’ If that was the best the blonde junior could come up with, Dulcie could cope. At least she had the attention of her other two students.
‘Well, like that Shakespeare play.’ Karen was into it now. ‘The one that was supposedly found in an attic?’
‘If someone named Will Shakespeare even wrote those at all.’ Greg chimed in. ‘After all, he was barely literate.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Dulcie found herself smiling even as she interrupted. Her students might have the facts wrong, but this was the most animated she’d seen any of them. ‘Shakespeare wasn’t illiterate. He might not have had much formal education, but he could clearly read because we know he could write.’
‘Unless the plays weren’t by him!’ Greg was getting excited. ‘And it was all a great big conspiracy!’
‘Well, what do we mean by “author” anyway.’ Karen’s postmodern bent was showing. ‘I mean, if the Earl of Whatever really wrote
Hamlet
, then maybe he was Shakespeare. At least in terms of what the name Shakespeare signifies . . .’
And they were off.
SIXTEEN
B
y the time the tutorial broke up, some ninety minutes later, Dulcie’s head was spinning. Somehow the discussion of provenance had turned into a debate over the definition of authorship and whether a work could actually be considered ‘written’ if it drew on earlier works.
‘At least they’re thinking,’ Dulcie said to herself, as she clumped down the stairs.
‘Students?’ a familiar voice asked. Trista was holding an empty coffee pot. ‘Don’t be too sure of it. And if I make more . . .’
‘Yes, I will. Thanks.’ Dulcie filled her friend in on the tutorial. Trista’s response – complete with groans and eye rolling – was gratifying. She and Dulcie had bonded sophomore year during Introductory Anglo Saxon. They’d since moved on to separate specialties. Despite her post-punk piercings and bleached blonde hair, Trista was a pure Victorian at heart. But neither had much use for the latest trends.
‘I mean, if you deconstruct a book, what do you really get?’ Trista filled two cups with the fresh brew.
‘Paper?’ Dulcie was joking, but only partly. ‘Leather bindings?’
‘Hmm, now that sounds interesting.’
But Dulcie didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Hey, Tris, what do you know about Roger Gosham?’
‘You are not—?’ Trista raised one pierced eyebrow.
‘No, no,’ Dulcie was quick to reassure her. ‘Chris and I are tight. I mean, unless he’s got someone else tucked away in the computer labs . . .’
‘Chris? Nah.’ Trista sounded so sure that Dulcie found herself relieved. Funny, she hadn’t even realized she was worried. ‘But why do you ask about that bookworm, accent on the “worm”?’
‘He seemed cranky, but why do you say that?’ Dulcie looked at her friend. ‘I mean, Bullock swears by him.’
‘Well, of course.’ Trista seemed content to leave it at that, but Dulcie was waiting. ‘He’s a total brown nose, Dulcie. Have you ever seen him with any of the senior faculty? It’s “Of course, Professor,” and “Yes, Professor.” Complete toady.’
‘Well, he does depend on them for income.’ More than most of her classmates, Dulcie knew the pinch of poverty.
‘Yeah, and he’s making a good living at it.’ Trista wrinkled up her nose.
Dulcie thought about the boxes. ‘I don’t know. What with rents being what they are, and the economy . . .’
‘That one? He’ll be fine.’ Trista leaned in. ‘I hear he’s expanding, taking over the entire top floor of the building. I guess maybe that would make him a good catch. Only, there’s something about him. Maybe it’s mold.’
With a laugh, Dulcie downed her coffee. Trista’s gossip did explain the boxes, and maybe he would be a good mate – for Polly. But until either of the interested parties said anything, she’d keep her theories about Polly and the grouchy bookbinder to herself. But while the tutorial had at least engaged her students, it hadn’t helped her with her own nagging question. What if
The Ravages of Umbria
really was, somehow, not what it seemed? She needed some guidance and if Roger Gosham genuinely did have all the expertise that Professor Bullock seemed to believe he had, maybe he’d be able to shed some light.
Still, Trista’s words carried a warning. If Gosham truly owed his success to Professor Bullock, he’d undoubtedly share any news with his best client. She’d have to find a way to ask without asking. Maybe she could use her connection to Bullock as an entree. She could find a way to run another errand. If she had to, she’d explain to Polly afterward, and apologize if she’d stepped on any toes.
SEVENTEEN
‘
H
ey, Lloyd, what can you tell me about Bullock’s rare book collection?’ Ten minutes later, Dulcie was back at the Student Union office.
‘What do you mean?’ The face that looked up at her was more worn than the day before, prompting Dulcie to wonder if her fellow grad student had left the cramped space in the interim.
‘I’m not sure. I’m looking for something that might need some work. Something that just isn’t what it should be. Something off.’ Dulcie noted with alarm that Lloyd had grown paler still. ‘Lloyd, are you okay?’
‘I . . . What do you mean “off,” Dulcie?’ His voice had a tremor in it. ‘Please, tell me what you mean.’
‘Nothing, Lloyd.’ She started poking around in her bag. Raleigh’s warning flashed through her head, but concern for Lloyd trumped gossip. ‘Have you eaten today? I think I have some of the Chips Ahoy left from the other night.’
‘No, I’m fine.’ He shook his head at the offered cookies, which were pretty much crumbs after a few days in Dulcie’s bag. ‘I’m just tired.’
Dulcie sat on the edge of her own desk and nibbled at one of the broken bits. They still tasted good. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just, well, I’ll be honest. I’m having some doubts about the provenance of
The Ravages
and I thought it might be useful to speak to that book-repair guy, Roger Gosham. And Trista says that he worships the ground that Bullock walks on, so I thought if I arrived on an errand from the professor, well, it would make my life easier.’