Grey Expectations (11 page)

‘They say he was reading it when he died. Imagine, a total rationalist – a father of the country – reading a Gothic novel.'

‘He was a sick old man. Maybe he wanted something diverting.' Dulcie was getting worked up. ‘Of course, I'd have thought
The Ravages
would have been a better choice.'

‘So, you don't believe  . . .?' He left the rest of the question unspoken.

‘No, I don't.' She took a deep breath. ‘Look, I do believe that sometimes the spirits of those we love may linger.' She chose the word carefully, hoping that Mr Grey would not take offense. ‘And, yes, the popular novels of that era do delve heavily into the supernatural. But, no, I do not believe that
The Wetherly Ghost
or any other books are themselves haunted.'

Even as she spoke, Dulcie thought of her strange dreams. If some spirit didn't linger, then what was the connection? Were her nocturnal visions simply the result of her scholarly immersion? It was too much to explain now to Lloyd, so she simply repeated herself. ‘Neither the
Wetherly
nor the Dunster Codex is haunted.'

Something in her voice must have gotten through to Lloyd. He looked calmer now. ‘OK, then. I'm glad I don't have to deal with it though. But Dulcie?'

‘What?' She couldn't stop thinking of that dream. Something had been troubling the woman. Haunting her.

‘Maybe you shouldn't tell the cops about the
Wetherly
when you talk to them. I mean, Coffin obviously thinks it's a big deal, or it wouldn't be in the Mildon to start with. And it is wrapped up in this, somehow.'

‘Maybe I just shouldn't talk to the cops at all.'

He winced at that, and Dulcie wondered just how much the university police had pressured her timid office mate. ‘Shouldn't you just clear this up?' he asked. ‘I'm sure they're grilling everybody.'

‘Have they questioned you yet?' She tried to catch her friend's eye, but he was staring at the new sod that carpeted the ground.

‘Well, no. But I'm sure they just haven't gotten to me on their list.' He turned back toward her and held so still that she was sure he was lying. ‘You know, the longer you evade them, the worse this will be.'

‘I'm
not
—' She stopped herself. She had been evading them. Not by not being home, but by not returning that call. ‘Look, I just want to find out what's going on before I talk to anyone.' The beginning of a plan began to form in her head. ‘Would you do me a favor?'

Lloyd's pale face blanched a bit more, and two distinct lines appeared above his brow. To his credit, though, the word that finally came out of his mouth was succinct. ‘Sure.'

‘It doesn't have to do with any hauntings. Just – would you go back to the office and post a notice that I won't be able to make my office hours today?' Obvious relief washed over his face, but he still looked quizzical. ‘There's someone who I think knows something about what is going on,' she explained. ‘She was supposed to fill me in, but we didn't meet up. If I can only find her, I'm sure I can get to the bottom of this.'

‘Find the Dunster Codex?' His high forehead wrinkled up even more.

‘Well, probably not.' She smiled. Now that she had a clear plan, anything seemed possible. ‘But I am sure that there is a rational, reasonable explanation for everything that's been going on. At the very least, I want to find out why the police are interested in me – that will be enough of a solution for one day.'

FOURTEEN

O
nce Lloyd had set off, Dulcie took a moment to plan her next step. No matter what everyone kept whispering, she didn't believe for a minute that the Dunster Codex was haunted. It was a valuable object, and it had been stolen. The idea that one of her colleagues was involved was unfortunate, particularly because the likely suspect was the missing Roland Galveston. That didn't mean there was anything supernatural going on, however. Merely criminal. And for better or worse, she was being dragged into it – just as Trista had been.

Trista had known something, though. She'd been about to tell Dulcie after the meeting, but she hadn't shown up. In the back of her mind, Dulcie could hear Suze's voice. She knew what her former room-mate would say: Suze would want Dulcie to go to the police and tell them everything that had been going on with Trista. But Suze was all ready to graduate. And she'd only had to pass a bunch of exams. For all of Suze's smarts, she didn't know the pressure of writing a thesis, of defending it.

As Dulcie saw it, the odds were good that Trista had already spoken with the cops. She had probably gone to them right after the departmental meeting. Maybe she was with them still. One thing Dulcie knew for sure: with everything that was happening, the last thing Trista needed was to have her friend calling up the university police to add her two cents and complicate the situation. No, Dulcie would find out what was going on first – and
then
take the information directly to the police. But to do that, she had to find Trista. The question was: how?

Like the rest of their colleagues, Trista also shared an office in the basement of Memorial Hall. And while it might be possible to sneak in, and slump past her own office, the risk of running into the police was just too high. After all, if the cops had bothered to look up her schedule, they almost certainly had a picture of her as well – the departmental facebook would have provided that, even if she wasn't well remembered from her previous run-ins with the law.

If it had been term time still, Trista might have been leading a section or some other kind of study group. This late in the spring, though, most of their tutoring duties were over. And since Trista was up against it with her defense, she'd probably be holed up reading. Which meant, really, she could be anywhere.

Dulcie pulled out her cell. Didn't this new age of communications mean that everyone was accessible all the time? But as her call went to Trista's voicemail once again, she realized that by itself might be a clue. Trista, Dulcie knew, had a secret hideaway deep in the bowels of the science library.

‘It's the best,' Trista had confided in her only a few months before. ‘The only books I can read are the ones I bring in with me. And nobody knows where to find me.'

Nobody but me, Dulcie thought, and headed up Mass Ave.

Half a block away from the shuttle stop, Dulcie caught herself. If, in fact, the police were looking for her, might they have alerted the university drivers? With a shiver, Dulcie stepped back and waited while the crimson and white bus pulled up, disgorging three tired-looking undergrads. The little bus paused for a moment, and Dulcie weighed the risk against the walk. But, no, it was a fine day – and the twenty or so blocks would do her good.

Cambridge prided itself on being pedestrian friendly. And while Dulcie had joined her colleagues in cursing the brick sidewalks each February, when they seemed particularly slick with ice, in these last days of May they were as picturesque as a postcard, glowing red against the explosion of spring green. Above her, the sky was a soft, full blue, the color broken only by the kind of clouds that children draw, white puffy things gamboling across the sky. The lilacs were already fading, dropping their tired blossoms on the ground, but the sweet scent lingered, and Dulcie was almost skipping as she passed by the Common and headed up to the Quad.

Then she saw it: brick, but not friendly. Not warm at all. How could she have forgotten that a walk up to the Quad, where the science library was located, would bring her right past the main university police headquarters? Dulcie mentally kicked herself and looked around. If she darted across the street, she could avoid passing right in front of the building. But wouldn't she then be more visible from those upper windows? The ones that looked out like so many unblinking eyes? What if she put her head down and hurried past. She could pretend she was late for a section or, better yet, an exam. An exam that – she looked at her watch – started at three p.m.? Well, maybe the university police weren't as conversant with the exam schedule. Maybe they didn't have all their forces out looking for one particular curly-haired grad student. And maybe she should give up her search for Trista. Wait for her friend to surface and explain herself. Go back to her own academic bolt hole and make her way through those essays. If she could glean one kernel from them, well, maybe she could have that part of her thesis done within the week.

The thought was enough to almost turn her around. Then she stopped. What had Mr Grey said, about friendship? If Trista was in some kind of a jam, Dulcie owed it to her to help – even if her friend didn't think she needed help. And even – Suze's words rang in her head – if Trista seemed to be afraid of shadows.

Besides, that was all she was afraid of, wasn't she? So the cops wanted to talk to her. She should have expected that after Professor Coffin's bombshell at the morning meeting. And the science library was only two blocks away. Two very long blocks.

In front of her, a garage door began to groan and creak open. A university cruiser pulled out and paused, and Dulcie found herself cringing, taking one step back and then another. But the car had only paused for traffic, and then pulled out, driving up the street without any sirens or any apparent hurry. As Dulcie watched, the door cranked close, shuddering a bit as it hit the driveway, and she shuddered with it. A breeze had picked up, and one of those fluffy clouds had passed over the sun. She closed her eyes and felt her curls blow around her face. Almost as if she were on a ship's deck, facing a dreaded future.

The key, Dulcie repeated, was that she had done it. Whatever fear she had felt, whatever dread had caused her those horrible sleepless nights – and no matter what Dulcie may have told Lloyd, she did believe that those dreams were psychic gifts – the nameless author had gone through with her plan. Dulcie might not know how yet, but she had the textual proof. The author of
The Ravages
, the woman in her dreams, had made the long and arduous journey from London to the New World and had lived to write again.

So, too, would Dulcie. So what if Dulcie had been temporarily derailed, stuck searching for that final essay – that last bit of political writing that would prove her point. She'd been throwing herself into
The Ravages
for more than three years now. She still loved the book, what there was of it. It was only now, when she was stuck reading these later works, these possibly – no, probably – peripheral essays, that she was beginning to feel the drag that all her colleagues talked about. Not yet four years in, she finally had thesis fatigue.

And only today she might have broken through. That one phrase, surfacing from the blue volume, might be the key to everything. Dulcie paused on the sidewalk: what she'd give to just be able to dive back into that collection, to find that sentence, that essay. But, how could she concentrate with what was going on? No, she decided, better to talk to Trista. Clear things up. Then she could get back to work with a clear conscience and nothing hanging over her. And without further ado, she marched right by the police station.

As soon as Dulcie entered the science library, she understood why Trista had chosen it. When last she'd dropped by, it had been winter, and not only had the Quad seemed horribly distant from everything in the Square, but the modern library had also looked – and felt – cold. Now, with the sun shining, it was an entirely different building. Its translucent stone walls glowed, lending a soft ivory light to the interior. And its modern fixtures – recessed lighting, spotless carpeting – made Widener look, well, shabby. Plus, Dulcie noticed with a touch of satisfaction, the science library was empty, or almost. A work-study student seemed to be catching up on his own reading at the checkout desk, while a uniformed guard stared out the glass door. The result was almost pure silence.

‘Hi.' Dulcie found herself whispering as she presented her ID to the guard. He nodded, and she swiped through, marveling at the lack of bluster. Maybe she should start coming up here, too. Once she was done with her research and had started writing for real. The reading room, off to her left, looked cool and calm, its blue-grey carpet muffling any sound from the array of computer terminals.

Dulcie paused to check it out, when a slight sound – barely a whisper – disturbed her reverie.
Dulcie!
She started and looked around. But, no, either her imagination was getting the better of her, or Mr Grey was urging her on. Either way, she had come here with a purpose. Two minutes later, she was in the elevator, ascending to the modern building's top floor. And three minutes later, she was staring out at a view of Cambridge she had never seen.

‘Wow.' Her voice was the only sound, but even it was hushed in wonder. She was facing, she quickly figured, east: a quilt of green foliage and red-brick was broken by a small tower, the ‘castle' of Mt Auburn cemetery that served as much as a park as a memorial. Built of granite on a man-made hill in the middle of the cemetery, its oversized grey blocks made it stand out in style as much as height. She and Chris had taken their bikes up there a few times and hiked around, looking for famous names, and once they had climbed the tower, enjoying the view over what essentially served as the city's own arboretum. Not until now, however, had she noticed how much the tower looked like something from one of her novels. She could almost imagine Hermetria, the heroine of
The Ravages
, imprisoned there. The well-manicured grounds of the cemetery were hardly rocky crags. But the idea was right.

And suddenly the modern library seemed sterile. Time to find Trista and get back to work. With a certain reluctance, Dulcie turned from the window. As she remembered, Trista's hideaway was a cubicle over behind the stacks.

‘It's all COBOL texts. Ancient history,' her friend had told her. ‘Nobody even uses it any more.'