Grey Expectations (8 page)

‘I'll say.' That grumble again. The hall walls began to spin. ‘And about time too.'

Dulcie grabbed at the frame of the door behind her for support. None of this was making sense.

‘At any rate, once we find him, this young man – I cannot call him a gentleman – will be called to account for his misdeeds.' Coffin gestured, raising his hand to the sky – or to the dying light-bulb that flickered above them. ‘He has been a dark stain on the university's history. The sooner erased, the better.'

‘So, he's not – dead.' Her voice was so low, she didn't even know if he heard her. At any rate, he paid her no heed and kept talking, addressing the hallway as if it were the pulpit of Memorial Church.

‘To start with, that name? Roland Galveston? If anybody in admissions had been half awake, she or he would have recognized an obvious pseudonym.'

Now that the blood was returning, Dulcie felt a flush of irrational disappointment. She'd loved Roland Galveston's name. It had been perfect for the cheery Texan.

‘He had not been graduated from Vanderbilt.' Coffin was still talking, listing sins each greater than its predecessor. ‘We do not even know if he matriculated! Foolish of him, really, to have chosen a relatively respectable institution. So easy to check. And we have every reason to believe he is involved with the disappearance of the Dunster Codex.'

Dulcie stepped back – and into the wall. The way Coffin was looking at her, she was sure he suspected her personally of something.

‘Roland? A thief?' Was this what Trista had been about to tell her?

‘We suspect he had an accomplice.' Coffin's eyes were as grey as his hair and as steely.

‘Here? In the department?' She couldn't help it. She'd been thinking of Trista anyway, and now – no. Not Trista.

‘Yes.' Coffin was staring at her most intently. ‘Sound familiar?'

With a start, she saw what he was implying. ‘Me? No way!' If she could have backed up more, she would have. But Coffin had either grilled her enough – or assumed that she was sufficiently terrified that she would confess without further prompting. The latter wasn't that far off, Dulcie realized, and it was with great relief that she saw him lean back on his heels and then, with another grumble, turn back into Thorpe's office. Only then did she realize that her thesis adviser had already disappeared. It was not, she thought, a bad idea.

‘Coffee.' She stumbled down the stairs and into the front room. The crowd had begun to thin a bit, but one look at her face and they parted to let her at a blessedly full pot.

She was pouring, already savoring the rich aroma, when the crowd closed back up around her. She heard Lloyd, her long-time office-mate and friend. Ethan, who, although clueless, was also guileless. She took a sip and relaxed. When she opened her eyes, Nancy was smiling at her. All would be right again with the world.

And then she heard a voice, female, that she didn't recognize. Coming in a lull in the communal hubbub, it sounded as clear as an emergency broadcasting announcement.

‘What I want to know,' the voice said, ‘is who would
want
to steal the Dunster Codex? From what I hear, that horrible old thing is haunted.'

ELEVEN

D
ulcie was out on the street before she knew it, the concerned voices of her friends fading behind her. She knew she had blanched, had sputtered into the coffee, but she'd had no time to explain. Air had suddenly seemed more important than caffeine, and in the spring warmth, the crowded coffee room had become unbearably close.

Halfway down the block, she stopped to think. Haunted? Was the Dunster Codex haunted? Something had been tickling the edge of her mind since that horrible meeting, but she didn't think that was it. She tried closing her eyes, but when she did all she saw was Dr Coffin's face, stern and looming. Maybe it was that moustache. ‘But I always found grey so comforting. And whiskers!' She opened her eyes to see a squirrel looking on suspiciously. If Mr Grey were here, his tail would be lashing in excitement, she knew. Esmé, on the other hand, would probably see the fuzzy rodent and then turn to bite Dulcie's foot. Displaced aggression. Dulcie understood the theory, but that knowledge didn't help her miss her gentle old cat any less.

‘Mr Grey, can you help me with this?' Even though Esmé had shown signs of being able to communicate, Dulcie never thought of asking her for advice or aid. In life, Mr Grey had been a quiet cat, mature and contemplative. Since that awful day, nearly a year and a half before, his occasional presence had only become more so – and if the spectral cat's advice was often cryptic, well, Dulcie was willing to overlook that. Or, to be honest, blame her own lack of comprehension. Esmé, though, would never be anything but a kitten to her. Especially, she thought ruefully, if Chris kept encouraging her worst habits.

This bright morning must not have been cut out for ghosts, however, because her plea remained unanswered. But she had other, more ordinary, sources of information. And so she took another sip from her travel mug for courage, hiked her bag higher over her shoulder, and headed off to meet Trista.

The Brew House was everything a student hang-out should be: cheap, accessible, and filled with friendly faces. Trista probably hadn't counted on the latter when she'd suggested it, Dulcie decided, and so she waited outside for her friend. She'd quickly finished the departmental coffee, but she'd take Trista up on her offer. The Brew House double latte was more of a milk drink, anyway, she reasoned.

Ten minutes later, she was wondering if her friend had had second thoughts. Juggling her empty mug, she fished her phone from her bag. No, no messages. No missed calls, either. She started to type in Trista's number – there had to be an explanation – when a pack of undergrads barreled into her.

‘Sorry!' one of them had the grace to yell over his shoulder, as the five – or was it six? – hurtled down the sidewalk. Shouldn't they be gone already? Dulcie wondered. Each year, they seemed to linger longer and longer into what Dulcie thought of as her private time: post-exams and pre-summer session. She turned to look into the coffee house. It was still crowded. Well, exam period lasted till the end of the week. Maybe some of the hunched-over bodies in there were studying.

‘Goddess be!' Dulcie could have smacked herself. Almost did when she heard Lucy's favorite exclamation come out of her mouth. Of course, she'd been waiting out here, when Trista must have been inside, buried in the mob. She waved through the window at the slim blonde.

‘Trista!' Her friend hadn't seen her and was staring into space. ‘It's Dulcie!' At that, the woman turned around, and Dulcie saw that, despite the resemblance, it wasn't her colleague. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else.'

The young woman – almost a girl, really – kept staring. Dulcie shrugged. She hadn't been that rude. Then she grabbed her bag and pushed by Dulcie, out the door. Dulcie watched as she hurried, head down, toward the corner. Exams were hard on everyone. She remembered them well. But Dulcie was willing to bet that it wasn't academic worries that made that girl run so fast. That pale face had been splotchy, the nose red. That girl had been blinking away tears.

‘I wonder—' But Dulcie shook off the thought. She had her own friends to worry about. Walking into the coffee house, she waited while her eyes adjusted to the lower light. Five dark heads were crowded around one small table. A paper slipped to the floor, and two of those heads bumped as they bent to retrieve it. Study group. Three other tables held laptops, but none of the heads bent over the keyboards – bent to avoid eye contact with someone who might dare to want to share their table – were blonde. Dulcie made her way to the back. Two more groups had grabbed all the seats, and none of their members looked familiar. On the remaining tables, three more singles hunched over papers or laptops – except for one man, whose face was planted in a book, clearly asleep.

Dulcie turned. She'd been wrong. Trista wasn't back here. Unless – no, the bathroom key still hung from the side of the counter. And when Dulcie stepped back out into the sunlight, she saw no sign of her friend there either.

This was getting ridiculous. ‘Trista?' Her call had gone direct to voicemail. Maybe that phone call Trista had mentioned was simply lasting longer than she had expected. ‘I'm at the Brew House? We were going to meet?' She looked around. No sign of her friend on the street. ‘Call me.'

She clicked her phone shut. Trista had a poor sense of time. Dulcie should have known that ‘fifteen minutes' really meant more like a half hour. At least.

Well, there wasn't anything she could do here. And truth was, with the adrenalin surge from the meeting, she didn't need any more caffeine. Trista would call her back. For now, she'd head to the library.

It was reflex, she knew that, heading to the library whenever things were going wrong. It wasn't a bad reflex for a scholar; Dulcie had made some fantastic academic discoveries while fleeing the pressures of everyday life. The majestic granite building before her was as much a sanctuary as a workplace, she acknowledged as she climbed the stone steps: a hiding place where she felt safe. In truth, with its more than five miles of books stored primarily in its underground stacks, the giant library had more than a little in common with a rabbit's warren. And she, Dulcie, was beginning to feel a little like a timid bunny.

For a moment she flashed on Mr Grey, and how he'd pounce on a rucked-up blanket, his feline instincts urging him to flush out any prey that was hiding in its tunnels. Maybe that's what Esmé was trying to do – flush Dulcie out of her routine and into trying new things. The thought of her young cat warmed her; the little animal wasn't trying to be disruptive. It was her nature to be young, playful, and fierce.

‘We can't fight who we are,' Dulcie murmured to herself as she dug out her ID. Flashing it at the guard, she felt her spirits lift. A different setting might help her to finally get through those hated essays. She might even take a break from that one collection and see what else she could read. All she had to find were one or maybe two more good literary examples. Never mind the beautiful spring weather, what Dulcie needed to get the sap flowing was likely right here in front of her.

‘Hey, darling.' In true Mona fashion, the librarian's greeting rang out through the entrance hall, almost deserted on this balmy day. ‘How's that handsome man of yours?'

Dulcie felt herself blushing as she rushed over. Mona was a dear, but her voice was as large as the rest of her, and the two guards were making no effort to hide their broad grins.

‘Chris is OK,' she said, more to Mona's multicolored nails than to the librarian's broad mocha-colored face. ‘We're getting used to the new situation.'

‘Getting used to it?' Dulcie looked up and saw concern dampen the grin. ‘Girl, you should be on your honeymoon with him.'

‘No, it's great. Really.' Dulcie cast about for a less sensitive subject. ‘How're things by you?'

‘Well, you probably heard about the robbery, right?' Even leaning close, Mona's voice boomed.

Dulcie nodded. So much for getting away from her problems here.

‘They've had us going over the records. Who had access; who used that access. Royal pain.'

Dulcie had to smile. Of course, to Mona, it was a bureaucratic hassle. ‘I'm sure they'll figure it out.' A thought hit her. ‘Is it possible that it wasn't stolen? I mean, if they're checking records, maybe it was just  . . . mislaid?'

Mona rolled her eyes. ‘With the security they have on that thing? No, I think it was spirited away.'

‘You mean, a professional job?' Thieves had attacked the library in the past. While books might not have quite the cachet of art, there were collectors out there willing to put up money to obtain rarities.

But Mona didn't even give her time to follow up on that though. ‘Pros? No, I mean magic, Dulcie. If you heard some of the stories I've heard  . . . . Believe me, no collector would want that nasty old thing. It's cursed.'

TWELVE

D
ulcie let her smile fade as she descended into the stacks. It was a relief, really, not to have to pretend any more. Mona meant well, but all this talk about curses and hauntings just gave Dulcie the creeps.

‘Words cannot conjure bad luck,' she muttered to herself. ‘Words are simply tools for communication.' After a lifetime of Lucy, whose vaguely Wiccan faith tended to absorb just about any supernatural belief that caught her fancy, this ethos – the creed of the scholar – was Dulcie's defense. It was also, sometimes, a little hard to believe when everything seemed to be going wrong all at once.

‘A text, any text, is a vessel.' She let herself wax lyrical as she emerged from the elevator, three levels below the yard. ‘A way for a story to be carried – and a means by which a reader can be carried away.'

She'd meant to cheer herself up. After all, how many times had she enjoyed being transported by a good book – by
The Ravages of Umbria
in particular? But as she pictured the two-hundred-year-old novel, she couldn't help thinking of its author. Where had the author been heading on her own journey? And why was it surrounded by such a sense of dread?

Only a few months earlier, Dulcie had been sure she had the key to this particular mystery. The unnamed author had emigrated from England to the fledgling United States, of that she was sure. Essays in her distinctive style had been published in Philadelphia less than three years after she had ‘disappeared' from the London scene, and Dulcie had a sneaking suspicion that the émigré had found love, or at least started a family, on this side of the Atlantic.

That was before the latest series of dreams, though. In these dreams, the author seemed to be fleeing something – or someone. Even worse, she seemed to be filled with despair. Dulcie had been shy about sharing these nightmares. Chris, rational thinker that he was, would have attributed them to too much late-night pepperoni pizza. And Lucy, she was sure, would over-interpret them and try to involve her daughter in some complicated herbal exorcism. Nobody else would understand at all, and so Dulcie had kept them to herself.