Code Grey

by Clea Simon

  Except for its crowd appeal, that gawdy cover – Dulcie could picture its reds and greens and the heavy, worked gold – was nothing. It was certainly no better than the majority of the collection, books that the next article had described as ‘period pot boilers,’ or, in other words, junk. Popular fiction that – according to the release – had little or no scholarly value.

  The university, Dulcie read on, had initially been hesitant to deaccession even the less worthwhile pieces. While the donor had been unknown, the terms under which the collection had been donated were up in the air, and breaking the terms of a bequest could mean the loss of the valued pieces, as well as the dross. Jeremy’s work tracing various inscriptions and tying them in with publication dates and distribution of the more mass-marketed publications had helped the university locate the family that had originally made the gift. And that meant, she read, that he had eased the university’s path toward winnowing out the collection.

  And that’s when the story began to get odd.

  Libraries, Dulcie knew, got rid of material all the time. Works were replaced by updated editions. Academic trends changed and collections followed suit. Less popular material was sifted out, and duplicates sold or gifted to institutions that lacked copies. Sometimes, and the thought made her grimace, books were even destroyed. It happened.

  Dulcie clicked on to a later article. Once the donor had been identified, she read, the university had appealed to Stavendish’s heirs. Side by side portraits showed Stavendish, formally posed, and two fashionably attired young women, his descendants, smiling by the university’s main gate. They had given their permission to cull the gift, the article explained; their main concern being the public access to that showy Bible. And thus, it had seemed that the fate of the less prized parts of this particular collection were sinking fast.

  Only Jeremy Mumbleigh had fought back.

  Dorchester Winner Returns Prize read the next headline. This piece – written as a straightforward news story – detailed how, in protest to the library’s stated intentions of breaking up the bequest, the graduate student had given back both the award plaque and the accompanying sum, a hefty ten grand. The writer had then speculated on Mumbleigh’s future, noting that – in the convoluted math of higher learning – that sum had already been subtracted from the winner’s grants for the following year.

  A final piece had quoted the beleaguered scholar, who had both appealed to the university’s better instincts and railed against its ‘tyranny.’ There were no further articles about the controversy – or about the library’s plans. Nor were there any later mentions of the one-time wunderkind. Dulcie clicked through to the main university search engine and then back to the earlier stories – to no avail. Jeremy Mumbleigh might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

  EIGHT

  For a few seconds, Dulcie sat motionless, stymied by the dead end. Then, with a sigh that could probably be heard throughout the abandoned lower level where she sat, she faced up to the inevitable. This must have been when Jeremy Mumbleigh got off track. Any allies he had made in the university were probably put off by his stubborn stance, and by the rather unkind – and, in retrospect, rash – things he had said about the library’s treatment of the bequest and the university in general. Even if he had been right about trends changing – and Dulcie knew enough about how history had disregarded her favorite genre, the Gothic novel, to be grateful for such a champion – his attitude would not have helped his case. Without friends and without funding, he had probably been forced to withdraw.

  Somewhere in there, Dulcie suspected, the poor man had had a breakdown. Maybe, she thought, the battle had started it, kicking off some deep-seated insecurities or feelings of paranoia. More likely, she admitted silently, the fervor of his fight – calling out everyone from the university president to the head of the librarian’s union – had been an early symptom. A sign of an unraveling mind trying desperately to hold everything together.

  The frustrating part was that she might never know. The official university press had no more about the star scholar, and anything in the health services would, of course, be confidential. What bothered Dulcie even more was the lack of any biographical information. Would it have been so difficult to identify Jeremy by a home state or a secondary school?

  Apparently so, she realized, after she had gone back over the previous articles and failed, once again, to find any such mention. It was time to admit she had hit a dead end.

  Dulcie closed her laptop and looked around. Somewhere, not far away, she knew work was ongoing. The water main break that had closed the Mildon must be on or near this level – the deepest in the building. But here in the stacks, there was no noise. Outside, the afternoon had to be drawing on, but the light here remained if not bright, then even. Unchanging, especially now, when no casual visitors passed by to spark the motion-sensitive fluorescents that hung over each aisle. Down here the spring thaw didn’t matter, nor did the icy wind that had frosted the city. Even the sound of that wind, a howling lonely sound, was muted down here, replaced by the hum of machinery, as ventilation and electrical systems went about their business, oblivious to Dulcie and her concerns. And the books – they were the constant. Protected from the elements, they would last as long as, well, as long as such things could last. And since Dulcie had seen papyrus preserved and parchment restored to its original legibility, she knew that could be nearly forever.

  Of course! Dulcie sat up with a start. Her research of Jeremy Mumbleigh might have come to an end, but there was always another avenue to explore. Hadn’t her years of studies taught her that? Chuckling to herself, she reopened her laptop. The scholar might have dropped from the public eye. But the collection he had fought so hard to protect – that had to be traceable.

  A few keystrokes brought Dulcie back to the original article – the one that explained how Jeremy had linked the collection to Josiah Stavendish. His grandson, Ashley Stavendish – Dulcie opened up another window to refresh her memory – had been quite a big deal in the early part of the twentieth century. A literary critic who styled himself a scholar, he had gone from critiquing contemporary works – sometimes with devastating wit – to writing about works of the past for such journals as McLure’s, Collier’s and the fledgling Time magazine. He had even published some of his own fiction, Dulcie recalled as she skimmed a footnote, although there had been some scandal about one of his stories, and that part of his career had been quickly eclipsed.

  The confusion, Dulcie read on, had come about because the donation had not come from Josiah Stavendish nor from the descendents pictured. Instead, the gift – in the form of two worn and stained steamer trunks – had been left to the university by a third woman who styled herself Stavendish’s great-great-grand-niece, though whether she had any actual physical relationship with either the collector or the critic was an open question. What Mumbleigh had discovered, by studying the books in those trunks, was that the collection had originally been compiled by the wealthy collector, but had been passed down to the critic, and come finally to the woman who had made the bequest.

  At least some of it had – and therein lay the rub. Now that Dulcie was looking for stories on the Stavendish bequest, rather than on the scholar who identified it, she found herself going down a rabbit hole of arcane articles. First off was the question of whether the contents of those trunks could even be called one collection. Even before the donor had been identified, the contents were derided as ‘incoherent,’ which, in scholarly terms didn’t mean that the books were unreadable so much as that as a collection they didn’t adhere to one theme or style.

  ‘They should see my library,’ Dulcie muttered to herself, skimming one archivist’s disparaging essay. Anyone who knew her would understand Cat Care for Dummies next to The Wind in the Willows, right up against two different editions of the incomplete The Ravages of Umbria, each with varying and – to Dulcie – wrong-headed essays whining about the ‘un-literary excesses’ of the unkno
wn author.

  One of the arguments, and Dulcie had to admit that she could see the sense in it, was that the donation contained more than one person’s collection. That although someone had inherited a fine bunch of books, as well as some lesser works from Ashley, over the years the distant niece’s own, less patrician purchases had gotten mixed in. After her death, the entire load had been packed up and donated by her daughter – the great-great-grand-niece. That lack of cohesion had been behind the ultimate decision to unload some of the collection.

  ‘Purging a fine library of commercial detritus,’ one librarian had been quoted as saying. ‘Looking a gift horse in the mouth,’ was how Dulcie saw it.

  Maybe there was an element of sour grapes. The university, Dulcie was surprised to see, had not even been the first choice. A small private library outside Philadelphia had been offered the collection. But burdened by the sky-rocketing costs of the mid-seventies energy crisis, they had turned it down, saying that they could not afford proper care. So by the time it came here, she figured, it was already viewed as more a burden than a benefit. Add in that the collection had been associated most recently with women – and the living donor young and rather pretty – and Dulcie suspected the university powers that be had devalued the gift still further. Still, it seemed an ungrateful way to respond. A feeling she had obviously shared with Jeremy.

  ‘I wonder if any of those librarians are still around?’ Dulcie asked her screen. If any were – and if any of them had experienced a change of heart – perhaps one of them would act as an advocate for the poor scholar. But while her machine hummed and purred, it didn’t cough up any names. And before she could think of another direction, a soft ping caught her attention.

  Hey sweetie. It was Chris on email. Figured you were in the library when you didn’t answer your phone.

  She smiled. He knew her habits so well. He’d probably have some ideas about how to pursue this.

  I am looking into what happened with a collection, she typed. The Stavendish, she added.

  The screen remained blank for so long, she wondered if he had gone. Or, no, she decided, he must be typing a long, involved answer. She knew she could count on him.

  The reply, when it finally arrived, was a bit shorter than she had expected. New direction for the chapter?

  No, she responded and then hesitated. Chris was no stranger to Dulcie’s struggles. He had sided with her as she expanded the original idea for her dissertation and supported her in her fight for more time as she uncovered new material about her thesis subject. Recently, however, he had begun to wonder out loud if perhaps her thesis adviser was right. If, perhaps, she had a mental block against finishing her dissertation – perhaps even against leaving the university. He had sounded quite understanding when she had told him her decision to stay behind this week, saying that he thought it would be good for her to really focus. To make some progress. To admit now that she was spending her time researching something utterly unrelated to her dissertation might sound, well, like she was frittering away her time.

  Not exactly, she amended her response. But it pertains.

  These things were always easier to explain in person. Even tonight, when they spoke on the phone, would be better.

  Better get back to it, she added, before he could question her further. Love you. And with that she closed the program.

  Besides, she told herself, by the time she spoke to Chris again, she really could have some work done. Opening her notes, she once again congratulated herself on her foresight. Knowing how easy it was to lose references, she had inserted links to the appropriate files into her outline. All she really had to do was open a topic, look over her notes, and put them in order on the page.

  This one, for example, would be a good place to start. Contrast high v. low lit, she had written. The link was to an article of the time, disparaging the ‘lending library smut destined for Shop Girls and their Ilk.’ It was a great quote, and Dulcie pondered for a moment how to best set it off. Critics didn’t change, she noted, and then wrote that down.

  As they have through time … Well, that was regrettable. She’d fix it later. As they have through time immemorial, critics have derided popular fiction. There, that was better. Suddenly, inspiration struck. Nearly a century later, the then-popular critic Ashley Stavendish would write similar words, although his own private library would prove to be just as rich in such potboilers and popular novels.

  Was that going too far? She’d have to check to see if the provenance of any of those disputed books had been proven. A few clicks and she was back in the articles about the collection. No, as far as she could tell, nothing had been decided. Well, she could ask Griddlehaus. He’d at least have a lead for her to follow. Unless …

  Throwing her belongings back in her bag, she raced for the elevator. How foolish she had been. How silly to have overlooked a resource unlike any other. She was tapping her foot as she waited for the elevator, thinking up questions as she cleared the front desk and stepped out of the library’s back exit. There she hesitated. Already the light was fading, the shadows lengthening. It was later than she thought, maybe too late to visit.

  She dug out her phone. As it powered up, she thought of Jeremy out in this weather and wondered how he’d made it through the winter. He had to have a home somewhere, an apartment or a friend who had kept him warm and dry. And now, well, the health services wouldn’t just let him go.

  ‘Hello, health services? I’m wondering if I may speak with a patient.’ Visitors might be limited to immediate family. Phone calls, certainly, wouldn’t be. ‘Jeremy Mumbleigh – he’s on the third floor.’

  There was a pause and Dulcie waited to be connected. Jeremy wouldn’t be at his best on the phone. She knew that. But if he would give permission for her to visit, then …

  ‘Hello?’ The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t the one she expected. ‘Detective Gus Rogovoy here. How may I help you?’

  ‘Detective Rogovoy!’ Dulcie found herself unaccountably pleased. Clearly, the large detective had reached the same conclusion that she had. ‘I’m so glad you’re there. I knew you’d realize that Jeremy was a resource, not a suspect. But if you could put him on the phone for a minute—’

  ‘Ms Schwartz?’ The detective didn’t sound surprised to hear from her. He did, however, sound tired.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I was looking into that book—’

  ‘Dulcie.’ It wasn’t just the use of her first name. Something in his tone had changed, and Dulcie stopped, waiting. ‘Dulcie – Ms Schwartz – stop now. Please.’

  ‘What …’ She was suddenly afraid. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your friend. It looks like we may not be pressing charges.’

  Dulcie snorted, a half laugh of relief. ‘Well, I’m glad of that, Detective. I knew you’d see the light about Jeremy.’

  ‘No, Ms Schwartz, that’s not what I meant.’

  She ignored the chill that was beginning to creep up her back and kept talking. ‘You can’t still think that he’s a thief. I’m sure there was some confusion about that book. Maybe—’

  ‘Ms Schwartz.’ Louder this time. More insistent.

  ‘Maybe he found it, or he was worried that with all the construction work, it would be damaged—’

  ‘Dulcie!’ His bark stopped her cold. ‘Please, that’s not what I meant. I was trying … Dulcie,’ he said, his voice soft again. ‘I’m afraid your friend is more seriously injured than we had originally believed. This is now an assault case. Jeremy Mumbleigh is in a coma.’

  NINE

  ‘Wait, no.’ What she had heard made no sense. ‘You said he fell. That he got hurt …’

  ‘We did.’ Rogovoy’s voice was back to its regular growl. ‘We thought at first that he just ignored the caution tape, that he took a header into the hole – into some kind of sub-basement, over by the library. But now it’s looking different, like the injuries aren’t consistent with a fall. We think he had some company.’

  �
�Jeremy? But who?’ Dulcie racked her brain. ‘Who would want to hurt Jeremy?’

  ‘Could have been a mugging. Could have been another homeless person, fighting for something he had on him, or, hell, for a place to sleep. We see a lot of this, Ms Schwartz. I’m sorry that this is a guy you—’

  ‘Wait.’ The edge of an idea was tickling at Dulcie’s mind. ‘Which library sub-basement?’

  ‘No way, Ms Schwartz. I gather you heard about the book we found, but I’m not having you turn this into something about literature or something.’ Rogovoy’s words had an edge she couldn’t explain. ‘This was about a homeless guy who ran into someone bad, and something happened. And, yes, we checked. None of the local shelters knew him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have gone to a shelter.’ Dulcie thought about the man she knew. He might have been poor and hungry, but she was pretty sure he considered himself a scholar, not a pauper. ‘He would have seen that as beneath him.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ Rogovoy’s comment was almost obscured.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look, the shelters do their best. Especially in the winter, they do a ton of outreach. But not everyone wants to go to one. I mean, they have rules.’

  ‘You mean, like lights out at a certain hour?’ Jeremy would hate it if he couldn’t read late into the night.

  ‘Like no getting high, Ms Schwartz.’

  ‘Get high? But Jeremy didn’t do drugs.’

  Another rumbling sigh.

  ‘Do you have a toxicology report?’ Dulcie had learned a thing or two about investigations. ‘You don’t, do you?’

  ‘Ms Schwartz, I told you about Mumbleigh as a courtesy. Because you seem to consider him a friend. I probably shouldn’t even have done that. Now, please, leave it to us. We see this kind of thing way too often. He had stolen property – that book you eluded to. Maybe he wanted to sell it, to score. Maybe he tried to and ran into someone who didn’t want pay. Maybe someone else had the same idea. Violence against street people is just not that rare. I’m sorry, Ms Schwartz. You’re a good kid, and you think the best of everyone. That’s nice. But this is a big city, and there are a lot of characters in it. Not everyone is who you think he is, Ms Schwartz. Most of us aren’t at all.’