by Clea Simon
With that he signed off, leaving Dulcie at a loss. As she stowed her phone, she looked around. She was still standing in the back of the library, in the sheltered passageway where she had encountered Jeremy not twenty-four hours before. She had chatted with the threadbare scholar here, and while he had made no more sense than usual, neither had he made any less. Now he was in a coma, another victim of the city.
She felt the tears begin to well up, and leaned back against the brick wall, letting the memories flood through her. Jeremy, his face gaunt as he rattled on about dialectics. Jeremy, earlier in the semester, lecturing a passing gaggle of freshmen on the proper care of hardcover bindings. Jeremy, most recently, muttering about a secret …
Dulcie sat up, eyes wide open. The Jeremy Mumbleigh she knew was always well groomed, not only clean but clean-shaven. If he wasn’t a regular at any of the shelters around town, then he had to have a home of some sort. And knowing him as she did, it was a place where he could keep books safe.
As she started the cold walk to her own home, Dulcie had an idea. Her old room-mate Suze had been working as a legal-aid lawyer while she studied for the bar. She would have a better idea of where a poor scholar might live than Detective Rogovoy. And she wouldn’t scoff at the idea of a decent man, down on his luck.
TEN
‘Honey, I’m home!’ Dulcie called out as she entered the apartment. Esmé was nowhere to be seen, but Dulcie continued talking, desperate to cheer herself up. ‘What? No welcome? Does somebody not want dinner?’
‘Meh.’ The tuxedo cat appeared at that final word and brushed against Dulcie’s leg, before Dulcie scooped her up for a hug.
‘Sorry, kitty,’ she said as the little cat squirmed. ‘But you’re the only one here to greet me, and I’ve had a rough day.’ Esmé, like Mr Grey, seemed perfectly capable of understanding her – and communicating when she wanted – but right now, all Dulcie wanted was the warm, soft animal contact, a fact the little feline seemed to recognize as she relaxed and began to purr. ‘The police have the wrong idea about Jeremy,’ she murmured into her pet’s lush black fur. ‘They think he’s just another homeless guy, an easy victim. I’ve got an idea of how to help him, but …’ She paused, the words hard to form. ‘I didn’t get any of my work done.’
It was easier to confess this to the cat than it would be to Chris. Still, Esmé must have disapproved, because just then she twisted her way out of Dulcie’s grasp and scampered off to the kitchen.
‘I know, I should be working, Esmé.’ Dulcie hung up her coat and then made her own way into the kitchen. ‘But the police are being so frustrating, and yes, I should feed you, too.’
‘Wrong idea?’ The face that looked up at Dulcie looked quizzical, partly because of the off-center white blaze on the velvety nose. Partly, however, there had been a question in the wisp of a thought that had whispered in Dulcie’s ear.
‘Yeah, I think so.’ Dulcie felt compelled to acknowledge her own uncertainty as she reached into the cabinet for the cat’s dish and a can of Fancy Feast. ‘They think that this was just some random attack. That Jeremy was just another homeless guy who got mugged or got into a fight.’ She didn’t even want to voice the possibility Rogovoy had suggested – that the poor scholar had been looking for a safe place to get high.
‘Also, they’re saying he stole a book.’ She emptied the soft mash into the dish and found herself staring at it. ‘But Griddlehaus says that the book has been missing for years. So I don’t know why they even say he stole it. It might be that he found the book. After all,’ she paused, as the ideas formed in her head, ‘he would have recognized it. It was part of the bequest that he identified – part of the bequest that was his undoing.’
She stopped to consider. It was possible, she had to admit, that Jeremy would have mixed feelings about the collection. He hadn’t wanted the university to break it up. He had lost his fellowship because of it – and maybe his peace of mind. That could have left him feeling a little resentful. Or maybe that he had a certain claim on it. Maybe he saw the volume as his by right – or as some sort of compensation.
She would talk to Suze about that, too. In the clinic, her friend had to deal with lots of clients who had various mental illnesses. She might have some insight into how a man who had been wronged and then been cast out might think. Approaching the problem from the other side, Dulcie realized, might also pay off – and in that case Griddlehaus might also have some ideas. Dulcie had become so caught up in the drama of Jeremy’s life that she had failed to find out how his quest had ended. He had lost his battle, but had the university then gone on to break up the collection or had it relented? Had parts of the bequest been sold off or – she shuddered at the thought – pulped?
Perhaps there had been feedback from other sources. Once Jeremy had identified the donor, it seemed likely that there would be family members or other heirs who might have a vested interest in what happened. Maybe one of them had complained – or retrieved the unwanted part of the collection. Had they been informed that this particular volume – a bit of nineteenth-century fluff – had gone missing all those years before? Had they been informed that it had been recovered?
Dulcie imagined how the university would present it: a thief, caught red-handed, a valuable volume hidden beneath his coat. A deranged homeless man, an inevitable victim of his violent milieu.
‘But maybe that wasn’t what happened,’ she said, watching the cat eat. ‘Jeremy had championed the collection once before. Maybe he did so again.’
Reaching for her own bowl, Dulcie poured out some cereal while playing with another possibility, one she would only dare try out on the cat. ‘Esmé, what if Jeremy wasn’t a bad guy at all?’
The cat paused in her own dinner to look up at her person.
‘Because what do we know?’ Dulcie didn’t seem to notice the clear-eyed gaze as she poured the milk and took her own seat at the breakfast table. ‘Maybe Jeremy didn’t steal the book – maybe he had nothing to do with the break-ins on campus. Maybe he found that book, down where they were excavating by the library.’
Dulcie mulled this over as she began to eat, spooning up the cereal without tasting it. ‘Jeremy would have recognized the book, I bet. He would at least have seen that it was a valuable volume – one that shouldn’t have been left someplace that could flood or where the rain could get in. In which case, Jeremy wasn’t a failed robber, a thief who was injured while trying to make off with a valuable prize. Doesn’t it make much more sense that he once again endangered his life trying to save a book?
‘Esmé.’ Dulcie put down her spoon to stare straight into those round green eyes. ‘If I’m right, then I think it is entirely possible that Jeremy Mumbleigh is a hero.’
ELEVEN
‘Dulcie, I don’t think you should be involved in this.’ Suze sounded stern. Dulcie knew her friend worked long hours at the legal clinic across town, but still … ‘Let it be.’
‘I can’t, Suze.’ Dulcie tucked her feet under her. After that rather unsatisfying bowl of Cheerios, she had heated some leftover noodles for dessert, and the combination had left her feeling both sleepy and full by the time she called her former room-mate. Now she struggled to get comfortable. ‘He’s in health services – in a coma – and the cops aren’t doing anything about it.’
‘Wait, I thought you said they were investigating?’ Dulcie could hear the sounds of Suze preparing her own dinner, the clank of cutlery making her regret her own slapdash meal and – almost – her decision to call. ‘That they’re considering this an assault?’
‘Well, yeah.’ Dulcie backtracked, thinking hard. She had been hoping for answers, not questions. ‘But they think it was just some homeless thing. Plus, they think he stole the book they found on him.’
‘And, it was library property, right?’ The sound of running water. Dulcie envisioned pasta. ‘And he had no explanation.’
‘He was unconscious. And when he wasn’t, he wasn’t making much sense.’ It sounded b
ad, even to her. ‘You remember Jeremy – Mumbles, right?’
‘I’m sorry, Dulcie, I don’t.’ Suze had spent most of her last few years at university in the law school library. ‘But Dulcie? I think maybe you should stay out of this and let the system work. You’ve got a big heart, but this one might just be beyond you.’ Voices in the background: Suze’s boyfriend had come home. ‘I’ve got to run, Dulce. But give me the quick update. How’s your dissertation going?’
By the time Chris called, Dulcie was too disheartened to put on a brave face.
‘I don’t want to talk about my dissertation, Chris,’ she said, lying on the sofa. ‘Poor Jeremy is in a coma. They think he was attacked – that it might have been some homeless thing.’
‘Oh, Dulcie.’ Chris’s concern helped, and she started to sit up. ‘I knew you shouldn’t be hanging around him.’
‘Chris, that’s not the point …’ The conversation didn’t get better. Although it ended with Chris offering to come back early – or to buy a ticket for her on the first bus down tomorrow – everything her boyfriend said seemed to make her feel worse. If he wasn’t stressing Jeremy’s mental health – or lack thereof – he was reminding her of how she had relied on Detective Rogovoy in the past.
‘He’s not, you know, some ogre,’ Chris said, his rational approach only making her feel worse. ‘And he does know what he’s doing.’
‘He doesn’t know the history, Chris.’ Dulcie had managed to explain something about the Stavendish bequest, and about Jeremy’s campaign to save the books. Only her boyfriend had seen that as evidence of the man’s decline, rather than vice versa. ‘And you don’t know what those books are worth.’
‘Dulcie, can you hear yourself?’ Chris’s voice was soft. ‘I’m sorry I left you there alone. You’re under so much pressure. Do you think you can get some sleep? I’m worried about you.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me.’ Dulcie tried to rally, if for no other reason than to reassure her boyfriend. ‘I’ve got Esmé and Mr Grey to keep me company. Besides, I’m going to get this dissertation written. I am.’
‘I know you are, Dulcie.’ Dulcie could hear Chris’s mother calling his name. ‘Look, hug Esmé for me, will you?’
‘Of course I will,’ she said. But the little feline had made herself scarce. Dulcie had rarely felt more alone.
TWELVE
These words could prove her downfall. Such a stern Fate held her Pen hostage for a breath, as she paused to consider such an outcome. These selfsame lines that she had once dash’d across the paper and now labored o’er by candlelight to posit such a Theory, such a Life, did now prove as slipp’ry as the Knife, wet with Blood, that had held her Hostage. From her own hands, these lines could prove Traitor, were they to be revealed …
‘Don’t you have a paper to write or something?’ It was the hour. It had to be. Dulcie had woken from her dream with a sense of dread and an idea – and had decided that action was better than more sleep. That had gotten her out of bed and prompted her to call on Detective Rogovoy bright and early. Only the gruff detective, as she was finding, was not in the brightest of moods this morning. At least, not yet.
The only logical deduction, Dulcie had decided, was that she hadn’t properly explained herself to the grumpy detective. ‘I do, and I will,’ she said, to answer his rather abrupt question. ‘But I’d like to see the book that was found with Jeremy Mumbleigh.’ She repeated what she’d said as soon as she reached him. ‘I may be able to explain a little about its provenance.’
She couldn’t hear his response, partly because he had ducked down, covering his face with one oversized hand. When he looked back up at her, however, he was smiling slightly, his eyes warm and kind.
‘It’s provenance?’
‘Yes, it’s history. Where it comes from.’ She couldn’t believe he was unaware of the term. ‘I have reason to believe that this particular book may have a long history with Jeremy Mumbleigh, or maybe vice versa.’ She paused to figure this one out. ‘Anyway, I think the reason he had it has to do with when he was a grad student.’
‘Oh?’ One eyebrow arched up, and Dulcie launched into her theory, only stopping when she noticed that those big shoulders were bumping up and down as the detective chuckled.
‘Ms Schwartz, what would I do without you?’ As Dulcie finished she realized Rogovoy was openly smiling, his eyes nearly hidden inside the folds of his face. ‘My life would be so dull.’
‘You’re teasing me.’ Dulcie couldn’t help but feel a bit put out. ‘But I believe it might be relevant. A man has been attacked. Gravely injured. So if I could just—’
Rogovoy raised a big hand, stopping her before she could continue. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Schwartz. I should have told you earlier, only you were so intent on explaining it all to me.’
‘What?’ Dulcie heard the sharp note in her tone, but it couldn’t be helped. ‘Are you going to say you no longer have it?’
‘No, I wouldn’t dare.’ The big man had the audacity to chuckle again. ‘But it is evidence and until all the paperwork is filed—’ She had started to protest, but he kept talking over her. ‘Until all the paperwork is filed, I’m not going to mess around with it. Lieutenant Wardley is heading the task force, and recovering stolen property is his bailiwick. I’m sorry, Ms Schwartz. You’ll be able to see it soon enough.’
‘Evidence.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘So you still think Jeremy stole it?’
‘It was found on him.’ Rogovoy sounded just as sad. ‘And whatever you may think – however it got there – it is university property.’
It wasn’t as if Dulcie didn’t have any recourse. As a university scholar, she knew she had options. It was that she simply couldn’t think of how to access them, just then. And so she had let the big detective escort her out of his office, and had even let him put that large, flat palm on her back as he guided her through the overheated modern building and into the glassed-in foyer that could have served as an airlock for some kind of time machine. It wasn’t until she stepped out through the second of the glass doors and back into what passed for spring in New England that she realized she was missing an essential piece of information. A piece of information that could be more important than Rogovoy knew. She had to find out where, exactly, Jeremy and the book had been found.
She turned to re-enter. She could still see the hulking detective, who had paused to chat with a colleague inside the reception area – another big man, the one with the buzz cut.
She reached for the handle, and as she did she caught her reflection in the glass. She was short, she knew that – in the mirror Dulcie barely came up to Rogovoy’s armpit, even though he was nearly a room away. Her red curls would have given her another inch of height, probably, had they not been squashed down by her knit hat, and in her winter parka she looked a bit wider than usual. All in all, not an authoritative figure. Not a person who could demand information, not once she had been told to let it go. Had been, in effect, dismissed.
She let her hand fall from the door as she backed on to the sidewalk. The wind, which had been almost non-existent as she’d walked into the Square twenty minutes earlier, was picking up, and she pulled her collar up in a vain attempt to keep it out.
‘Because it can sneak in … ’ The voice was so soft, she thought at first it was her own thought spoken aloud. Only she hadn’t been thinking about the wind exactly. ‘Because you don’t notice it, until it has made itself heard … ’
‘Mr Grey?’ Still holding her collar shut, Dulcie found herself standing straighter. ‘Are you saying you could slip in – or I could?’
A low rumble. The sound of a far-off motor scooter, or perhaps a purr. ‘Now, Dulcie, we are not mice, to slip off into holes. But just because we are not lions either … ’
‘I get it, Mr Grey,’ said Dulcie, a new spirit in her voice. And she did.
‘I’m looking for Mr Griddlehaus?’ Twenty minutes later, Dulcie was back in the library, seeking her friend. A sign by th
e elevator informed her that Mildon was still closed. ‘Is he around?’
‘Try the lab,’ said the bored first year who was manning the desk. ‘You know where that is, right?’
‘Of course.’ While the details of paper restoration were not her forte, Dulcie had an antiquarian’s appreciation of the work that was done in the university’s conservation lab, across the campus. In the ultra-modern building, adjacent to the Science Center, some of the top experts in the world labored, piecing together and repairing works on paper, parchment, and even older media once thought utterly beyond help.
It made perfect sense that Griddlehaus, still exiled from his usual domain, would go to ground there. Dulcie tried not to think of a mouse – her interaction with Mr Grey made her feel it was a bit disrespectful – but as she made her way across the Yard, she couldn’t help but mull over the similarity. Besides, maybe that was what Mr Grey had meant about sneaking in. Not only should the slight librarian be able to fill her in on what had happened with the Stavendish collection, he would probably be able to locate the hole where Jeremy had been injured as well.
Excited by the thought, she ran the last few yards across the open plaza, letting the wind propel her to the door.
‘Dulcie Schwartz.’ She identified herself to the grey-haired woman who answered her knock. She seemed surprised to have a visitor, but her smile was warm when Dulcie introduced herself. ‘I’m looking for Thomas Griddlehaus?’
‘Margaret Constantine,’ the older woman said, holding the heavy door open. ‘Please, come in.’
