by Clea Simon
Whether the protagonist was also a murderer was, of course, not particularly relevant to her dissertation. If anything, the idea of an anti-hero – an anti-heroine, to be specific – would make the work even more notable. A female picaresque in the tradition of Moll Flanders. Still, Dulcie had felt validated when she had uncovered a reference to a secret door in the library. For starters, it firmly placed the work in the canon of her author, not only for its Gothic overtones but for its resemblance to an English ‘priest hole,’ a fixture of noble houses that had remained adherents to the ‘true faith’ during the period of religious upheaval brought about by Henry VIII. American authors were more likely to reference the old world’s monolithic traditions, its hierarchies and birth lines, than to incorporate a reference to one of the great splits in the upper classes.
On a more personal level, Dulcie had been gratified to see the possible resolution of what she had begun to think of as a locked-room mystery. If the hidden door led to some outside passage, then it became more likely that the protagonist wasn’t the killer. Though if the door simply led to a bolt hole, then the possibility that she would soon encounter the murderer made for an exciting alternative. Although, at the insistence of both her thesis adviser and her better instincts, Dulcie had almost entirely given up her work searching for additional fragments of the book, she had promised herself that as soon as her dissertation was submitted, she would allow herself at least a few more weeks in the Mildon. Surely among the scraps and fragments, she could find a bit more of the story that had so captured her imagination.
An examination of the text, she began to type, offers several clues about its author’s identity. There is, for example, the ‘Beam of Light so narrow as to first escape her Notice,’ that reveals the edge of a concealed door or hiding place …
Forty minutes later, she had her thoughts mapped out. She also had a cramp in her foot from the way she’d been sitting, and a crick in her neck as well. While she had spent a good portion of her graduate career down here in the library, Dulcie usually wrote in her office or at home. Now, stretching until her joints popped, she remembered why. These molded plastic chairs weren’t made for long-term work, at least not for a body like hers.
She stood and stretched again and looked around. The library hummed like a living creature, but despite her earlier fears there were no other vital beings in sight. Not even, she noted with a touch of melancholy, any sign of anything that might not be qualified as alive.
‘Mr Grey?’ Maybe it was the idea of the beam of light, or a secret passage. Maybe she was simply lonely. ‘What do you think of all of this – of what happened with Jeremy?’
It wasn’t just the air-filtration system. Dulcie definitely heard a rise and fall in the rumble, the natural rhythm of a purr.
‘Remembering … ’ The susurrus of the sounds around her seemed to form a word. ‘Memory … ’ No, she definitely heard that – and the familiar voice filled her with warmth. ‘So many ways we can slip into the past,’ the voice said. ‘So many ways we still may sidle inside a life … ’
‘You aren’t talking about yourself, are you, Mr Grey?’ Dulcie had to smile. As if she could forget the long-haired cat who had – no, who still – meant so much to her. ‘You must be talking about Jeremy, right?’
‘And just as easily, slip away … ’ The voice faded as, somewhere, deep inside the building, a machine changed gears. The low rumble clicked over; another tone began. And Dulcie was once again indisputably alone.
FOURTEEN
Driven by loneliness as much as hunger, Dulcie surfaced about an hour later – and found that the world as she knew it had changed.
Gone was the reverential quiet of the massive library’s main lobby. Gone the peaceful order of academia. In its place was a hum of activity that would have been too much even during final exams. And the men and women who were tramping over the polished marble floors? Most of them were wearing uniforms.
‘What happened?’ Dulcie asked when she found her friend Ruby. ‘Did somebody get hurt?’
After her own near mishap, Dulcie imagined the worst. The floor had given way, she assumed. The periodicals room no longer existed, replaced instead by a gaping, water-filled hole.
The truth, when Ruby managed to pull her aside to whisper, in awed tones, was worse.
‘There was a break-in.’ Ruby’s voice, even hushed, was louder than most people’s and Dulcie noticed the sharp look two uniformed police shot their way.
Ruby did, too, and dragged her friend over toward the counter where her old-fashioned date stamp lay. There she leaned over Dulcie, her eyes wide, her voice a breathy rasp. ‘We were breached!’
‘In broad daylight?’ Dulcie glanced over to the main entrance. Sure enough, the weak spring sunshine was still streaming in, illuminating the puddles on the building’s stone steps.
Ruby nodded. ‘They came in through the – you know.’ She was pointing down at the floor.
‘Through the plumbing?’ Dulcie remembered her fears of rats and found her imagination running wild. Not rats – demons – digging up through some infernal depths.
‘They came through the tunnels.’ Dulcie turned. Kyle had come up behind her. His freckled face was even paler than usual, and he was sweating. ‘They must have been burrowing through the walls for days, the police said. And about an hour ago, they broke through.’
‘What …’ Dulcie was hesitant to even ask. The library housed such treasures. There were the ancient Phoenician papyri. A Shakespeare quarto. Works of such scholarly value that they could never be replaced. ‘What did they take?’
Ruby shook her head. From the horror on her face, it was clear she was having similar thoughts. ‘If a private collector …’ She didn’t have to finish. Once a priceless piece disappeared into the vault or private gallery of a Russian oil tycoon or some South American robber baron, it was likely to be lost, for all intents and purposes. Even with the university’s resources, she knew, only about two-thirds of stolen works were ever recovered. Global scholarship would be the poorer.
‘Whoever did this must have been working on commission.’ Dulcie’s mind was racing. ‘Someone wanted something – the Shakespeare. Or the Beowulf …’
‘Maybe they didn’t get anything,’ said Ruby. ‘Judy – one of our new clerks – heard a noise. A loud pop, she said. With all the problems with the pipes, she was worried. She went to make sure we weren’t having another flood, and that’s when she saw the lights – a flashlight, she said, or maybe two. And she had enough of her wits about her to pull the alarm.’
Dulcie shook her head, puzzled. She’d been involved in her work, but not that involved.
‘The alarm’s silent.’ Kyle explained. The incident seemed to have energized him. ‘It goes straight to the university police. It’s a safety thing.’
Ruby nodded in agreement. ‘They sure got here fast. I guess they’ve been on high alert.’
‘Ladies,’ a uniformed officer interrupted. ‘Sir, would you come this way?’
‘Sure.’ Dulcie was curious. ‘Are you going to tell us what’s happening?’
The cop raised his eyebrows, which were quite impressive, and Dulcie couldn’t help wondering if he did it for effect. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s convenient.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Dulcie tried to hide her disappointment as she let herself be herded over to a table by the administrative offices. There, the big cop – the one with the hair like a stiff, grey brush – took down her name and university ID number. She’d hoped that Detective Rogovoy would be the person taking her information. Then she’d remembered the task force. Still, she thought, this might be useful. At the very least, it would prove that Jeremy Mumbleigh could not have been involved in the break-ins.
‘So, Ms Schwartz?’ The big man’s voice wasn’t quite as gruff as Rogovoy’s, but it had a similar weight. A cop voice, Dulcie figured. ‘Can you tell me when you came to the library today?’
‘Can and wi
ll.’ She smiled a little and reminded herself that language was always changing. This officer most likely had other skills, though she doubted Detective Rogovoy would make such an error. ‘I’ve been down in my carrel for approximately an hour—’
‘You have a carrel here?’ He stopped writing to stare at her. His eyes, she couldn’t help thinking, were rather small under bushy brows.
‘Yes, I’m a grad student. This is where I do much of my research.’
‘On which floor, please?’ He pulled over a map of the library, as if to check Dulcie’s answer.
‘Level three.’ As Dulcie pointed it out on the map, she began to wonder about the man’s intelligence. ‘Where it’s marked “research stations”.’
‘Did anyone see you working down there?’ He started scribbling again, shielding the page with one hand as he wrote.
‘No, it’s been deserted.’ Dulcie tried to see what he was writing. ‘It’s spring break.’
‘But you’re here.’ He looked up, those small eyes dark and piercing.
‘Yes, I’m working.’ Dulcie had had enough. This man might be the head of the task force, but he clearly didn’t understand scholarship. ‘I’m here just about every day, and a lot of people here – Ruby Jaleo, Thomas Griddlehaus, the new guy Kyle – know me. This is as much my work place as … as … well as the Garden Street headquarters are yours.’
It was a weak ending, but it was the best she could do. Unless: ‘Just ask Detective Rogovoy about me.’ She looked around in vain. ‘He knows me. He knows that I’m working on my dissertation.’
‘I’m sure he does, but there’s no need.’ His tone had softened now. The pressure of the job. ‘I have to find out where everyone was in order for us to figure out what exactly happened.’
‘What do you mean, what happened?’ Dulcie turned back toward the big cop. This was her chance to get some information. ‘Can’t you ask them?’
The eyebrows came down, a deep furrow between them.
‘You didn’t catch the burglars.’ Dulcie heard her own voice go soft with disbelief. ‘They got away. Well, the alarm …’ She stopped. The alarm had been silent. ‘They must have known. Maybe they saw the woman who tripped the alarm?’ Her mind was working fast. ‘Or maybe they broke through in the wrong place?’
‘Look, I just need your info, and then I can let you go.’ The big cop went back to his form, and Dulcie found herself answering the remaining questions by rote. Address. Contact info. Only after she got up and went to retrieve her bag did Dulcie realize what must have happened.
‘Ruby, are they talking to everyone?’ Dulcie found the librarian in another corner, where apparently various holdalls were being checked.
Her friend nodded as an officer went through her oversized purse. ‘Yeah. Even the people who were on break.’ Her voice dropped to her version of a whisper. ‘The cops think it was an inside job.’
‘They do?’ Dulcie had to work to keep her voice down. ‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Ruby answered, shaking her head. ‘I gather Kyle heard something through his connections.’
That was intriguing – and Dulcie was about to follow up when a voice called out, loudly enough that both Dulcie and Ruby looked up. An officer was in the lobby gesturing, and two other officers were running. The three disappeared up the stairs, and Dulcie realized that this was where the cry had originated.
‘What is it?’ Dulcie started to rise. ‘Do you think someone’s hurt?’
Ruby restrained her, one hand on her arm. ‘Let them do their job, Dulcie. It might be dangerous.’
She was right, Dulcie knew that, and still she craned her neck to see. Maybe one of the burglars had been hiding. Maybe he had taken someone hostage. An image flashed before her eyes – Griddlehaus, small and vulnerable, with a knife at his neck. Once again, she started to stand, and this time her friend could not hold her down.
‘I’m going to see what’s happening,’ she said as she walked toward the lobby. ‘Maybe I can help.’
Before she could reach the staircase, an arm appeared, stopping her progress. ‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ said a tall man in an ill-fitting suit. ‘You’ll have to wait here.’
‘Detective Cintra?’ Dulcie looked up at a face as wrinkled as that jacket. ‘I’m Dulcie Schwartz. We met through Detective Rogovoy.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember you, Ms Schwartz.’ The tall detective nodded, his mouth wrinkling up in what Dulcie assumed was his version of a smile. ‘I’m afraid you still can’t go upstairs.’
‘But …’ Dulcie was about to press her case when she saw Theodore Linden, one of the senior staffers, being escorted down the wide, marble stairs. A young woman in uniform seemed to be supporting the stout man. He leaned on her with one arm, while the other was raised to his forehead.
‘Mr Linden!’ Dulcie called, alarmed. ‘Are you all right?’
The librarian looked at her, his wide round face even paler than usual.
‘Please.’ Dulcie pressed against Detective Cintra’s restraining arm. ‘He’s hurt.’
‘He’s just had a shock.’ The tall man put out his other hand to hold Dulcie still. ‘And you should go back and sit down. Please,’ he added as an afterthought.
Dulcie watched as the rotund librarian was escorted into a small side office, the place where they usually took ID photos, and a door closed. Only then did she reluctantly turn around to resume her place with Ruby.
‘They took Mr Linden into the ID room,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘I think he was hurt.’
‘He’s probably stunned,’ said Ruby, her own voice sunk to a whisper. Dulcie looked up at her. ‘We just heard.’
Dulcie shook her head. Clearly she had missed something during her attempt to attack the stairs. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s the Islington Bible,’ said Ruby, her whisper now barely audible. ‘It’s gone.’
FIFTEEN
Despite her own earlier plans to take a break, Dulcie felt a bit adrift once the police let her go. The sun felt too bright as she found herself blinking beneath a leafless tree by the library steps. Almost as if she were a subterranean creature. A mole or some other small animal, driven to the surface by the disruption. Almost like …
‘Mr Griddlehaus!’ Dulcie called and started waving as she saw the librarian scurrying away. ‘Over here!’
He looked up, the daylight flashing in his large glasses. Only after a moment did he acknowledge her, and with a nod began to walk her way. ‘Ms Schwartz,’ he said, once he was close enough, ‘I see they allowed you to take off as well.’
‘Well, yes.’ She considered him closely. Out here, in the open, he seemed smaller and more vulnerable. ‘Was there a chance they wouldn’t?’
He shrugged, his shoulders going up almost to his earpieces. ‘The officers have asked some of the staff to stay behind. I was questioned extensively about the Mildon, about what’s in the collection, and who has access.’
‘But they can’t think that you …’ Dulcie was appalled.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ The librarian didn’t seem to share Dulcie’s outrage and instead appeared to be considering the question. ‘Not once they realized we were not directly connected to the rest of the library, and that our security gate has been locked since yesterday.’
‘They haven’t even let you back in yet?’ The concept of Griddlehaus banned from his domain was one Dulcie had trouble imagining.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I did – ahem – confront Mr Truckworth about the possibility. He assured me that the Mildon had not been breached, at least.’
‘Well, of course not.’ Even as Dulcie exclaimed, the implications hit her. ‘So they really do think it was an inside job.’ The idea of anybody in the university aiding criminals shouldn’t be that foreign, Dulcie knew. And yet, it was.
Griddlehaus was shaking his head slowly, as if thinking over the possibilities. ‘It does not seem feasible, Ms Schwartz,’ he said finally. ‘But it wouldn’t be without precedent.’
‘Excuse me?’ Dulcie hadn’t thought the little man could shock her. ‘This has happened before?’
In response, Griddlehaus sighed and seemed to deflate a little. Whether it was the morning’s furor or his continued displacement from the Mildon, something was weighing on the librarian. Possibly, Dulcie realized as her own belly rumbled, something as simple as hunger.
‘Mr Griddlehaus.’ Dulcie started speaking before her sense of her own impertinence could stop her. ‘Would you like to get some lunch?’
The eyes that blinked up at her looked even wider than usual. Behind the glasses, she thought, the librarian was shocked by her effrontery. She started to stutter – to grope for the words to apologize. To explain.
But before she could form any, he began to speak again.
‘What a lovely idea,’ he said, to her amazement. ‘Do you know a little place called Lala’s?’
Twenty minutes later, they were seated near the back. Both had opted for the three-bean burger, though Griddlehaus had expressed concern at Dulcie’s request for extra hot sauce.
‘Oh, my,’ he had said, fiddling with the napkin dispenser. ‘Not even when I was an undergraduate …’
Dulcie had smiled, her sense of decorum – and of her friend – restored. It was only after the waiter left them that she felt free to follow up on her companion’s bombshell.
