by Clea Simon
‘I don’t know.’ Griddlehaus shook his head. ‘I do know Stuart – Mr Truckworth – certainly hewed to the straight and narrow after that, although once he dropped out and started working full time, we no longer spent as much time together.’
He paused, lost in thought. ‘It is possible he blamed Jeremy for alerting the authorities to our hijinks, but what happened with Jeremy was so terrifying, I believe that simply served as a wake-up call. Perhaps for all of us. And, if anything, it was Jeremy who disconnected from his old friends after that. In truth, he became – I don’t want to say paranoid. Perhaps I may say unduly concerned? Yes, he became unduly concerned about the authorities after that day, which I have always believed was based on an emotional sensitivity rather than anything concrete. It may be unfair, but our emotions aren’t fair, are they?’
‘No, I guess not,’ Dulcie answered. Nothing about Jeremy Mumbleigh’s life seemed particularly fair. It was interesting, however, to learn something about his history – and about that of her friend Griddlehaus. But while he stared off into space, apparently lost in thought, she had a more pressing question.
‘Mr Griddlehaus, I was wondering if you could help me find out more about my pages?’ She didn’t have to elaborate. He would know which ones she meant. ‘The book they were bound into may have some historical significance, and I was wondering if with your contacts in the conservation lab …’ She left the thought open, hoping he would pick up on it.
‘They won’t have any records.’ He rose from his seat and Dulcie’s heart sank. ‘They’re much more likely to tear apart several more books looking for another of those cat marks as to take note of some stray filler material.’
‘Oh!’ Dulcie had been so hopeful. ‘Are you sure?’ Never before had she questioned any of Griddlehaus’s pronouncements.
‘Why, of course.’ He walked over to one of the cabinets and tapped on a volume – a drawer popped out from the smooth white surface. He must have seen Dulcie’s brows rise in surprise, but he only smiled as he pulled out what looked like a ledger. ‘Why should they?’
‘I was hoping to be able to trace it,’ she said, her voice falling. ‘At least I didn’t waste their time.’
‘You can trace it.’ He turned toward her, the black bound volume in his hand. ‘At least to some extent.’ Returning to the table, he laid the ledger in front of her. ‘The lab doesn’t concern itself with details of provenance and history. They focus exclusively on the physical material. On preparation and restoration. But we here at the Mildon … well, Ms Schwartz, I thought you knew us better. We keep extensive records on everything that comes into the collection. Even the origins of some scraps of paper that nobody else seems to want.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Mr Griddlehaus!’ Dulcie could have shouted for joy. As it was, she knew her exclamation was a tad loud for the small room.
‘Ms Schwartz,’ he responded with his usual quiet voice, but she could see that he was pleased. ‘You’ve been so kind, listening to all of my reminiscences, and this is the least I could do.’
He began leafing through the ledger. Clearly, the notations – long strings of numbers and letters, which she could see over his shoulder – meant something to him. ‘I seem to recall a designation of STV4.3.12. At least for the first box, from which I believe you have pulled three pages.’
‘Yes, but what books were those from?’ Dulcie kept her voice gentle. The librarian was being particularly obtuse today, but he had been a great help – and he was her friend.
‘Oh, what book …’ Griddlehaus sat back to consider. ‘Well, it had to have been one of the better ones, of course. One of the volumes the board decided was worth restoring.’
Dulcie looked up, the question in her face.
‘Why, from the collection, of course.’ Now it was Griddlehaus’s turn for consternation. ‘It’s in the designation: STV. Those pages were taken from books in the Stavendish bequest, of course.’
Dulcie considered this. ‘Do you think Jeremy knew?’ she asked. ‘Could they have been from one of the books he was fighting to keep?’
‘You’d have to ask Ms Constantine,’ Griddlehaus answered. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ He turned back to the ledger.
As she waited, another question came to her. ‘Mr Griddlehaus, you said you had news for me,’ she said. ‘Something about Jeremy?’
‘Oh, my, yes.’ He looked up, his finger on one line. ‘I’m so sorry. In my haste to explain my own unsuccessful quest, I forgot to tell you what he did say. Now, it may not be exactly relevant. You are aware I’ve been looking into the later period uses of the printer’s mark we found? Specifically, its usage in America. It is quite rare, with its distinctive feline design, and I could see where it would appeal to you. I was wondering, however, if your discovery was more than mere coincidence.’
He blinked up at her. Dulcie had never actually explained about Mr Grey to Griddlehaus. However, he had known her long enough to know a bit about her history, and certainly to understand the importance of cats in her life.
‘At any rate, I thought poor Jeremy might have some insight, seeing as how it was discovered in the book we found on him. And I believe, perhaps, there is a connection. It is possible I misheard him – that he did say “cat” rather than “stacks.” What intrigued me was what he said afterward, when I was about to leave him. He grabbed my hand, Ms Schwartz, and as clear as day, he said to me, “It’s a secret. You can’t tell anyone.”’
Dulcie was considering the ramifications of this as her companion turned back to his ledger. Before she could gather her thoughts about this latest revelation, he let out a muted cry. ‘Oh, my!’
‘Mr Griddlehaus?’ Dulcie didn’t think anything was wrong. Still, the little man was clearly surprised. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘What? Oh, yes.’ He looked up from the ledger, but kept his finger on it. ‘Let me check one thing.’ Scribbling down a series of numbers on one of the pieces of scrap paper piled by the gloves, he jumped up and hurried over to the library’s entrance alcove. Opening what Dulcie had previously thought was a cabinet, he revealed another surprise: a computer. A few moments of fast typing and a little more muttering – ‘oh, my!’ – and he turned to her. Behind him, the screen glowed and pulsed.
‘Well, this is an interesting coincidence.’
Dulcie waited.
‘Those pages – the ones you’ve done so much work on – they were removed when the university conservators did that initial partial re-bind of He Could Not Tell Her, the first volume.’
Dulcie’s voice registered her surprise. ‘The volume that Jeremy had? The one that got him arrested? But – I don’t understand.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t either.’ Griddlehaus turned and went back to reading the screen. ‘It does seem an odd choice for my old friend. Perhaps the poor man was more fond of the late Gothics than I knew, although I wouldn’t have said that he was likely to favor such purple prose.’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ Dulcie didn’t want to argue the merits of a Duxbury book. ‘I meant, if older papers were found in part of the binding, why didn’t they keep looking? They would have found the silver cat.’
‘I’m afraid I have no answer for you,’ Griddlehaus said, as he entered a few more keystrokes into the computer. ‘All I can tell you is that once your pages were removed, the volume was partially re-bound and slated to be returned to the collection, and then it disappeared.’
He paused to read something on his screen. ‘This was one of the books from the Stavendish bequest that was slated for deaccession. One of the books that Jeremy was defending.’
‘Typical.’ Dulcie had, of course, read modern editions of He Could Not Tell Her and found it middling prose at best. However, she didn’t like the idea of considering any book disposable. ‘Of course, if they knew those pages were part of another, infinitely better written Gothic …’
She was interrupted as Griddlehaus gave an excited peep and scurried off. ‘What
is it?’ Dulcie called. He had disappeared down the back hallway, where even Dulcie was not permitted to enter.
‘Hang on!’ She heard a door and something sliding, and a few minutes later, he emerged, holding one of the document boxes she knew so well. He placed it on the table in front of her, opening it, as she reached for a pair of gloves. But before he could remove the contents – a prerogative of the librarian – the respectful silence both had maintained was broken by a ping.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Griddlehaus jumped up. ‘I need to log off.’
‘What were you searching?’ Dulcie watched as he began typing into the computer. ‘Lexis Nexis?’
‘No, no, it’s an archivist’s service. Rather – oh! I’m sorry.’ A moment of silence as he typed. ‘I’m afraid I need to concentrate to do this, Ms Schwartz.’ He turned and looked at her over his shoulder. ‘Please feel free to proceed without me.’
‘Thank you.’ Dulcie appreciated the trust this signified, and with the utmost care she lifted the first document in its protective sheath. She smiled as she looked down at the torn and yellowed document. Yes, she remembered this page – the ‘Helf’ that proved to be a cry for ‘Help’ on closer examination. She placed it gently to one side and removed another from its polypropylene case. This was also from the manuscript. In the fragment she’d been able to make out from this page, her heroine was still hoping to elude the ‘Night demons’ that howled outside.
‘Bother.’ Griddlehaus was still typing.
‘Is there a problem?’ Dulcie could see that the librarian’s shoulders were hunching over with the stress.
‘Yes, well, no, not really.’ Griddlehaus didn’t even turn around. ‘It seems that I’ve been locked out for leaving in the middle of a session, and I am trying to log back in, because I really do not want to have to verify my identification again. Only the system is being quite recalcitrant. Oh, wait!’ He started typing furiously again.
Dulcie turned back to the box. The next page would be the one she had been looking at when they had been chased out of the library. The one with the faintest gleam of silver.
‘Mr Griddlehaus?’ She knew her voice was tentative. She was loath to disturb him. ‘When you’re done?’
‘One moment, please.’ More frantic typing. Dulcie thought he was murmuring under his breath as well. ‘Hang on …’
‘OK.’ She would use this time. She closed her eyes and took a breath. Took another and then looked again.
Griddlehaus was staring at her. ‘Ms Schwartz?’
‘Mr Griddlehaus, I don’t know what to say.’ Her eyes went toward the box. The box where, by custom, there would be a third polypropylene folder, holding a third fragile and irreplaceable document. Where now – she looked and even put her hand in, running the gloved fingers along the archival board – there was nothing. ‘I have these two.’ She gestured to the two pages before her, lying on the table, in plain sight. ‘But then …’
‘I see,’ said her colleague, perusing the works on the table. ‘Or rather, I do not see. There should be a third piece in here. It was cataloged. It has been filed. And yet …’
He looked up, his eyes large behind the glasses. ‘Ms Schwartz, what did you do with these pages?’
TWENTY-NINE
‘Mr Griddlehaus.’ Dulcie didn’t know if she was more hurt or angry. ‘You can’t think– I would never do anything against the protocol of the Mildon. Against any document. Surely you know that—’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Griddlehaus ran a hand over his forehead, and Dulcie saw it came away damp with sweat. ‘I am sorry. It is simply that, through our long acquaintance, I have let our procedures slide, never thinking … and now … for a document to go missing …’ He shook his head.
Dulcie was afraid he was going to be ill. ‘Surely, it’s been misfiled.’ Even as she said the words, she knew it wasn’t possible. Worse, it was insulting. ‘Not that you would ever, but perhaps another scholar …’ She let her words trail off.
‘You’re the only scholar in recent memory who has cared at all about Box 926-E,’ he said, his voice growing sad. ‘The only one with access.’
‘Well then.’ She reached for the two out on the table. Only his hands were quicker.
‘I’ll do that,’ he said, his voice sharp. Although he didn’t grab the propylene-sheathed pages – he was too careful for that – he did move swiftly to remove the two pieces to his side of the table. Dulcie simply watched as he did what she had planned to do: examine each page carefully to make sure that it was alone in its protective envelope. Not that such close scrutiny was necessary: neither page was complete. Although the missing page had seemed to be glued to another, both the remaining fragments were so torn and worn as to be more ragged scrap than complete sheet, capable of concealment.
Finally, after going back and forth between the two documents, Griddlehaus accepted the inevitable. ‘It’s not here,’ he said, looking up at Dulcie, the loss visible on his face.
‘It’s got to be here somewhere,’ she replied. Seeing his hurt, she forgot the sting she felt as he had taken over the examination of the pages. Instead, she wanted to find the pages – for him and for the collection. ‘It has to be.’
He merely shook his head, lost. ‘It’s not possible.’
‘Mr Griddlehaus.’ Dulcie adopted a martial tone, the better to shake him from his torpor. ‘Think! Who else has been in here?’
‘Nobody!’ His voice sounded high and tight, and Dulcie feared the onset of hysteria. ‘We’ve been locked down. Closed.’
‘What about maintenance or security?’ Dulcie racked her brains. ‘Who was repairing the pipes?’
‘We never had any leakage in the Mildon.’ It was doing Griddlehaus good to think back, Dulcie thought. His voice was becoming calmer and more thoughtful. ‘Because we have our own alarm and ventilation system, we weren’t affected by the frozen pipes or the flooding.’
‘But they probably had to send someone in to check, right?’ Dulcie was starting to feel better.
‘You can’t think … No!’ Griddlehaus was not. ‘I can’t imagine that a university plumber would steal …’ He stopped mid sentence, and when he leaned in to continue, he sounded like himself again. ‘To be honest, Ms Schwartz, I doubt the majority of the university community would even consider these pages worth the effort. Not everyone appreciates the treasures that we have here.’
‘I’m not saying anyone stole the page.’ Dulcie felt her own breathing grow easier. ‘Though I do wish they could be taught to value what we do. No, what I’m thinking, Mr Griddlehaus, is that a maintenance crew – or maybe just a single worker – was sent in while the Mildon was closed and tasked with checking things out. There have been so many problems elsewhere on this level that maybe he or she poked about a bit. Opened some drawers.’
Griddlehaus turned a little pale at the thought, but he nodded in agreement. ‘It’s plausible.’
‘And maybe something got moved. Maybe something was dropped and put back by someone who didn’t know, who didn’t understand …’
‘Oh, dear lord.’ Griddlehaus blinked rapidly, his face now a ghostly white. ‘I fear you’re right, Ms Schwartz. And I – I’m going to have to go through every drawer in every file. This will be the work of months.’
‘I’ll help you,’ said Dulcie with a flood of relief. Seeing Griddlehaus drawn and panicked over a possible misfiling might be troubling, but it was also a lot better than the alternative. ‘But first, would you like to get something to eat?’
‘I don’t know.’ He looked around, eyes wide. Clearly the enormity of the task was getting to him. ‘Yes, perhaps that would be best,’ he said finally. ‘Alexandria wasn’t cataloged in a day.’
She smiled at his reference and removed her gloves, as Griddlehaus retrieved Dulcie’s coat and bag.
‘Shall we go to Lala’s again?,’ he asked, donning his own coat.
‘Why not?’ She waited while he locked the gate behind them and then led the way to the
elevator and out.
‘I had been planning on visiting Jeremy again this afternoon.’ Griddlehaus seemed to be thinking out loud as they approached the exit. ‘I could be wrong, but I think that having company does him some good. Only now I feel I should start going through the cataloge right away.’
‘Let’s grab a quick bite and then I can go visit him,’ said Dulcie, as she put her bag on the counter. ‘Maybe I can get him to talk some more.’ She looked past him to the Yard outside. The storm seemed to have ended, and a pale blue sky was visible through the bare branches. Branches, she thought, that just might be showing the first beginnings of buds.
‘Maybe you can get him to explain what he meant about the cat,’ said Griddlehaus. ‘You see, that’s what had gotten me so excited. There was a notation—’
‘Excuse me.’ The guard at the desk – an older man – was talking to her. ‘Miss? Would you step over here, please?’
He motioned toward the administrative office. Puzzled, she reached for her bag – but he snatched it back. ‘Please, Miss. Just wait here.’
He lifted a phone. ‘Yes, I signaled. Immediately.’
‘What?’ She looked from the guard to Griddlehaus, but he only shook his head, as bewildered as she was. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Lieutenant?’ The guard had put the phone down and was talking over her shoulder. Dulcie turned to see Lieutenant Wardley, a face like thunder.
‘What is this about?’ Wardley turned from the guard to Dulcie, who stood, mouth gaping.
‘Here, sir.’ Dulcie watched as the guard opened her bag and reached inside. When Wardley turned, holding up a clear folder, she felt her head spin. Wardley’s large hand nearly obscured the scrap of paper inside the polypropylene sheath, but even so she recognized its ragged outline.
‘That’s not possible!’ Griddlehaus rushed by her and, taking the sheet from Wardley, laid it flat on the counter. ‘It’s the missing page.’
‘Miss, you’re going to have to come with me.’ The guard cleared his throat, clearly a little overwhelmed by the situation.
