by Clea Simon
‘I know, Esmé.’ Dulcie addressed the cat. ‘I should focus. I should just stay home and work. I mean, it seems like the fates are conspiring against me doing anything with the library, don’t they?’
Without acknowledging her, the cat shifted, moving on to more of the pillow and, with it, Dulcie’s arm. It probably meant nothing, Dulcie knew. Most likely, the plump cat was done with the first part of her kneading. Probably, she wasn’t aware that her distended claw, needle sharp, was piercing not fabric and down, but skin. But, possibly, she was sending a message.
Removing her arm from further damage, Dulcie looked down at her pet. ‘You don’t want me hanging around, do you?’ The rhythmic motion continued without pause. ‘Is that what this is about?’
At that, Esmé looked up, meeting Dulcie’s gaze with those inscrutable green eyes. And as she did, her paws shifted again – and once more, Dulcie felt her claws.
‘Ow, OK, I get it.’ Dulcie stood up, removing herself from the cat’s range. ‘You know, you could have just said something. I know you can talk when you want to.’
On the bed, the cat simply turned to face the pillow again, and Dulcie was struck by her profile – the graceful curve of her nose, the poise of her ears. The simple lines of her whiskers, stark white against the black fur. It reminded her of the silver cat – the printer’s mark – and made her realize that, yes, she wanted to unravel the mystery. To find out what that mark meant – and who was hunting it so diligently.
‘All right, then, Esmé,’ she said. ‘You win.’ She began to dress for her day, as the cat continued to knead, the silence warmed by her deep and rhythmic purr.
‘Mr Griddlehaus!’ Seeing the diminutive librarian as she made her way across the Yard convinced Dulcie that she had made the right decision by coming in. She had found herself mulling over Lucy’s words as she had walked – Lucy’s words and her own disturbing dream – and was grateful for a reminder of her real purpose. And, realizing that Griddlehaus’s determined stride was taking him toward the library, she trotted to catch up. ‘Dare I ask?’ Her voice was slightly breathless from the effort.
‘I’ve been given the all-clear,’ said the librarian, his cheer evident in his voice. ‘I had been planning on starting my day with another visit to Jeremy, but I simply couldn’t resist.’
‘Of course not,’ said Dulcie, matching her pace to his. Only as they approached the back door did she stop. This was where she had seen Jeremy less than a week before. There was his crude drawing – the profile of the cat that had seemed to weigh on his troubled mind. ‘Only, I’m not sure that I should follow …’
‘Stuff and nonsense.’ Griddlehaus took her hand in a surprisingly firm grip. ‘I need your assistance today, Ms Schwartz. I can’t imagine who else would be qualified to help me.’
That was the explanation he gave the guard, who nodded them both in with barely a look. Perhaps, thought Dulcie, the mandate that she be watched had expired, and Stuart Truckworth had moved on to other pursuits. More likely, she realized as Griddlehaus fished out the key and made for the reading room door, her companion’s senior standing stood as her bond.
Whatever authority he projected, however, crumbled as he opened the door.
‘Oh my.’ He blinked as the overhead lights came on, revealing the extent of the devastation. ‘Oh, my.’
Dulcie looked around, surprised. She hadn’t expected to be shocked, not this time. After all, she had already seen the mess that had been made of the neat little room. Perhaps it was witnessing her friend’s dismay, but it looked worse today, the fallen books a little more careworn and the overturned furniture slightly more askew.
‘I thought the police had been in here.’ Dulcie stepped by Griddlehaus and reached to right a chair. ‘I thought they might have done … I don’t know, something.’
‘I believe they did,’ said Griddlehaus as he picked up a fallen volume. ‘This seems to have been handled.’ He showed her the book, which was in fact dusted with black powder, and then began to brush it off.
‘They could have put it back on the shelf.’ Dulcie picked up a lamp and checked it for a broken bulb. The small table where it had stood now held a pile of books, all fine editions. The stacked volumes, all edged in gold or silver, were piled so haphazardly that Dulcie set the lamp on the floor instead.
‘At least they left it closed,’ said Griddlehaus with a sigh. ‘Besides, better to have them leave these books out then to mis-shelve them. Oh – oh, my.’
Dulcie looked over to where he was standing by a bookshelf. The volume he had retrieved was still in his hand, but he put it down carefully as he pulled another from the shelf. This book, Dulcie could see even from a distance, was in bad shape. Bound in worn leather, its corners were frayed and dented. The title, whatever it had been, may once have been inlaid in gilt. Now only the faintest impression of letters remained, and Griddlehaus adjusted his glasses as he struggled to read the words they had once formed.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t …’ He opened the book carefully, supporting its cover with one hand, while turning the pages with another. ‘I don’t know how this got here,’ he said, turning to look at Dulcie. ‘This doesn’t belong in the reading room.’
‘Are you sure?’ Dulcie came over to see. And as she did, she felt a vibration beneath her feet. ‘I guess all the systems are up and running again,’ she said, reaching for the book.
‘That’s not the ventilation,’ said Griddlehaus, looking around. ‘We’re on the surface level here, Ms Schwartz. That’s underground.’
They’re flooding the tunnels, Kyle had said. Flushing them out. She found her thoughts turning to the dark hallway of her dream. To Lucy’s words – and Jeremy’s. She was missing something.
‘Mr Griddlehaus, you said that the cat’s head – the printer’s mark – meant something different in the later books, the American ones. What did you find out?’
‘I’m not sure how this pertains.’ A worry line had appeared on his high brow as he placed the battered book on the top of the nearest pile. ‘In fact, I may have more pressing—’
‘Mr Griddlehaus, please.’
One look at Dulcie, and he cleared his throat.
‘If you insist,’ Griddlehaus began, tenting his fingers as if to deliver a lecture. ‘From its earliest appearance, around the time of John Wycliffe, the silver cat – the Felix – signified a hidden book – one that could be dangerous to the bearer. The earliest surviving examples date from approximately 1360, and we believe that the symbol was used, at least intermittently, throughout the following two hundred years.’
Dulcie nodded, unsure of what she was listening for.
‘What intrigued me was seeing the mark in a much more recent work, the Stavendish edition of He Could Not Tell Her,’ Griddlehaus continued. ‘After all, the nineteenth century is comparatively modern, in the scheme of things. I had heard of this, of course, but I needed to do additional research to be sure. What I found was that in the New World the essential meaning of the symbol remained, but its usage changed, as such things will.’
Now fully engaged in lecture mode, he paused to consider her through those oversized glasses, ignoring the rumbling beneath them. ‘To be honest, once I located the later reference, I was rather surprised that you had not recognized it from your American Studies coursework. The iconography lasted into the twentieth century. A whiskered cat, full face rather than in profile, became a valuable symbol in the so-called hobo iconography during the Great Depression.’
‘The Depression?’ Dulcie racked her brain. She did know something about this, only she couldn’t remember exactly what – or why it might matter. ‘Hobo iconography?’
‘Definitions differ, of course, and usually it has been remembered as the symbol for a kind-hearted woman, one who would provide food or shelter. But at a more basic level, the whiskered cat signified “safe passage.” It’s the same meaning, really.’
‘Safe passage?’ Dulcie mulled it over.
The tunnels – the symbol on the wall – Jeremy’s semi-conscious words. Just then, the books piled so precariously fell, disturbed by the vibrations below. The flooding of the tunnels had begun.
‘Mr Griddlehaus,’ said Dulcie, jumping to her feet. ‘I don’t think this is about the printer’s mark at all. And I’m afraid we’re running out of time.’
FORTY-THREE
Dulcie lost precious seconds trying to explain and finally gave up, running down the fire stairs to the still-closed lower level. It took her several more minutes to find the opening Kyle had shown her, the gap where she had passed from the old storage space back into the library. Several more to backtrack to where the tunnel had branched out. Minutes that she hated to spare. But as she ran, pressing herself against the dirty walls at the hint of any other footfall, she tried to recall the letters that Jeremy had scratched into the wall. RT UP RT 6 – and the cat. But what did it mean?
‘Right up, right six?’ Was there more that she couldn’t remember? She had taken the right fork in the turning, so maybe that was part of it. But up? And right again? Or was she missing something?
‘Turn right to stay right,’ Jeremy had said to her that first day, sheltering in the entry. She kept going.
She was getting farther from the main library. Farther from the well-ordered tunnels that were still in use. The dirt floor was uneven here, and spotted with puddles, the light from the infrequent bulbs dim and shadowed, and despite her hurry, Dulcie moved carefully, her eyes open for unexpected dips or debris.
Or mud. She felt her shoes slip on a slick spot and caught herself, breathing hard. It had to be the leakage. She reminded herself of the damp of the walls, of the moist sheen she had seen on the stones. Still, she could feel her heart pounding as she started walking again. And something louder – a rumble, like water. The path seemed to be slanting upward, and Dulcie strained her eyes, looking for a door or a window. For a light. Could this be what Jeremy had meant – UP – or was she on a wild goose chase? She thought of the tons of earth above her. Felt its pressure. Felt her lungs contract.
No, that was nonsense. Every day for the last five years, she had gone underground. And every day that she wasn’t in her carrel, she was in the Mildon, also three levels below the library. She wouldn’t think of the earth on top of her. Wouldn’t think of the rats.
‘Dulcie!’ A streak of grey ran by her. The warning came too late and she screamed – a quick startled yelp – as she slipped, scraping the heels of her hands as she fell.
‘What was that?’ Somewhere, not far behind her, a man’s voice. And then a flashlight beam, sweeping the wall not two feet above where she was now kneeling.
Dulcie froze, listening.
‘Damn rats.’ Not one man: two. ‘I tell you, as soon as we find it, I want you to flood this place for real.’
‘We don’t even know it exists.’ A higher voice, anxious. Truckworth? ‘And the substructure can’t—’
‘Shut up.’ The other man – gruffer, deeper. ‘You know what they found on him. He had it down here, somewhere.’
They were talking about Jeremy – Jeremy and the book.
‘Come on.’ The gruff voice again, getting closer. Dulcie wiped her hands on her pants as she tried to think. Her palms smarted, and it hit her. She hadn’t fallen in mud.
Still kneeling, she felt the floor. Stone. The rough stone of the foundation. Where was she?
‘The original schematics show store rooms to the right.’ Truckworth. Of course, he would have access to the blueprints, to decades of plans for reconstruction and rebuilding. ‘But the way these were built, we may never find them.’
Another beam of light, and Dulcie scurried toward the wall, as if she were a rat. Or, no – a cat. It was a cat that had nearly tripped her. Had it been Mr Grey? Movement again, to the right – a flash of reflected light, green eyes – and then nothing. Working her way along the wall, she found herself turning. The blocks, each several feet high, protruded into the passageway, threatening to close it. She had reached a dead end. She was trapped.
Only, where had that cat gone?
Dulcie grabbed at the stone, feeling her way along the wall even as the flashlight beam grew brighter, scanning back and forth and throwing shadows that jumped like ghosts over the uneven surface.
Only, they shouldn’t have. Dulcie didn’t need Chris to tell her the laws of physics. The swing of the flashlight hadn’t been that erratic. The shadows signified something – something more than metaphor. As she crept a little farther – her hands raw on the cold stone – she discovered what. The wall was not complete, and by sidling against the huge blocks, she was able to slide by …
And stepped up into a small room. Dulcie stood, blinking, as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Cleaner and drier than anything she had yet seen, the room – maybe ten by twelve – looked more akin to Griddlehaus’s private sanctuary than to any of the basement tunnels she had yet encountered. Looking around, she could see stained wainscoting, several bookshelves, and – on a simple cot – a short-haired grey cat, who sat watching her, and then began to wash his face.
‘Kitty!’ With a whispered cry of joy, Dulcie ran toward the cat. It was the cat that had tripped her – and had shown her the entrance. ‘Thank you.’
In response, the cat leaped into her arms and began to purr. Dulcie held the lithe feline close – under the soft fur she was skin and bones – and waited, listening. With their bluster and their big flashlights, it seemed likely the two men would miss the narrow opening. If they did, she could take the cat – it had to be Jeremy’s cat – and retrace her steps. Once they passed.… assuming the passage back to the library was still clear. Dulcie tried to recall what Truckworth had said about the lower levels. About structural integrity.
‘You must be starving, little one,’ she murmured into the dusky fur, and looked around for a can – for anything – to feed the hungry feline as they bided their time.
What she saw instead was a beam of light. ‘Hey!’ the gruff voice called out, as Dulcie – still holding the cat – ducked behind one of the bookshelves. If she could just stay quiet, maybe they’d leave.
‘What’s this?’ The flashlight beam swept by and Dulcie shrank back, cowering behind it. ‘Did you hear something?’ The voice was masculine – someone she knew. In the dark, everything sounded strange, and yet that voice … It was tense and higher than she was used to but familiar, she was almost sure.
‘Don’t try to distract me.’ A different voice. Gruffer, deeper. ‘I heard about that page. About that book. It’s worth millions, and you said there was nothing left.’
Leaning further, Dulcie realized there was space behind her, at least above the ankle level. She wasn’t against the wall – she was at the base of a set of stairs. As quietly as she could, she stepped up. Stepped again and almost slipped. The edge of the stair was broken and rough.
‘This is it.’ The gruff voice, growing louder. They had found the room. ‘They’ve got to be here.’
Moving with care, as silently as she could, Dulcie ascended another step. If only the two men kept talking, maybe they wouldn’t notice her. Three more steps – and that was it. Wherever the stairway had led to was now blocked off. No matter, Dulcie balanced herself on that last crumbled fragment. She was hidden behind the bookcase. Here on step six. Six, Jeremy had written. Up and Six.
‘I tell you, I heard something.’ The voices were getting closer. They were in front of the bookshelf that shielded her. ‘Someone’s there!’ The first man was panicking.
‘Don’t try to put me off.’ The gruff voice. Up close, it too was familiar. Wardley! ‘You’ve been holding out on me all these years.’
Dulcie started to breathe again. She didn’t like the lieutenant – and she suspected the big cop didn’t think much of her either – but if he were here, then this was probably part of his investigation. He was a gruff man, but it had only been the dark and her own fancy that had made him seem dangerous.
‘I was a kid!’ High and strained, but could it be Stuart Truckworth? ‘If you’d busted me I’d have been out by now.’
‘Too late for that; you’re implicated in every theft since then.’ Dulcie’s head was spinning. Was this a bust? Was the manager the inside source? She had to be mishearing.
‘They weren’t worth it.’ The panic had given way to glum resignation. ‘They never were – the library was going to throw those books away anyway.’
‘Your friend didn’t think so.’ Wardley’s voice was low and guttural. ‘And look what happened to him.’
‘You don’t have to remind me. Poor Jeremy.’
‘Poor nothing. He was holding out on me, too. I’d have had them – all of them – only we were interrupted. But now I don’t need you any more.’ That gruff voice again. ‘You or your son.’
‘My son is innocent.’ Truckworth, his voice rising again in anger – or fear. As much as she hated him, Dulcie was glad the sleazy manager was taking the blame. Speaking out for his son. Now if only the big cop believed him.
‘Your son’s a killer.’ The police lieutenant’s voice was getting louder. He was getting closer. ‘That’s going to be clear tomorrow, when we find a bloodied knife in his knapsack.’
‘You can’t say that.’ Truckworth sounded frantic, his voice rising in volume and pitch. ‘I’ve done everything – everything you’ve wanted. All these years!’
‘I kept my end of the bargain, didn’t I?’ Wardley’s voice had sunk to a low growl. Dulcie felt the cat in her arms stir, but she held on tight. ‘I could have ruined you,’ the big cop was saying. ‘I could have had you expelled, but I didn’t. And you held out on me.’
Dulcie peeked around the edge of the bookshelf. In the dim light, she could make out the silhouettes of the speakers, both so different. Wardley, large and imposing, was shorter than Truckworth but his size gave him authority. Truckworth, tall but insubstantial, seemed to stumble as he drew away, stepping backward. But Wardley wasn’t going to let him go. Wasn’t going to let him escape. Dulcie took a step down. She saw Wardley as he reached for Truckworth – and saw as well the wicked blade in his hand.
