by Clea Simon
She gasped. She couldn’t help it. She had been so sure she was about to witness an arrest. Justice being done. But the knife that Wardley held didn’t look like evidence. Despite what the big cop had said, the flashlight beam reflected off its smooth and polished surface like a mirror. The knife wasn’t bloodied. Not yet.
‘Wait, what—’ Truckworth gasped, Wardley’s intent suddenly clear. ‘No!’
Dulcie shrank back, hoping that the gloom would hide her. If she were a braver sort of person, she would speak out. She should speak out. But how?
‘Is someone there? Help!’ Truckworth’s voice cracked.
‘Shut up,’ Wardley snarled. ‘You can’t scare me. Nobody comes down here any more. Not since we got rid of your crazy friend. And don’t worry, he’s not going to last long once the infirmary releases him. These homeless guys have a nasty mortality rate. Besides, he’s got a history. You remember—’
‘No – wait.’ Truckworth pointed, aiming his beam, one long finger extending to a shadow right by Dulcie’s feet.
Dulcie held her breath.
‘Help me,’ Truckworth called. ‘Please!’
‘Wait a minute …’ Wardley, coming toward her.
Dulcie was trapped and clutched the cat close, as if to comfort herself with the soft fur. Only it was too much. The skinny animal squirmed and pushed – and jumped out of her arms. Clearly as terrified of the two men as Dulcie herself was, the cat bounded back up the stairs and reached up, desperate, clawing at the wall.
‘It’s no use,’ Dulcie whispered in despair. But then she saw it – a sliver of light. Light that had been seeping in through cracks in the walls around her all along.
‘Come here, you.’ Wardley’s hand reached for her as she threw herself at the barrier at the top of the stairs.
It gave way, and she stumbled forward. The cat jumped ahead and she scrambled to follow through what she now realized was a door. Falling, she reached back to slam it – slam it shut – only collapsing when she heard it latch with a satisfying click.
‘Ms Schwartz!’ Thomas Griddlehaus was staring at her, eyes wide. Dulcie was on her knees, on the floor in the private reading room of the library.
FORTY-FOUR
‘Call the cops!’ Dulcie yelled, pulling herself to her feet. ‘Only not—’
‘We’re already on it,’ said a voice as familiar as the large hand that reached forward to help Dulcie to her feet.
‘Detective Rogovoy.’ Dulcie blinked up at him, the sudden brightness bringing tears to her eyes. ‘Lieutenant Wardley is down there. He’s got a knife! He’s been blackmailing Mr Truckworth …’ She stopped. A thorn in my side all these years. Truckworth had been talking about Wardley. The lieutenant had been making the manager do his dirty work. Had framed his son for additional leverage …
Dulcie looked up. The big detective was waiting for her to finish.
‘Don’t worry. My guys were just waiting to move in. Believe it or not, we weren’t that far behind you.’ The lumpy face broke into a grin. ‘We had to turn off the water before we could move in. But why am I not surprised to find you here – with a cat, no less? Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ Reaching out with one massive finger, the detective touched the edge of a shelf – and the door sprang open again. ‘You might want to clean up,’ he said, as he closed the door behind him.
Already, she could hear new voices – Rogovoy’s people – behind the hidden door. Then sounds of a struggle, mercifully brief, and then that big head popped up again.
‘All clear, folks,’ he said. ‘But we will be marking these tunnels off as a crime scene, so no more exploring. That OK by you, Ms Schwartz?’ Without waiting for an answer, he withdrew.
‘I called as soon as you ran off,’ said Griddlehaus, after the door had closed once more. ‘The detective was already in the building. Oh, my!’ The librarian stepped back, and Dulcie saw the cat from the basement looking up at him. In the light, Dulcie could see that she wasn’t grey, not at all. Instead, her coat was a soft, tawny brown, only very, very dirty. And very – if her knowledge of cats told her anything – hungry.
‘Is there anything we could feed her?’ asked Dulcie.
‘I do have a turkey sandwich I’d planned for lunch,’ said the librarian. He rummaged in his desk and emerged with a paper bag. Within seconds of opening it, the brown cat was on the desk top, rumbling with an anticipatory purr that filled the room.
‘I bet she hasn’t eaten much these last few days,’ said Dulcie, looking down at her own muddy disarray. ‘It’s a wonder she survived at all.’
‘Well, she had water and I dare say there are some rodents down in the workings, albeit not the infestation we had once feared. Speaking of which …’ Griddlehaus excused himself, returning a few moments later with a damp washcloth from the employee’s washroom.
‘Thanks.’ The pair watched the little cat eat, as Dulcie did her best to wipe her scraped hands clean. ‘Poor Jeremy,’ she said as the cat finished her meal and began to bathe. ‘He wasn’t talking about the printer’s mark at all. He meant his pet. He must have been so frightened when he woke up in the hospital, not knowing what had happened to this little girl. Do you think he had a premonition, leaving that note?’
‘He would have been quite aware of the symbol,’ said Griddlehaus. ‘After all, he was a scholar.’
‘But – it’s latest meaning. Do you really think Jeremy would use hobo iconography?’
‘You never let me finish, you know.’ Now that order had been restored, Griddlehaus had regained his usual poise. ‘There was a transitional period, you see. In the New World, before the Felix was picked up by our more recent unfortunates, the mark of the cat came to symbolize safe passage of another sort. Perhaps Jeremy knew this, and applied it to his situation – or his cat’s.’
‘It could be …’ Dulcie was skeptical.
Griddlehaus handed her a book. ‘It took a bit of searching,’ he said. ‘But I knew I had seen a reference to another usage, one that might have relevance to your work, Ms Schwartz.’
Wiping her hands once more, Dulcie took the book and began to read: ‘The cat being associated with the female ever since the Egyptian age, the Felix mark served as code for a kind of underground railroad. Its appearance in a book, often of the sentimental or sensational kind passed hand to hand among female readers and largely ignored by men, indicated safe passage for women who were forced to flee from abusive marriages for example, or who wanted to protect their daughters.’
Or both, thought Dulcie. Out loud, she said, ‘Perhaps that’s the connection with my pages. With the author of The Ravages of Umbria.’
She continued reading, this time out loud. ‘With the rise of female literacy – and the preponderance of certain genres that catered primarily to these new female readers, coded books, imprinted with a certain mark, could have served as passports, or as signs that a bearer could be trusted. Little concrete proof of this exists, but if one reads Clavistock … ’
‘Thank you, Mr Griddlehaus.’ This was a priceless find.
‘You’re most welcome,’ he replied, his pale cheeks coloring ever so slightly. ‘As a library sciences professional, I’m always glad to help. You will, of course, need proof of your theories.’
He stopped, and she nodded. She didn’t, not really. She would get proof, of course. She would find the citations, the history, and more. But even before, she knew.
FORTY-FIVE
Dulcie had managed to wash up more thoroughly by the time Rogovoy resurfaced to tell them that both Wardley and Truckworth were in custody. ‘I think Truckworth is relieved,’ he’d said, his voice a quiet rumble. ‘He was worried about his kid. About you, too, Ms Schwartz.’
‘Well, then why did he put that page in my bag?’ Now that the fear had worn off, Dulcie was angry. But Rogovoy was shaking his head.
‘That was Wardley. He’s been behind these thefts all along. That’s why he’s had such a good record with stolen property – he’d have Truckworth b
ring him things, and then “recover” what he couldn’t turn into ready cash.
‘Truckworth’s talking now. Telling us everything. He stole that page – the one from the Mildon – for Wardley when the collection was closed. Took quite a risk, since he was the only one with access, but he was desperate to get his kid off, by that point, and Wardley was putting the pressure on. Truckworth had a sense of its value. He was hoping to buy his kid’s freedom, but Wardley didn’t think it looked like much.’
‘He couldn’t know that,’ said Dulcie. Very aware of how filthy her clothes were, she was sitting carefully on the edge of one of Griddlehaus’s upholstered chairs. ‘It was a fragment. It could have been a Felix page. A partial.’ She thought of the glitter – the slight curving line she had spotted. ‘In fact, I have reason to believe it might be.’
‘Whatever.’ Rogovoy didn’t sound impressed. ‘He’s not a book guy. Not much of a cop, either. And he was looking for a way to get rid of you, Ms Schwartz. Maybe he was sick of your questions. You have been poking about a bit much. But don’t sweat it. His days of making trouble are over. I figured what with your help and all.’ He paused, and Dulcie thought she saw the hint of a dimple in his granite face. ‘I wanted to fill you in.’
With that he was gone, the two were left in silence, and Dulcie realized that she was not only dirty but exhausted. As she sat there, willing herself to rise, her gaze fell on the battered book once again piled on the table.
‘Mr Griddlehaus,’ said Dulcie, staring at the nondescript cover. ‘Don’t you want to return this to the general collection?’
‘I can’t,’ Griddlehaus replied. ‘After the detective went looking for you, I did a bit of my own detecting. As I suspected, that’s not where it belongs.’
‘It’s not in the catalog?’ Dulcie was too tired to understand.
‘It had been removed,’ said her friend. ‘It was listed as missing.’ He held it out to her. ‘You never got a chance to make out its title.’
She took the battered book. The gilt lettering had worn away, but opening it to the title page, she read He Could Not Tell Her, Vol. 2.
‘Missing or stolen,’ Griddlehaus continued. ‘Like so many others from the Stavendish bequest. Yet someone saved it from Truckworth – and from Wardley. Someone hid it away.’
‘Jeremy,’ said Dulcie. ‘He didn’t want it to be sold or, worse, destroyed. And when the excavations began, he must have started trying to save his collection, like a cat with her kittens. He was probably on his way with the other volume.’
‘It’s a wonder that it wasn’t found when the reading room was tossed.’ Griddlehaus shook his head.
‘That must have been Wardley.’ Dulcie thought of what Rogovoy had said. Of what she had witnessed. ‘He must have realized pretty quickly that this wasn’t Jeremy’s cache. He was looking for rarities. For treasure, and to him, these were just plain old books.’
She looked at her friend again, her voice growing soft. ‘Jeremy hid it in plain sight. He knew you, Mr Griddlehaus. He trusted you. That’s why he brought this book up here.’
‘Why this one volume?’ Griddlehaus looked down at the damaged cover to hide his blush. ‘It isn’t in particularly good shape, is it?’
‘That’s it.’ Dulcie looked around for something – anything – to use as a tool, and her eyes lit on Griddlehaus’s letter opener.
‘What? Ms Schwartz!’ The librarian jumped up as she inserted the tip of the blade into the inside of the book’s front cover. ‘Please, stop!’
‘Just this one sheet.’ As carefully as she could, Dulcie emulated what she had seen in the lab, working the opener around, separating the paper from its backing. The paper was old, but sturdy, and the glue had long since dried. Once the seal was broken, it came away easily, and Dulcie was able to ease the blade’s thin edge further along. It was painstaking work, but before long she had the entire bottom detached and began on the corner.
‘What are you doing?’ Griddlehaus was no longer trying to stop her and instead stood at her shoulder, peering down.
‘Looking for something,’ she said. The vertical went more quickly, and soon the loosened page was curling back on itself. Behind it, she could see folds of paper. Waste paper that had been used to thicken the board, to strengthen the cover, perhaps. Or perhaps the book had been the cover all along – a second-rate novel, one likely to be overlooked, served to disguise some of the most valuable documents of a very special collection.
‘We should go to the conservation lab,’ said Griddlehaus. His voice had fallen to a hush as Dulcie put down her improvised tool. She had done enough. With the oversheet curling back, they could both see what had been hidden, protected, for so long. Sparkling in the light: the silver cat.
FORTY-SIX
Dulcie scrolled through her pages. ‘The increasingly anti-intellectual foment of the war years brought in a new conservatism … ’ She had never gotten that reference. With a sigh, Dulcie went back to her notes. (see Kravitz.) There, that was done.
Despite – or perhaps because of – the excitement of the morning, Dulcie had found herself quite productive the rest of the day. Even the prolonged break, when Suze had called, had added to Dulcie’s general sense of closure.
For starters, the friends had agreed that too much time had passed.
‘I’m sorry I was so terse,’ Suze had said. ‘It’s work. It’s been crazy. Really makes me miss the academic year.’
Dulcie had bit her tongue on that and been rewarded.
‘I’ve been thinking about your friend,’ her old room-mate had continued. ‘Jeremy? I’ve made some calls, and I am sure he won’t serve any time.’
‘Diminished capacity?’ Dulcie had been Suze’s room-mate all through law school, after all.
‘Well, certainly.’ Suze chuckled. ‘We could fall back on that, but we won’t have to. You know where the books were found, right? My boss has already presented the argument that the books could not be considered stolen if all Jeremy did was take them from an illegal off-site location and bring them back into the library.
‘By the way,’ Suze had continued, once her revelation had sunk in. ‘I think I’ll have some housing options for him once he gets out of the infirmary. And, yes, at least one allows cats …’
Once Dulcie had washed up, there had been the sweet, if brief, reunion of Jeremy and his pet. Griddlehaus had given the feline a thorough brushing while Dulcie had gone home to change, and together they had smuggled her into the health services, where Jeremy was sitting up and eating his lunch. He’d dropped the fork of what looked like pot roast as soon as she saw the triangular brown head peeking out from Griddlehaus’s jacket and reached his arms out for his pet.
‘Secret!’ he’d said, as he held the brown cat close.
‘She’ll be safe with me until you’re out of here, my old friend,’ said Griddlehaus. With that, he motioned for Dulcie to step back, to give the reunited friends time alone, but Dulcie hesitated.
‘Jeremy?’ The man on the bed looked up, his eyes newly clear. ‘Where did you find the books, the two volumes of He Could Not Tell Her?’
‘Dulcie, please.’ Griddlehaus reached for her arm. ‘That was so long ago.’
‘Jeremy?’ Dulcie feared for a moment that she had pushed too hard. The man was ill. He was fragile. ‘You trusted me with Secret,’ she said now.
With a barely perceptible nod, Jeremy started talking again. ‘Box,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Box,’ he repeated, more clearly. ‘Tower Room. Never tell.’
‘It’s OK, Jeremy,’ said Dulcie. ‘I think I know the rest.’ With a glance at Griddlehaus, she began to explain. ‘I think you found Truckworth’s cache, the stolen books. I bet he thought it wouldn’t be a big deal – that the university was going to pulp half of them anyway. Maybe it even started as a safety measure. Those books were badly stored, and they were at risk of getting wet, of being damaged, as the construction work went on, and so he moved them to the tower room for safe keeping.
Maybe he was waiting to see if anyone noticed they were missing. Maybe he would have returned them, but he didn’t get the chance. Did he?’
The man in the bed didn’t answer, and so Dulcie kept talking. ‘I think Wardley got there first. He figured out what Truckworth had done and made him his patsy – threatening him with expulsion or arrest – unless he dropped out. Dropped out and got a job where he could give Wardley access whenever he wanted.’ Dulcie paused, working it out.
‘Wardley “recovered” some of the books – enough to secure his career – and arranged for a fence to sell the others, starting with the most obviously valuable ones, I guess. Maybe he was going to “recover” the rest. Maybe he was hoping the market would heat up and he could get a good price for some of the lesser works. Maybe he was going to dump them. After all, nobody was ever prosecuted and if Wardley “found” too many of the stolen books, people might have started asking questions.’
She paused. Jeremy was staring at her, eyes wide.
‘You knew those books had value,’ she said, her voice gentle. ‘Scholarly value. Maybe you could have reasoned with Truckworth. I gather he wasn’t a bad soul, just broke and reckless. But not Wardley. He didn’t care.’
Jeremy gave a wordless cry. His face had gone white, and he was clutching the cat to his breast.
‘Ms Schwartz …’ Griddlehaus leaned forward, but Dulcie was already responding.
‘Oh, Jeremy,’ she said, placing one hand on his arm. ‘I’m so sorry. Wardley caught you, didn’t he? The incident in the tower room …’ She paused. ‘He didn’t rescue you, did he? Any more than he “rescued” you from the pit outside the library.’
Jeremy buried his face in the cat’s fur.
‘Well, you don’t have to worry any more. Not now.’ Dulcie didn’t need any more confirmation. ‘You and Secret are safe.’
