Into the Grey

by Clea Simon

  Despite that encouraging encounter on the stairs, Dulcie was still unsure whether she should even attempt to enter the library. Telling herself that she might as well find out the worst, she decided to try it. After all, if she could get back to work, maybe she would be able to make good use of her newly freed up morning. Never again, she promised herself, would she complain about having to take on another section, not even of the broadest freshman survey classes. Certainly not English ten, she told herself. Not when her spirits had been so revived by a chance meeting.

  Unless … Dulcie paused. ‘Mr Grey?’ Under her breath, she addressed the library’s spacious anteroom. ‘Was that you?’ She remembered quite well another chance meeting, when she had found a bedraggled cat out in a nasty nor’easter. Suze had urged her to keep going. To not check out the faint movement – the soft mewl – she had heard in that alley. But she had, rescuing the wet and underfed cat who would come to mean so much to her. And now she stepped toward the check-in desk.

  ‘Dulcie!’ Ruby’s voice rang out, as unlike Mr Grey’s soft mew as anything could be. Still, Dulcie was never happier to see her friend. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘Me too.’ Dulcie looked around. She’d been hoping for the guard to wave her in, so she wouldn’t have to risk swiping her ID. But being hailed by Ruby superseded even that, and the older guard simply nodded as her friend walked her in. ‘Thanks,’ she whispered. They were making their way over to Ruby’s desk in circulation when her friend paused and turned to her.

  ‘What’s up?’ Worry creased her face.

  ‘I— Never mind.’ Dulcie shook her head. Ruby was a friend. Someone she could trust, but Ruby also had the loudest voice of any library professional Dulcie knew. She’d explain what was happening once the two of them were out of earshot of anybody who might second-guess her presence here. ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘I didn’t know if you heard about that book.’ She pulled Dulcie behind the desk and rolled over a second chair for her. ‘The one you found?’

  Dulcie nodded. ‘I know. It’s the murder weapon.’ A vague sick feeling was coming over her. ‘The police think the killer put it back in the stacks.’ She didn’t add the worst part – that the police liked her for both the crime and the cover-up.

  ‘But that’s just it.’ Ruby leaned in and took Dulcie’s hands in her own. ‘You didn’t hear the latest. That book should never have been in Fenderby’s office.’

  Dulcie shook her head, not understanding. People took books off the shelves all the time. As long as they didn’t want to take them out of the stacks, they didn’t need to sign them out. ‘Fenderby’s office was in the stacks,’ was all she said.

  ‘Yes, but the book had been checked out.’ Ruby spoke deliberately, waiting for Dulcie to catch on. ‘It still was – when you found it.’

  ‘So whoever killed Fenderby brought it back into the library?’ The full impact of what Ruby was telling her began to sink in. ‘Then hit him with it, and left the book as evidence?’

  Ruby nodded vigorously.

  ‘So all we have to do is find out who checked that book out …’ Dulcie couldn’t believe it. The nightmare was almost over.

  ‘Dulcie, they already have.’ Ruby’s voice sank to an unprecedented whisper. ‘It was Thomas Griddlehaus.’

  ‘No!’ Dulcie could hear her cry echo in the large and open room. All eyes turned toward her, but then – with the peculiar etiquette of libraries – just as quickly turned away. ‘That’s impossible,’ she hissed at Ruby.

  ‘I know,’ her friend replied. ‘I mean, why would Griddlehaus check out an anthology of Gothic fiction? Everyone knows he’s a medievalist. Never mind,’ she waved as if at a pesky fly, ‘the other stuff.’

  ‘It makes no sense.’ Dulcie’s head spun with the lack of logic. ‘He wouldn’t kill anyone. And he certainly wouldn’t risk damaging a book.’ Her own words stopped her. But Ruby didn’t question the ordering of priorities. They both knew the gentle library clerk. ‘Where is he?’ Dulcie asked.

  ‘All I know is the police questioned him.’

  Together, they both turned to where the uniformed officer was still huddled with the library guards. Watching them, Dulcie felt her heart sink. Thomas Griddlehaus was not only a scholar, he was one of her strongest allies. They had bonded over years of research, and he had recently shared some of his history with her. History, she realized now, that had some shady bits.

  ‘But he’s never done anything like this.’ She voiced the thoughts out loud.

  ‘Well, someone did,’ her friend said, her voice glum. ‘And you know what they say. It’s always the quiet ones.’

  ‘You don’t really think that.’ Dulcie looked at her friend. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Dulcie,’ her friend said sadly. ‘I don’t know what to think any more.’

  ‘That poor man.’ Dulcie hadn’t thought she could feel worse. ‘Did they take him out in handcuffs?’

  ‘What? No.’ Dulcie’s question disturbed whatever private reverie the circulation chief had fallen into. Her startled dismay, however, cheered Dulcie.

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘I mean, who else would be staffing the Mildon at this time of day?’

  ‘He’s still here?’ Dulcie couldn’t believe it. ‘In the Mildon?’

  ‘Of course.’ Ruby looked at her, not understanding. ‘Where else would he be?’

  ‘But—’ Dulcie caught herself. This was a good thing, the way things should be. Just because the mousy librarian had been connected to the murder weapon and allowed to go about his normal routine, whereas she … ‘I think I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Dulcie, are you sure you should be getting any more involved with all this …’ She waved her hands again. ‘This brouhaha?’

  ‘He’s my friend, Ruby,’ Dulcie said. What she didn’t say was how conflicted she felt about Ruby’s news. Griddlehaus was innocent. He had to be, but if the police were looking at him, then they were indeed clueless. And that meant they’d soon be clutching at any straw. She had to get involved, both for her friend’s sake and her own.

  NINETEEN

  To a stranger, Thomas Griddlehaus might not look any more agitated than usual. After he signed Dulcie in, the small man with the big glasses went back to his files, where he was fussing over what appeared to be old-fashioned, and decidedly dog-eared index cards.

  Dulcie, however, noticed his upset – it was hard to ignore the little man’s deep sighs – and she was torn. As close as she and the clerk had gotten over the last few years, he was essentially a private man, their relationship still primarily formal. And so she had turned to him, as she walked in, waiting to see if he would bring up what surely must be troubling him. She had even made a tentative query, asking in a general way, how he was doing.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ he had responded, before scurrying off to his own desk. It had felt like a reversion back to the early days of their working relationship, when she had not known anything about the studious little man.

  But when he didn’t elaborate, Dulcie had felt at a bit of a loss. Yes, she wanted to help him. She needed to understand what was going on. But was it worth encroaching on his privacy?

  Mulling over her options, she had taken her usual seat at the white table. And when the bespectacled clerk came over, she prepared to speak.

  ‘And which box would you like to start with today?’ He blinked at her behind those large glasses, as if he bore no other concerns beyond the everyday ones of his job.

  ‘Mr Griddlehaus …’ she began. And stopped. The police had questioned the clerk, but then they had let him go back to work. Suze had warned her off pursuing the case on her own. So had Rogovoy, although his warning carried less weight than Dulcie’s former roommate’s. Meanwhile, Chris – and Mr Grey – had assured her that she would be removed from probation soon. No matter who was on her panel at that point, she would have to defend her thesis. In fact …

  ‘May I have box 978 please?’
She looked up at Griddlehaus.

  ‘Box nine—?’ It was his turn to pause, bewildered. ‘But …’

  ‘I’m assuming that, with the loss of Professor Fenderby, that his hold on the material is no longer …’ Dulcie struggled for the right word. ‘No longer vital.’ The librarian winced. Clearly, he wasn’t as unscathed by recent events as he would like to appear.

  ‘I mean, it should no longer hold,’ Dulcie hurried to explain. ‘And since I am trying to respond to criticism he made, well, it seems like this would be a proper method of honoring him. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course.’ The librarian was clearly distracted, though if it was because of his own troubles or Dulcie’s rationalization, she couldn’t tell.

  ‘I thought now might be a good time to check my attributions,’ she added, when he returned with the archive a few minutes later. Her explanation did little to assuage the stab of guilt she felt, asking Griddlehaus to break the rules. She had spoken without thinking, stretching for something normal to say. But maybe her instinct had been a good one. Surely, a dead man no longer had authority to reserve research materials for private use. Besides, she had already donned the white gloves and the box was already here.

  ‘Of course,’ Griddlehaus repeated, lifting out the first page and laying it on the table. And so with her own small sigh and a twinge of trepidation, Dulcie began to read.

  ‘Such Treasure as we may Salvage from the conflagration’s fury, for surely such Liberty is as Priceless as any shining Jewel, we must keep safe,’ she read, mouthing the words aloud. Yes, this was the passage. It formed the basis for her chapter on her author’s political writings, tying them in with the theme of The Ravages of Umbria, the struggle for women’s rights. And also – she noted that one word – the spark, so to speak, of her dream. Though in her current mood, Dulcie began to doubt. Perhaps she had been too enthusiastic in her interpretation. Perhaps the author was simply talking about general liberties. After all, the earlier segment referred to a shift from the Old World to the New.

  ‘Such Jewels we would bequeath, to all our heirs. For it is of Our Daughters that I write.’ There, that proved it. Didn’t it?

  Dulcie shut her eyes, trying to remember. When she had first read this provocative essay, it had all seemed so clear: the author had left England for a new life in Philadelphia. Had survived an ocean voyage like the ones she described so vividly. That she had left her former life for personal reasons was implied in her novels: both The Ravages and the unnamed book Dulcie had discovered featured heroines who fled abusive mates. That the author was on the cusp of one of the first great movements for women’s rights made the rest fall into place. This essay used the fire imagery for dramatic impact. But its main argument, ostensibly concerning the right of a mother to bequeath her own property as she saw fit, was really an extended metaphor about liberty. Wasn’t it?

  She had to check. ‘Mr Griddlehaus,’ she called. He was seated at his desk, back toward her. ‘Do you mind if I—’

  ‘No, no. Go ahead.’ He didn’t even look up, but Dulcie knew the procedure. Within minutes, she had retrieved another folder from the box and carefully removed the document she was seeking, in its clear protective sheath, of course.

  ‘Such Jewels as we Bequeath,’ she read. Yes, this was the rough – or a rough, at any rate – handwritten version of the printed essay she had before her. Earlier in the same chapter, Dulcie had cited the similarities in phrasing that had made her link this essay and others to the The Ravages. To be able to see the same penmanship, a rushed but flowing hand, was exhilarating. And yes, this rough did indeed have the subtitle that she remembered: On Our Rights, it read, a heading that was excised from the final, printed version, perhaps by an editor who preferred to leave the writer’s inflammatory ideas in the realm of metaphor. Otherwise, the essay was virtually the same, except for a few minor changes.

  Dulcie knew she could check this off. Her research was sound, and her footnotes would cite both these documents. Anyone who sought to replicate her work would be able to. She mused on the idea as she gently replaced the document. Lifting the page with both hands, she blinked as the cool fluorescent light reflected off the protective covering. These documents were a treasure, a source for her dissertation and beyond, mapping the path of a literary icon. And maybe revealing a lineage …

  ‘Hold on.’ She paused, the light playing off the shiny surface. From this angle, the faded ink was barely visible. The lacy holes worn in the thick paper by the iron-gall ink casting shadows. But it wasn’t the cursive script she was seeing. It was a difference in the paper – in the surface. Raising the folder up once more, she let the light play over the surface. Yes, one area had been scraped and written over.

  Carefully, not even daring to hope, she held the document close. She should wait. Ask the experts at the conservation lab for help, and inquire if a lightbox or some other low-risk technology might be used to show her what had once been there. But looking at the page now, her eyes nearly level with the paper, she could see one difference – ‘conflagration’, it appeared, had not been the author’s original choice. Beneath it, Dulcie could make out … was it a T? Yes, ‘the Tempest’s fury’. How strange, she thought, lowering the document once more. In her dreams, she had divined the original wording. Or, no, she was getting carried away. The Ravages as well as the newer work both featured storms on land and sea. It was a natural substitution, for someone who knew the author.

  With a smile at her own fancy, Dulcie lifted the piece again. To think she had put herself in the author’s place. As if her dream … She stopped. She had elevated the document as carefully as always, her gloved fingertips raising it with care. Perhaps it was her distraction, the musing of an overtired mind. She tilted the page. No, there it was again. Another change, a smaller one. It was simple: ‘our’, one word, had been written over another. ‘My,’ she read aloud. Yes, in this light the original phrase was clear. My daughter.

  ‘Mr Griddlehaus?’ Dulcie could barely contain herself. She knew what she was seeing was pure speculation. More important, it would have no bearing on her dissertation. Thorpe and her colleagues – even Chris – had finally convinced her to stop expanding her thesis topic. She was no longer going to hare after the ‘new shiny’ as Trista had put it. She was writing on what she had. But personally, for her own interest, this could unlock one of her private dreams. ‘Mr Griddlehaus?’ Her voice was rising with excitement. ‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve just found.’

  There was no response. ‘Mr Griddlehaus?’ Carefully replacing the document, she turned. The librarian was still at his desk, staring at whatever he was holding. He hadn’t, Dulcie suspected, moved at all.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Griddlehaus?’ Pushing her own chair back, Dulcie walked up to the little man. From here, she couldn’t help seeing over his shoulder. ‘Are those from the old card catalog?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ He turned, eyes huge behind those glasses. ‘And yes, they are, Ms Schwartz. This is the original catalog that arrived with the gift from the Philadelphia bequest. I’ve been meaning to get around to these for months now.’

  The Philadelphia bequest had been the gift Renée Showalter had expedited: a collection of unsorted and often handwritten pages in which Dulcie had found parts of the lost novel. It was also the collection that had yielded the page Dulcie had just been studying.

  ‘They hadn’t been stored correctly before we received them,’ her friend explained, before she could point out the strange coincidence of timing. Without looking up at her, he turned one card, letting it, too, catch the light. Dulcie could see water damage. ‘But nothing beyond my scope.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean the cards,’ Dulcie rushed to explain. It was a little odd that of all the ongoing projects in the Mildon, the mouse-like clerk should choose this one to focus on right now. Though it was possible that their thoughts ran along the same lines – that her presence had reminded the clerk of this unfinished task. ‘I was concerned that
perhaps …’

  He looked up at her, as she struggled to find the right words, suddenly ashamed of her single-minded focus. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so caught up in my own worries, and when I first came in, I didn’t want to intrude. But I should have insisted. You see, I heard about the book – that collection you had checked out.’

  ‘Oh, my.’ He turned toward her, then quickly back to the card. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, putting the cards down. ‘The Castleton anthology.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dulcie fought the urge to take Griddlehaus’s hands in her own, knowing such a move would make the clerk uncomfortable. ‘Ruby filled me in.’

  Griddlehaus remained silent, simply staring at the cards. ‘I should have known,’ he said at last, speaking so quietly that Dulcie wasn’t sure he had spoken. Shaking his head, he looked up at Dulcie, cleared his throat, and began, in a slightly louder voice, to speak.

  ‘It all began with this.’ He held out the cards. ‘With the bequest. I’ve told the police all I knew. I hated to get anyone else in trouble, but I had to explain. After Professor Fenderby locked that part of the archives, I tried to reason with him. I told him that we had other patrons – one in particular – who were making regular use of these materials. He countered that he had a special student, a particularly gifted young scholar, who deserved private and unfettered access.’

  He paused, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. ‘I only wanted to follow up. The little bit he told me was so sketchy and so general. It seemed clear he was talking about an undergrad. I wanted to offer him alternative materials from the general collection that would serve the same purpose. That’s why I sought him out, as soon as I opened the collection. The morning he—’

  He stopped again, this time to remove his glasses, which he wiped with his handkerchief. ‘That’s why the book was in my name. And that’s why it was in his office. But I didn’t— I wouldn’t—’

  ‘Of course not.’ Dulcie had never been so convinced. However, another thought was also making itself felt. ‘But if you brought him that anthology, you must be one of the last people to see Fenderby alive.’ Those glasses were getting a good polishing. ‘Mr Griddlehaus?’