by Clea Simon
It wasn’t just the walls. The Mumphrey couldn’t have been designed worse for exams. Its high ceiling, for example, swallowed up the voices of examiners and made orals even more difficult, while the tall stained glass windows that lined two walls cast distracting colors on one’s bluebook.
Right now, the morning sun was shining through the left-hand wall, where the yellow robe of some kind of cleric was washing the usually ruddy Raleigh in a sickly glow that even yesterday’s sherry couldn’t explain. But although her head was inclined upward, Dulcie could see that she wasn’t taking in that bright figure or any of its colleagues, ‘The Portraits of the Honorable Dead’, that lined the high windows. With a drawn expression only heightened by that sallow glow, her upturned face had turned to the other side, the windows that had yet to be cleaned and restored. ‘The window of those who died ABD’ – all but dissertation – some wag had christened those dark figures, their faces obscured. For those who would take their exams here, the joke had long since gained the weight of portent.
‘Really,’ said Dulcie, coming up behind her. ‘Talk about final exams.’
Lloyd smiled, a tight-lipped smile, and turned to comfort his girlfriend. Her office-mate looked tired. Dulcie knew it wasn’t just the occasion: he was one of the students who’d been drafted to handle her classes.
‘It’s not your fault, Dulcie,’ he’d said, when he’d broken the news a few minutes earlier. ‘And I know you’d do the same for me.’
‘It would be nice if we each had the choice, though,’ she had grumbled, guilt making her feel worse about her punishment.
‘What, at the university?’ Lloyd had chuckled. ‘Have you forgotten that we’re academics?’
Looking at the couple, Dulcie was acutely aware of the toll Fenderby’s death was taking on all of them. Although he had put on a brave face, Lloyd was plainly anxious. Though whether out of concern for her or his own workload, Dulcie didn’t know. He also might be worried about his girlfriend. Dulcie wasn’t used to seeing the self-assured senior look quite so rattled. Then again, she too would be facing a panel of examiners here soon enough. She looked over at where the examiners usually sat. A podium stood there now, replacing the long table where her interrogators would wait, facing her. That is, if she were allowed to complete her degree.
Looking past the couple, Dulcie saw blonde hair shaded lightly by the green of the glass. Not Trista, she saw as the figure stepped into the room. In the light of day – even multi-colored light – and without the haze of hunger, fatigue, and cheap, sweet sherry, she wondered how she could have confused the two. Alyson’s hair was a darker, richer shade, her figure more lush. Standing behind the stooped figure of Polly Fenderby, whose unrelenting black suit and dramatic veil somehow escaped the colorful illumination from above, the junior looked like one of those stained glass figures. They both did, Dulcie realized. Youth and age, or beauty and mourning: an impression heightened by Polly Fenderby’s apparent frailty, as she leaned heavily on the arm of a fat man in a dark suit.
‘Wow, they sent Grossgirt,’ a voice behind her commented in hushed tones. Dulcie recognized the name, if not the corpulent figure who now led the widow to a seat behind the podium. The administration had sent out the heavy hitters for this supposedly informal event.
‘They must be grateful that it ended this way.’ A second voice, to her left. But even as Dulcie turned, the speaker defended himself against an unheard expostulation. ‘Yes, it’s a tragedy, but cheaper in the long run.’
‘I knew it.’ A voice to Dulcie’s right caused her to swing around. Trista apparently had overheard the same voices. ‘The petition,’ she said, nodding grimly. ‘I heard the university had assembled a task force. I mean, they had to. The place was going to be declared a hostile work environment all because of him.’
‘You don’t think that’s why …’ Dulcie didn’t finish her sentence. To openly accuse the university of murder was a bit much.
‘Suits have been discouraged?’ Trista misread her. ‘Yeah, I do. Foolish, though. Should’ve let the cops do their job. If they’d just gotten rid of Fenderby, they’d have been in the clear. “Positive corrective action”, and all.’ She mimed air quotes. ‘Though that wouldn’t have helped Morticia Addams much.’
‘Tris.’ Dulcie, chastened, motioned for her friend to hold her voice down. ‘She’s lost her husband.’
Trista shrugged, following Dulcie as she joined the assembled crowd sliding into the pews. She’d wanted to talk to Alyson – and to the widow herself, if possible – but not in Trista’s company. Her friend’s edginess was clearly exacerbated by the surroundings.
Besides, now that everybody was settling in, the proceedings had begun. Grossgirt, if that was indeed the functionary, had escorted the widow to a chair beneath the carved mantelpiece and now ascended to the podium.
‘Thank you all for coming this morning.’ His voice, low and ponderous, sounded stage perfect, leading Dulcie to wonder if he’d done this kind of thing often. ‘We here at the university have come together to acknowledge a great loss.’
Beside her, Trista made gagging sounds, and Dulcie shot her a glance – resisting the urge to elbow her. But the fat man appeared to be there solely to start the proceedings – or show university support to the widow – and moments later, resumed his seat.
‘Hello, everyone.’ Dean Grulke had taken the podium – grasping the wood frame in both hands, the mike amplifying her usually whisper-quiet voice. ‘I’d like to speak to you today about Roland Fenderby, my colleague and a scholar of great renown.’
‘Great,’ Trista growled. ‘Our least likely public speaker.’
‘I don’t think she’ll be on long.’ Dulcie nodded to the widow, who had risen and now stood behind the sweating speaker. ‘It looks like Mrs Fenderby is waiting to be introduced.’
‘Look who’s right beside her.’ Trista leaned over, and Dulcie followed her line of sight. Sure enough, Alyson Beaumont had stepped out of the shadows beneath the darker windows and now stood behind the widow’s chair. Grasping its back, she leaned forward, staring at the grim-faced widow as the dean droned on fervently but inaudibly, apparently about the dead man. ‘Ready to speak ill of the dead?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ve got to talk to her,’ Dulcie said.
‘We’ll grab her after,’ Trista whispered, leaning over. ‘In the meantime, look who’s here.’
She didn’t have to point. Following her gaze, Dulcie could see: Tom Watts, sitting front and center, apparently transfixed by the dean.
‘At least someone is listening to her,’ Trista whispered. The student in front of them glanced back, eyebrows raised. But before Dulcie could caution her friend, the droning stopped. The dean, it seemed, was done, though whether she had bowed her head in prayer or exhaustion wasn’t immediately apparent. A smattering of applause from the befuddled crowd roused her, however, and she looked up, blinking, before leaning in once more to the mike.
‘Widow of our colleague,’ was all Dulcie could make out. ‘Penelope Fenderby.’
‘Linda.’ With a nod, she dismissed the dean and took her place, lifting her veil as she approached the mike. As she did, an audible gasp went through the crowd. Polly Fenderby was clearly a mess, her eyes red and swollen, her face white even under the rainbow lighting. Dulcie cast a glance at her colleague. Trista might have had her beef with Fenderby, but there was no way she could deny the raw grief before them.
‘Roland Fenderby was my husband,’ she began, and stopped, raising one black-gloved hand to her mouth. Grossgirt appeared at her side with a glass of water. She took a sip and began again. ‘Scholar, teacher, whatever else he may have been, that is what he was.’
The room had fallen silent. Even Trista seemed cowed, as the widow scanned the crowd, and then began to speak again.
‘I am not here to eulogize Roland,’ she said, scanning the room. ‘I leave that to the university that valued him and understood his incalculable contributions to scholarship and
pedagogy.’ Another sweep of the room left Dulcie wondering if she was expecting a challenge. ‘The university that understood the importance of his great work. No,’ she said, her voice taking on a steely edge. ‘I am not here today to eulogize the man I married. I am here to address his enemies. To speak to those who brought him down.’
Behind her, Grossgirt took a step forward. Even Dean Grulke started to rise, waiting for a cue. But the widow didn’t turn and nobody, it seemed, felt comfortable interrupting her as she kept on talking.
‘Like a dog to its own vomit, the evil shall reveal themselves.’ She scanned the room. Nervous titters broke out behind Dulcie. ‘As the poets say, “some rise by sin, while others do by virtue fall”.’
‘The lady doth protest too much,’ muttered Trista.
Dulcie resisted the urge to elbow her friend. ‘She’s been through a lot,’ she said instead. ‘And she’s not a scholar.’
Trista eyed her sidelong. ‘She was one of Fenderby’s students, you know.’
‘Yeah, but that was how many years ago?’ Dulcie squirmed. It was bad enough she found herself cast in the role of the widow’s champion; she certainly didn’t want to have a conversation in the middle of an increasingly strange memorial.
‘Too late.’ Trista was staring straight ahead. Dulcie followed her gaze. Sure enough, the widow must have heard them. Mouth set in a tight line, she was staring straight at them. ‘At least she’s shut up,’ Trista murmured.
This time, Dulcie did elbow her. But Trista was right, though whether the widow had reached the conclusion of her talk or been interrupted was anyone’s guess. Grossgirt came forward as she turned from the podium, wrapping one arm around her protectively as he led her back to her seat. Alyson, Dulcie now noticed, was no longer standing behind the chair, and in fact seemed to be making her way toward the far door. In the hubbub following the widow’s speech, Dulcie stood.
‘People, please.’ The dean had taken the podium again, but her voice barely registered above the crowd.
Working her way out of the pew, Dulcie made a beeline for her student.
‘Alyson!’ The junior turned at the sound of her name, and for a moment Dulcie froze. Whatever her involvement, the past few days had been hard on her. Up close, Dulcie could see the broken blood vessels in her eyes, the dark purple patches below them.
‘Did Tom do this to you?’ It was the first question that popped out of her mouth, not what she’d intended. ‘Was this because of him?’
‘What?’ Alyson shook her head, though whether in denial or disbelief, Dulcie couldn’t tell.
‘You can tell me, Alyson.’ Dulcie was face to face with her student now. She spoke quickly, aware that the other student had to be nearby as the pews emptied. ‘I heard what Tom said. I know you were there.’
‘You’ve been found out.’ The voice, like a hiss, came from behind her. Dulcie turned, startled, to find herself staring at the widow. ‘It’s all your fault,’ Poppy Fenderby spat the words. ‘It’s your fault my husband is dead.’
‘Mrs Fenderby!’ Whatever she had thought, this was certainly not the way to handle it. She took a breath, the better to reason with the aggrieved widow, and saw Tom, his back toward them both as he headed toward the door.
‘Tom?’ she called, curious. Surely, he had heard what was happening. But he didn’t turn, and just then another voice cried out, whipping her around again.
‘Watch out!’ A young man pointed at Alyson. The pretty junior had gone a ghastly shade of green, for which the stained glass above could only be partially responsible.
‘Alyson!’ Dulcie rushed to her student, as her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed to the floor.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Step back, Miss.’ A dark blue shoulder slid in front of Dulcie. ‘Let us do our job.’
‘It’s OK, Dulcie.’ Raleigh was at her side, pulling her out of the way. In the minutes since Alyson had collapsed, Dulcie had found herself in the middle of a maelstrom. Someone had screamed, and Dulcie had jumped forward to cradle the fallen student’s head. Now she watched as the EMT checked for vital signs. As a second uniformed worker pushed by with a stretcher, Dulcie and Raleigh were forced back further. All around, the previously sedate gathering was buzzing.
‘What happened?’ Someone had grabbed Lloyd. He shook his head and turned back toward his friends, his arms up to shield them from the crush. ‘Did she faint?’
‘Hang on.’ Dulcie strained forward. Alyson’s eyes had opened and her head was turned toward Dulcie. One hand seemed to reach out to her, too, before the EMTs placed it back by her side and buckled her in. ‘She’s trying to say something. Wait.’
Dulcie grabbed the emergency worker’s arm, but he only shook her off.
‘Coming through,’ he called, as he and his colleague rolled the stretcher out, forcing the crowd to step back into the pews as they passed.
‘She was trying to tell me something.’ Dulcie turned to her friends, as they waited to step out from between the confining benches. ‘I’ve got to find out what it was.’
‘Maybe she was confessing.’ Trista spoke softly, but suddenly the buzz in the room changed.
‘Guilt?’ Dulcie heard a male voice murmur.
‘I hear she’s been suicidal.’ A woman this time, speaking in a whisper. ‘That it’s a cry for attention.’
‘I think you should leave this alone,’ said Lloyd. Raleigh nodded in agreement. ‘It’s probably nothing, but things have a way of happening around you.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Dulcie protested. ‘I didn’t make Alyson sick.’
‘No, but we don’t want people asking why you were pushing to talk to her right before she collapsed.’ Raleigh had Dulcie’s arm and was maneuvering her toward the door. ‘Especially not if she made herself sick. What if she is involved in some way?’
‘Poor girl.’ Trista’s voice conveyed something other than sympathy. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if this was all a stunt to focus attention away from her and leave you in the hot seat.’ Trista paused, considering the ramifications. ‘Well, you and your cousin.’
‘What?’ Raleigh asked, looking at Lloyd. He turned to Dulcie, a mute plea in his eyes.
‘I’m being investigated,’ Dulcie said. ‘Just because, well, the bad timing, me finding the professor and then the murder weapon and all. That’s why Lloyd is covering my classes.’
Raleigh blinked. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘And here I was, worrying about my own silliness.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Dulcie insisted. ‘Bad timing. Only, well, my cousin Mina – you remember her? – she had a run-in with Professor Fenderby, so in a certain light, it’s possible that the authorities …’ She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
‘The cops think either Mina killed Fenderby and Dulcie’s covering. Or Dulcie killed Fenderby to avenge her cousin.’ Trista had no such problem. ‘Which is why Dulcie and I have been trying to get timid Tom to explain why he told Alyson that he saw “a redhead” around the time Fenderby was killed, even though he knows full well Mina wasn’t there at the time. And why he planted the bloody evidence where Dulcie would find it.’
‘Now, we don’t know—’
‘We didn’t before,’ Trista interrupted. ‘But the circumstantial evidence is building up. And I know you are sentimental about your students, Dulcie. But if it’s you or either of them, I know whom I’m going to protect. You’re my friend. They’re not.’
‘Thanks, Tris.’ She knew her smile was weak. It was hard to summon up any more. ‘It’s all so horrible. Why do you think she did it?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ Trista looked around the room. ‘I wish I’d gotten a chance to grab that Walls, but he ducked out of here fast enough.’
Dulcie nodded. Tom’s exit, just when all hell was breaking loose, did seem suspicious. ‘At least I ran toward her,’ she said. ‘Maybe I stopped her from hitting her head.’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Raleigh. ‘And if anyone t
hinks Dulcie did anything wrong, Lloyd and I can vouch for her. I wonder what Alyson was going to say anyway? Did anyone get a chance to talk to her?’
Lloyd shook his head. ‘No, she was standing behind the speakers, over by Fenderby’s widow.’
‘Was she looking sick then?’ Dulcie remembered her student’s wan face, her shadowed eyes.
‘She looked guilty,’ Trista snarled. ‘Like reality was catching up to her.’
TWENTY-NINE
After the brouhaha of Alyson Beaumont’s collapse, it had taken at least fifteen minutes before order was restored. Even though other speakers were clearly waiting for their turns, the atmosphere was more reminiscent of a barroom in the aftermath of a brawl than anything more respectful. Voices were raised and everyone looked uncomfortable. When Thorpe got up to speak, he stumbled over his notes and re-read the same page twice. Dulcie saw Nancy on the sidelines, wringing her hands. And front and center sat Polly Fenderby scowling. Tom Walls did not return.
People were finally beginning to settle down and slide back into their seats when Dulcie had an idea. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she kept her voice low. ‘I think I’m going to duck out.’
‘You want some company?’ Trista looked ready to take off, but Dulcie shook her head.
‘I’ll let you know if I find out anything.’ Trista was too much of a loose cannon right now, Dulcie thought. Besides, it would look odd if two members of the department left. One advantage of having found the deceased and of being under suspicion – perhaps the only plus – was that she would be given a pass from the usual expected behavior.
‘Maybe it was a virus,’ Dulcie said under her breath as she made her way down the row of seats. ‘Plus it is hot in here.’ This last was to an older woman – one of the techs from the library, Dulcie thought – who’d given her a nasty look as she stumbled over the oversized bag at her feet.
