True Grey

by Clea Simon

  THIRTEEN

  ‘We’re visiting Rafe Hutchins,’ Lloyd explained to the freckled student in the guard booth. ‘Lloyd Pruitt and Dulcie Schwartz.’

  The young man nodded and handed them the ledger to sign. Either the dean had put a bug in his ear about security or he had finished his book. After they’d slid the ledger back under the glass divider, he’d even checked their IDs. Only then had he buzzed open the inner door, letting Dulcie back into the courtyard she’d left less than fifteen minutes before.

  Lloyd turned toward the left, and Dulcie stopped him. ‘I saw Rafe and the dean both going up there.’ She gestured toward the farthest entrance way.

  ‘Of course. I was thinking he’d be in his rooms, in A. But I gather the dean is running him ragged. We’ll go look for him in the guest suite first.’

  Lloyd led the way across the courtyard to the entrance marked with a small, gold ‘F’. ‘So much for extra security,’ he said. The heavy green door had been propped open by a stone.

  ‘Well, it is a nice day,’ said Dulcie. ‘Plus, it’s not like it’s an exterior door.’ She looked around. Students had begun to fill the courtyard. Two women sprawled on the sparse grass, perhaps hoping to extend their tans, while others emerged from the dining hall holding lunch trays. ‘They look so carefree.’

  Lloyd turned toward her, concern showing on his face. ‘Dulcie, everything will work out OK. I know it will.’

  She nodded, unable to respond. ‘At any rate, I don’t see Rafe or Darlene out here.’

  ‘Come on.’ Lloyd pulled open the heavy door, and Dulcie stepped inside. The way Dardley was laid out, many of its windows, as well as its courtyard, opened on to the river, and in this last entryway, even the stairs benefited from the natural light. At the first landing, Dulcie paused to look out the window. On this late summer day, the sun on the water was dazzling, the sparkle seemingly synchronized with the sounds of footsteps racing up the stairs above them. Behind her, out in the courtyard, someone screamed – and the scream collapsed into laughter. A door slammed, hard, and she found herself squinting in pain.

  ‘You all right?’ Lloyd sounded worried, so Dulcie nodded, feigning a heartiness she didn’t feel.

  ‘It’s the glare. It got to me. I’ve had a headache all day,’ she lied. ‘This view is incredible.’

  ‘Wait till we get up to the second floor,’ said Lloyd as they walked on. It was funny, Dulcie thought, how he had been the winded one, and yet now he was climbing the curling stairs with no difficulty. Meanwhile, her lie had become truth – the pounding in her head bringing with it the most claustrophobic feeling she had ever experienced.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Lloyd.’ She stopped a few stairs up. ‘I’m not sure about this.’

  ‘Dulcie, are you sure you’re OK?’ Lloyd’s face was drawn with concern. ‘You’ve gone all pale.’

  ‘I’m just not sure we should be doing this.’ She stopped herself. ‘That I should be doing this.’

  ‘Visiting Rafe?’ He stepped back down and was looking at her curiously. ‘Dulcie, have you eaten today?’

  ‘I had coffee.’ She was leaning on the wall. ‘It’s just . . .’ She gestured at the wall, at the curving stairwell that rose above her. ‘This place, it’s not right – I don’t think I should be here right now.’

  ‘And I don’t think you’re fit to go anywhere. Sit, Dulcie. Catch your breath. I’m going to get you something from the cafeteria.’

  Unable to form any words, she nodded and sat, heavily. Despite the warmth of the day, the stair beneath her felt cold.

  ‘Do you want me to call for help?’ Lloyd hesitated two steps below her.

  ‘No, no, you’re probably right.’ She lifted her head, trying for an optimism she didn’t feel. ‘Maybe you could get me some yogurt.’

  ‘I’m getting you something with sugar. And if that doesn’t help, I’m calling health services.’ Lloyd stared hard at her face for a moment, then turned to trot back down. ‘Back in a flash,’ he called back up, and she saw the light grow and then recede again as the courtyard door closed behind him.

  ‘Someone’s going to be cursing,’ she thought to herself. Lloyd must have kicked the rock out of the way in his rush to get her sustenance.

  Unless somebody had come in after them. Dulcie tried to remember what she had heard, before the dizziness had descended. Her head ached; she closed her eyes. Voices . . . a young woman, her tone defiant. What had Esmé meant, anyway, talking about Mr Grey in that way? Was there a rivalry between them, something she had never known about? Was Esmé simply acting out – perhaps because of her still-kittenish ways? Or could she have picked up something of her own issues?

  ‘Dulcie!’ The familiar voice pulled her upright. ‘Mr Grey?’

  ‘Dulcie, take care—’ The sound of feet on the hard stairs above her drowned out the quiet voice. ‘Your words,’ she heard, ‘. . . jealousy.’

  A chill washed over her. ‘I could kill her.’ She’d said it. She hadn’t meant it. Wasn’t one of her students asking for an example of hyperbole today? No, that was metaphor. Either way, as Lucy’s daughter she had grown up with the ‘rule of threes’. Whatever you do – whatever you think, even whatever you wish – comes back to you, threefold. And her wish had been . . .

  No, she didn’t mean it. Still, grabbing the banister Dulcie pulled herself up. Her head was throbbing, almost blinding her with the pain. She wasn’t going to wait for Lloyd, though. Lucy might not be right about the details, but her heart was good – and on this point, Dulcie agreed with her. She had to go make peace with the interloper, even if this Melinda didn’t know that they had been at war.

  ‘Hello?’ She called up the stairs. Nothing. Those footsteps must have belonged to the resident students; this section of Dardley House was four stories high and the hallway at the top connected to the next entrance. ‘Hello?’

  She started up. Lloyd would find her. Besides, it was his friend who had rescinded the invitation to drop by; it would be better if he weren’t involved.

  ‘Hello?’ She craned her neck, trying to look up the stairwell. ‘Anybody there?’

  The library, she recalled, was on the second floor to the left, where its windows would look over the courtyard and the river beyond. As an undergrad, she had loved to study there, although in truth the abundance of sunlight often made the room a little too warm for anything but a snooze. To the right, she recalled, were the various house offices. The junior common room – which, despite its name, tended to be used for senior staff meetings, was down here, too. And, at the end, the visiting scholar’s suite.

  Ascending to the landing, Dulcie turned to the right and found herself facing a closed door. She took a deep breath and knocked. Nothing. ‘Hello,’ she called into the crack between the dark oak and its frame. ‘Anybody there?’ She knocked again. Nothing. Then, on a whim, she tried the knob. It turned.

  ‘Hello!’ Dulcie opened the door and called down the hall. ‘Hello?’

  The door was unlocked for a reason. Rafe would be back in a moment. Lloyd would catch up with her. Maybe Melinda had already arrived, and was back in the suite, unpacking. With doors this thick, she probably hadn’t heard Dulcie calling.

  Her head pounding, Dulcie took a step into the hallway. It was dark, any natural light swallowed up by the high ceilings and wood paneling. Framed photos of men in shorts, holding oars, looked down on her, their names faded to sepia illegibility.

  ‘Dardley Lights, 1925,’ she was able to make out. ‘Varsity Champions.’ The faces were white and ghostly in this light, only the heavy moustaches worn by all eight of the rowers adding a touch of levity to the picture. She moved on to the next, which was labeled 1941. These men – undergrads, probably – looked lighter still, thin and pale. The world was at war then, she realized. Sports were probably not distraction enough from what they would soon be facing, out in the real world. Dulcie leaned in, hoping to read their names, and found herself looking at a shadow between two of the rowers. Gre
y and indistinct, blurred by movement perhaps, it drew her. Another face, about shin high. Was it a cat?

  A sudden thud caught her by surprise. A door slamming – or a window closing – and she jumped back. The door on to the landing had closed, blocking out even the faint natural light and making the long hallway suddenly claustrophobic. Dulcie fought the urge to retreat – she’d come this far – and denied herself the reassurance of checking the door. Of course it wouldn’t be locked; she wouldn’t be locked in. These were the house facilities, in regular use by the university community.

  By force of will she made herself continue on. There was a light visible at the hallway’s end, the warm glow of a lamp, perhaps, tucked into a niche. Seeing it, she exhaled, suddenly aware that she had been holding her breath. ‘No wonder my head hurts,’ she muttered to herself. ‘What with the not breathing and all.’

  She licked dry lips and took another step down the hall, toward the light. Reaching it, she saw it came from a door that stood slightly ajar. Peeking inside, she could see the edge of a large meeting table, the midday sun reflecting off its polished surface. That was the light source, then, the sun reflecting off the warm wood. Peaceful and strangely organic, as if it were alive. For a moment, she was tempted to go into the large, quiet room – the junior common room. Through the open door, she could see an oil painting of a man in a powdered wig. Lord Dardley, she assumed, for whom the house had been named. He’d been educated here – no, he’d donated his library, she recalled. Three hundred volumes and the equivalent in sheep, or some such. In those days, that was enough to make a name for yourself at the university, she thought with a stab of bitter-sweet regret. She didn’t even know if the curled and coifed lord had been a scholar of any renown.

  Her headache had faded, replaced with an overwhelming sense of fatigue that caused her to lean against the door jamb. From this angle, she caught a glimpse of an easy chair, its brown leather undoubtedly warmed by the sun.

  ‘Esmé would love to nap there,’ she thought, the image cheering her. There was something particularly tempting about the scene. ‘Mr Grey would have, too.’

  Maybe it was the warmth, maybe the quiet: this wing of the building faced the river, rather than the courtyard, and this room in particular exuded a peacefulness that seemed to calm Dulcie’s throbbing head. Maybe it was the thought of her cats. She longed to slip into that easy chair and rest.

  She hadn’t earned peace, though, not yet. Even if it was just to make up for her violent wishes, Dulcie knew she had to go meet the visiting scholar. Even if nothing came of it, she had to try.

  Resisting what felt almost like the tug of a tide, she stepped away from the door and turned to continue down the hall.

  ‘Dulcie,’ she heard the familiar voice and turned involuntarily. Mr Grey hardly ever made an appearance at the same time as he spoke to her, but the old habit was so hard to break. ‘Dulcie.’ The voice sounded sad.

  ‘I know, Mr Grey.’ In the hushed dark of the hallway, she was barely whispering. He would hear her, though. Of that she was sure. ‘I got your message. I’m here to make amends.’

  ‘Three times,’ the voice said, and Dulcie strained to hear. It was fading – he was fading – and she experienced a sharp pang as she realized that her thoughtless words may have chased him away. ‘Three times warned.’

  ‘What, Mr Grey?’ She knew about the rule of three, but she’d only said those awful words once, hadn’t she? She must have misheard. The air was so still in this hallway, even the faintest echo would have carried. ‘Mr Grey?’

  She turned around again. The long hallway was behind her. The meeting room, with its faint glow, stood empty, luring her away from her duty. No, the only option was to continue on to the door at the end of the hallway, which stood closed.

  ‘Hi there!’ Dulcie tried for jaunty as she knocked. Her headache was almost gone by now, but there had to be something wrong with her sinuses. There was a pressure in her head, as if the pounding had battened down something oppressive and fierce. ‘Ms Harquist? Ms Sloane Harquist?’

  She knocked again. Nothing. She should turn around. Lloyd must have returned by now. He was probably waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He might be worried. For all she knew, he could have gone off to fetch the university police. An ambulance. Rafe.

  She wasn’t supposed to be here. This Melinda Sloane Harquist, ‘Mellie Heartless’, would reveal herself soon enough. Tomorrow, Dulcie could join the rest of the department in hearing her speak, and then she could figure out what, if anything, she could salvage of her own thesis.

  Enough. Dulcie leaned her throbbing head against the door, as if the cool, dark wood could act as some kind of a salve. To her surprise, it moved.

  ‘Ms Harquist?’ Dulcie stood up, but the slight pressure had been enough. The door had opened an inch, letting a sliver of light into the hallway. ‘Rafe?’

  With the lightest touch of her fingertips, she pushed the door and let it swing further, revealing a wall of books and a small end table, bare of anything but a lamp. ‘Halloo?’

  It was undoubtedly empty, just like the common room. Melinda Sloane Harquist wasn’t due to arrive for an hour or two yet. Even if she was at the university, she was probably meeting with the dean. At the Mildon, getting the lay of the land. Or, simply, at lunch.

  ‘Ms Harquist? Are you there?’ Dulcie debated whether to leave a note. She didn’t want to get Rafe in trouble, but since she was here . . . Fishing out her notebook, she scribbled a few quick words.

  ‘Welcome – I’m a fifth-year doctoral candidate, also looking at The Ravages, and I’d love to chat. I’ll be at your talk, or maybe you can call me?’ She added her number and looked about for a way to affix it to the door. No, there were no nails protruding. This wasn’t the kind of door anyone would stick a thumbtack in. Well, since the suite was unlocked, Dulcie took a step in and found herself in a book-lined chamber. She’d tuck it right under that lamp. That way, anyone entering would be sure to see it first thing.

  ‘Hello?’ There was no answer, and the room felt still. ‘I know, Mr Grey,’ Dulcie whispered to the quiet. What she was doing was wrong, but the temptation was just too great. After all, someone had to be here. She could see, at about waist height, that somebody had set a pile of papers on the edge of the bookshelf. Peering over, she saw typed pages, the sun reflecting off the binder clips. It looked thick; Dulcie estimated three hundred, maybe three hundred and fifty pages. Drawn by curiosity, she walked further into the room. Surely, it couldn’t hurt to take a peek.

  Anonymous Unveiled, she read. This was it – the manuscript of Melinda Sloane Harquist’s book. Dulcie took a breath. To read this, here, in its unpublished – probably uncorrected – form was crossing a line. She should walk away. Maybe she could get permission to look at it later. Maybe Melinda would want her to review it, peer to peer.

  Anonymous Unveiled . . . Mr Grey, she knew, would not approve. Lucy, however, might say the book was here for a reason. For a brief moment, her impulse struggled with her discipline, but as with the last dumpling, temptation won. Dulcie flipped open to a double-spaced page and began to read:

  ‘If, as seems likely, our mysterious and yet wildly wayward author was involved in the scandal, then isn’t it probable that in light of her willful ways she caused the scandal?’

  ‘Wow,’ Dulcie said out loud, in an unconscious echo. This Sloane Harquist woman certainly liked her alliteration. ‘I wonder . . .’ Dulcie reread the opening, when some other words hit her: Likely? Probable? This was speculation, not fact! Dulcie leaned forward to read more – maybe this woman hadn’t made any great new discovery – and started back as a fly zipped right by her eye. Blue and fat, it buzzed as it circled, almost as if it were drunk, she thought, swatting at it without effect. Where was she?

  ‘The scurrilous doings, the scandal of the year, which shockingly would entangle prominent members of the fledgling government.’

  ‘Wow,’ Dulcie said again, the single wo
rd forced out in disbelief. Sloane Harquist not only loved her alliteration, she’d never met a polysyllabic word she didn’t like. Maybe, Dulcie tried to be charitable, this was a rough draft. After all, something was scrawled in the margin in an elegant, if almost illegible, cursive: Missing man? Paine? Well, that made sense. Melinda had decided to insert a reference in what seemed to be an introductory passage. Dulcie squinted at the rest of the line. Change? See . . . It was no use. Sloane Harquist’s handwriting was decorative, but harder to read than Dulcie’s own, and so she went back to the typed copy.

  ‘As we can see in the overwrought – nay, wordy – writing in the description, “life’s elixir had begun to solidify and darken”.’

  Dulcie stiffened: that phrase. It was the same one she had commented on. Biting her lip, she read on. ‘“Staining the red-gold hair a dull brown.”’

  Dulcie’s heart sank, the heat – the humidity – making her feel ill again. It might as well be summer, Dulcie thought. It was awfully warm in the room. That lamp had been left on all morning, probably, adding its incandescent glow to the glare of the midday sun off the river. There was a funny smell, too. Not just the Charles – the river had been cleaned up in recent years. Something a little sweet, like some cold cuts had gone off in the fridge.

  That fly buzzed around her head, and Dulcie waved it away again. Then another, right by her. Heading past her, toward a seating area, where a leather sofa and two armchairs huddled beneath more bookshelves.

  The flies were heading toward that oversized sofa, and Dulcie found herself turning in that direction, too. That’s when she saw the bust lying on the carpet, white against the dark of the shadowed Oriental rug. It must have fallen, she thought, walking toward it. It must have been up on the bookshelf and become unbalanced. Already feeling more than a little guilty, she reached for the statue. If she could figure out where it went, she’d slip it back into place.

  The bust was heavier than she had first thought, the white of the stone fooling the eye into thinking it was light, and Dulcie had to use both hands to lift it. As she hefted it, she saw that the nose was chipped and there was a smudge, like mud or paint, on its side. Resting the thing against the end table, she wiped at it and was a little surprised to see that her hand came away dark red. Paint, then. Or . . .