Grey Expectations (32 page)

Only, when they got back to the lunch alcove, nobody was there.

She broke down and asked one of the cart-wheeling clerks. ‘Detective Rogovoy?'

‘Sorry.' He shook his head.

She turned to the beaked cop. ‘Do you know where he is?'

‘He's on the job,' he said. She hadn't really expected more from him, but it was still disappointing.

‘I'm going to go look for him.'

The young cop took a step, blocking her path. Standing there, he shook his head. ‘My instructions are that you are to remain here.'

‘Great,' Dulcie said to nobody in particular. She might not be a suspect, but she was a prisoner. At least she had other things to do. Returning to the table, she took a seat facing away from the cop and pulled her laptop out of her bag.

‘There are no limits on my intellectual life,' she muttered, half hoping he could hear. ‘Or my online communications.'

Not sure whether she'd complain to the dean or to the police liaison first, she opened her email. Maybe she'd just tell Chris what had been going on. As she waited for her email to download, she saw a couple of diverting possibilities: a call for journal entries. An invite to a party for Suze. And there, among all the unread emails, was one labeled: URGENT. PLEASE READ. It had come from a Qmail account – one of those free email services so beloved of spammers – and Dulcie was about to delete it unread when she saw the sender: JESSIW. She clicked to open it.

Dulcie
, she read.
Whole story is not what you think – not at all. GC wasn't only victim. DC is a phantom. Please – save yourself!

FIFTY-SIX

H
er first instinct was disbelief. No, even though Dulcie had spent most of her academic career reading about ghosts and demons, she wasn't going to fall for this one. Even though her colleagues had been whispering about the Dunster Codex ever since it first went missing. Even though one man was dead and several other people were missing in connection with the medieval treasure, she wouldn't buy it.

How could she? Even Lucy, she thought, would think twice before believing that an ancient book was a ghost. She stopped herself. No, her mother would believe it. Would actually say that the book itself was not the phantom, but that an inanimate object could carry the spiritual projections of those who had owned it. Of those who had, perhaps, cursed it.

For a split second, Dulcie seriously considered the possibility that the missing book – the Dunster Codex – was in fact haunted. For a moment, she wavered, afraid. Perhaps she should let sleeping books lie, she thought. A haunting  . . . a phantom. Maybe the book was cursed. Maybe her dreams – nightmares, really – had been warning her of just such an outcome. Maybe  . . .

A brush, just a touch, on her shoulder made her turn with a start. That annoying cop – but, no, he was standing with his back toward her. Probably standing guard, Dulcie realized, on the direct order of his commanding officer. There were two dangerous criminals on the loose. They had seen her; she had thwarted them. She was legitimately in danger, even here in the bowels of the library. And here she had been, blaming the young cop for his rigorous attention to his duty.

Dulcie felt herself relaxing a little, grateful for her own personal eagle scout. Grateful, too, for the realization that made both her captivity and her relationship with her raptor-guard a little easier. But that touch – what had it been?

‘
Dulcie, Dulcie.
'

She sat up straight. That voice. It had been so long.

‘
And you thought I had abandoned you. Didn't you, little one?
'

‘I worried,' she admitted under her breath, so softly that she wondered if he would hear.

She was answered with the soft brush of fur against her cheek. The affectionate head-butt of a beloved pet.

‘I missed you, Mr Grey.'

‘
And I, you, little one.
'
The low rumble of a purr underscored the deep, soft voice. ‘
But you are doing well, Dulcie. You are learning – learning who to trust. What to trust  . . .
'
The purr subsumed the voice, and Dulcie strained to hear as the remainder of the sentence was absorbed in the rolling rumble.
‘Ghosts  . . .'

‘I'm sorry, Mr Grey, I missed that.' All her senses on alert, Dulcie craned forward, hoping for more. She was losing him.

‘
You can trust your instincts, Dulcie. You've always known you can.
'
That purr, a low vibration in the air. ‘
And ghosts, Dulcie, be wary what you believe of ghosts.
'
The voice was fading now, as was the purr. ‘
Real ghosts are nothing to be afraid of  . . . nothing more than the echo of love.
'

He was gone. But for the moment, Dulcie didn't mind. Mr Grey had visited her. He had come with affection and reassurance, and even if she didn't totally understand what his message meant, she got that she was doing the right thing. That in her heart, she would know what choices to make.

Besides, the great grey cat had given her something to think about. He was, she figured, the ultimate authority on things in the spirit world – more so even than Lucy. And if he said that ghosts were a manifestation of love, then she believed him. All of which cast doubt on that message.

The email! Why hadn't she thought of it? She flipped her laptop open and typed a quick reply:
Jessica – where are you? We need to talk.
She hit send. But less than a second later, a ping alerted her to a response. ADDRESS INVALID/USER UNKNOWN, it said. Jessica had used a disposable account and had already covered her tracks.

Well, that was frustrating. But, as Dulcie – a newly invigorated Dulcie – reminded herself, it was all information. Maybe it meant that Jessica couldn't be trusted. After all, if someone wanted to get her off a case, to keep her from asking questions, scaring her would be one way to do it. Perhaps Jessica had been around enough of the student scuttlebutt to know the rumors. Hades, maybe Jessica had been a source of the rumors? Maybe she and Rollie had been working together to keep people from asking about the Dunster Codex.

But why? It was inevitable that the theft would be discovered. Dulcie remembered the way Professor Coffin had glowered at them all. The entire English department might as well be culpable, that look had said. His moustache had fairly bristled. No, Professor Coffin was not a man to be scared off by a ghost story.

Then again, Professor Coffin had been killed.

Dulcie paused. There had to be another way of looking at this. Something else was tickling the back of her mind. A memory or phrase that wouldn't be forgotten, like something she had dreamed—

Of course! Dulcie could have kicked herself. Her author – or, at least, the woman in her dreams – had talked of phantoms, of ghouls that sought to suck her blood or steal her life essence, or whatever. A flash of the professor lying in his own blood came to Dulcie, and she shook her head, willing it away. Those phantoms had been real to the woman in her dreams, enemies who sought to discredit her. To steal her life's essence – her work  . . .

Could it be? Suddenly, everything Dulcie had suspected about that essay – everything she had been on the verge of proving – came back. If that essay were a fake, could it be, possibly, that the Dunster Codex was, too? A fake – a
phantom
–
and that was why she was being warned off investigating?

But Professor Coffin would have known.
Must
have known. And if he had known, he wouldn't have reported the real rarity as stolen. Then again, if he had found out, that could be a motive  . . . There was too much up in the air. Dulcie needed to find out more. She stood and approached the young cop.

‘Excuse me.' She reached for his arm, but he was already holding his arm out. Holding her back as he looked down the hall. It was Rogovoy, flanked by two other officers in uniform. And he was smiling.

‘Good news!' He waved Dulcie's guard away and directed himself to her. ‘We got one of them. The bigger guy – the one you called Harris. He made it to South Station, and we caught him boarding a train for Providence. He's not talking – not yet – but we figure his partner can't be far behind. Oh, don't worry –' he raised his palms in surrender – ‘we know they might have split up, too. The interesting thing is that this proves they're not local talent. But it's harder to leave town these days, and we're watching North Station and the buses, too. If he has a car, it might be tougher. But, hey, weekend traffic? If he's on Ninety-Three, he'll be wishing he was in custody.'

‘Oh, thank the Goddess.' Dulcie felt the last of the tension leaving her body. ‘I mean, thank you, Detective Rogovoy. And I think I've figured something out, too.'

He wasn't listening. He was accepting congratulations from the young cop when another detective came up to join them. Rogovoy was giving them details – apparently a security officer had been instrumental and was up for commendation. Dulcie didn't want to wait. Slipping by the men, she headed toward that unmarked door. If she could only get Thorpe on the phone, she might be able to clear everything up – the Dunster Codex case, her thesis, and all.

FIFTY-SEVEN

W
as it left or right? The empty hallway wasn't marked, and Dulcie regretted not paying closer attention earlier, when the beaked cop had escorted her down there. She'd been distracted then, and wasn't necessarily at her best now either – something Rogovoy had said was tickling at her brain. A left, definitely, she was almost sure as she turned down a long passage painted an industrial grey that reflected the flickering fluorescent lights. Were there two turnings?

It didn't matter, she told herself. All she needed really was a quiet place where she could make a few phone calls in privacy. She didn't want anyone hearing her outlandish theory until she had some proof. And she certainly didn't want another incident like the last one. She'd gotten off lightly, she knew. A second cell phone offense, even here in a maintenance tunnel, would be harder to explain.

The hall she was in turned right abruptly, and she followed it, her sense of direction shot. Up ahead, a door – labeled in black paint. She approached carefully, not wanting to be caught trespassing. MILDON, the door said. Dulcie could have laughed. She'd been walking in circles, making a circuit of the outer part of the left wing of the level. She'd come to the back entrance of the Mildon, the tunnel entrance. Live and learn. She stepped back to where the passage had turned. So much for finding a private room, but if she backtracked a few yards, she'd probably have enough privacy.

Dulcie turned one more corner and, leaning back against the wall, pulled out her phone.

‘Ms Schwartz? Where are you? You sound like you're calling me from a sauna bath.' Martin Thorpe was still at the departmental office, though he now sounded fully caffeinated.

For a moment, Dulcie regretted calling him. This theory, however, would not wait. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Thorpe, I'm calling from—' She stopped herself. Better not to say. ‘I don't want to disturb anyone, so I've got my hand over the phone.' Turning to face the wall, she sank down into a seated position. Between the wall and her body, the call had to be at least slightly muffled. ‘You know that new information I told you about?'

‘Your thesis, yes. I gather you followed up on it?'

‘Well, yes, I did.' For a moment, Dulcie was tempted to get into it. But she didn't yet have enough evidence, and besides, as hard as it was to admit, the
Ravages of Umbria
were not the top priority right now. ‘But that's not why I'm calling.'

‘Are you in trouble again, Ms Schwartz? Because really, at this point in your academic career, if you hope to
continue
said academic career—'

‘No, no, it's not that.' She had to get to the point. ‘It's about the Dunster Codex. I had an idea.'

‘You had an idea.' They both paused, Dulcie trying to figure out how to phrase her theory so that it would sound almost plausible. ‘Ms Schwartz, if you know or have heard something about the Codex, then I really must direct you to the police. I am not—'

‘No, no. It's not about the theft or Professor Coffin's – about Professor Coffin.' Somehow the word ‘murder' was still difficult to say. ‘Or not directly. Mr Thorpe –' there was nothing to do but put it on the table – ‘have you ever considered the possibility that the Dunster Codex isn't – well – isn't all that we think it might be?'

‘All that we think—?'

She didn't let him continue. ‘I mean, think about it, Mr Thorpe. Virtually nobody has seen it. None of us students, anyway. We only know about it through its reputation. In fact, it has rarely been in the library at all. Since it was purchased, it's spent most of its time in print and paper restoration, right? And now the folks who work there are under suspicion for all sorts of things – fake IDs and the like. And, well, isn't it possible that the Dunster Codex is the biggest fake of all?'

She didn't get into the ghost email. Mr Grey and the dream, with its mention of phantoms, would carry no weight with her adviser. Without them, her theory sounded thinner than gauze, but it was out there. On the table.

And just like that, Martin Thorpe knocked it off. ‘Nonsense.' Her adviser snorted into the phone. ‘What a nonsensical idea. The Dunster Codex? The pride of the Mildon Collection?'

He paused, and for a moment Dulcie almost thought she could hear him thinking. Yes, the Dunster Codex was the pride of the collection. One item built up by reputation to be  . . . unassailable?

‘Besides, we've gotten word about its whereabouts.' Thorpe sounded like himself again. Calm, collected. Insufferable. ‘The ruffians responsible for this despicable act had enough sense to understand its value. It has shown up on the roster of Ackerland and Dolby, the premier auction house for antiquities. I was informed less than an hour ago. The university is sending a legal team to New York to discuss the Codex's recovery as we speak.'