Grey Expectations (33 page)

‘Oh.' Dulcie slumped forward, her head touching the wall. ‘Well, that's good news, right?' If the Dunster Codex wasn't a fake, what did that mean? Maybe that email was only meant to scare her. Maybe the dreams only pertained to that one essay. Maybe they meant nothing at all.

Thorpe was still talking. ‘Such wild flights of fancy might be understandable in a younger mind, but by this stage in your career, Ms Schwartz, discipline is key.' He paused, perhaps hearing the harshness in his tone. ‘You've had a shock, I gather. It's understandable that you would want the crime to be other than what it was. Why don't we forget this call ever took place and focus instead on your research. You did find something, you said? Something
real
?'

‘I found something,' she said, her voice – and spirits – flat. After this, he would never believe her theory. He would insist she take the essay at face value. Insist that her author had caved in to the prevailing philosophies about women and education. She would have to make her case. ‘There's something in the Mildon collection,' she said, finally. ‘I think  . . . I don't know for sure, but it could important.'

‘Very good, Ms Schwartz.' He wasn't listening. He was busy. ‘Let's speak on Monday, when you can tell me more about your ongoing research.'

‘Sure,' she managed to choke out. ‘Thank you, Mr Thorpe.'

The painted wall felt cool against her forehead. She would stay here, she thought. It was quiet. So quiet that she heard the squeak of shoe leather on the concrete floor, only a moment before she felt the touch of cold steel at her throat.

FIFTY-EIGHT

‘
G
et up.'

The voice was cold, as cold as the blade pressed against her throat, and Dulcie complied. As she did, she felt her curls being grabbed, her head yanked back. The knife began to dig in.

‘No!' she choked out.

‘Shut up.' The voice had become a hiss. ‘Be a good girl and everything will be all right. You hear me?'

She nodded, the movement only making her more conscious of the blade.

‘Good.' She felt a shift behind her. The knife-wielder pulled her hair as he looked around. ‘You're my ticket out of here. You've got to know another way.'

‘Another?' She whispered so softly she wasn't sure he'd heard, but then he pulled her back.

‘Not through the paper lab. They've got that marked.' His breath was hot and damp on her ear, and she could smell his sweat.

She had to think. ‘There's – there's the Mildon.' The collection would still be crawling with cops.

‘Right.' He jerked her hair back. ‘Like I'm going back there.' She caught a glimpse of an unshaven face. A filthy suit. Of course, it was Read. The one they hadn't captured. ‘Come on, girl. The professor said this place had miles of tunnels.'

The professor. That knife. This man had killed Professor Coffin. Dulcie felt the room start to spin.

‘Oh no, you don't.' He pulled at her curls again, forcing her to stay upright. ‘Don't get all girly on me.' He laughed. It wasn't a friendly laugh. ‘The professor said you liked ghost stories. Scary stories, right? Think of this as your own little adventure.'

Coffin had talked about her? To this man? Despite herself, Dulcie found her curiosity piqued. ‘How did you get in?' she whispered, trying to keep her voice even.

‘I've got an ID, a key card, don't I?' She felt him moving again, craning to see down the long hall. ‘He gave me my very own. Come on.'

He pushed her around in front of him and started to walk. Dulcie gasped, a reaction that had nothing to do with the movement of the blade against her neck. She had known Coffin was mixed up in something – but with these guys?

‘Why?' The question slipped out.

‘Money, you stupid girl.' He was walking her in front of him, one hand in her hair, one on the knife. ‘He needed it. We provided it.'

They'd come to the turn, and he shoved her against the wall. She did not dare turn, but could feel him, straining around the corner. The seconds ticked by.

‘Why?' As soon as the word was out, she winced. He would hurt her, she knew that – but she still had to know.

The man she knew as Read seemed to sense that, because he laughed again. ‘Said the place was a treasure chest, didn't he? And we knew we'd end up owning it.'

Despite her best instincts, Dulcie heard herself sigh. If she could have, she would have shaken her head. ‘He didn't mean like that.'

‘What?' She felt spittle on her ear, and she clenched her eyes tight.

‘The treasure – it's books. Knowledge.' She thought of the Paine letters. Of her thesis, and of all she'd hoped to prove.

‘Bullshit.' He jerked her head back roughly. ‘He said the place was a gold mine. He was sure planning on cashing in.'

‘He did.' Dulcie's voice was barely a whisper. It all was becoming clear. She thought of the stories about Coffin. Of his jet-setting life, fêting the wealthy and powerful all the while building his own reputation as a scholar. An authority. All for the glory of the collection, supposedly, but in the meantime, letting him lead a life of luxury and prestige far beyond the normal reach of academe. ‘He did cash in, in his way.'

‘So where's my money?' A hiss like death.

‘It's all gone.' Coffin must have filed for the insurance, she realized. Must have engineered the theft to pay off his debts. And Rogovoy had held that up. Had he suspected foul play? Did it matter now? A deep sadness flooded her. ‘All gone.'

She closed her eyes again and felt herself relaxing. So this was how it would end. Read would get no satisfaction, and Rogovoy – watching the bridges and tunnels – would never guess they were so close. Well, Chris would look after Esmé, and Mr Grey would comfort them both. She would miss them. She would even miss Esmé's antics, the way she went wild when they played.

Another noise – a door, some footsteps – and Read slammed her against the wall so hard she squeaked. He let go of her hair then and grabbed her face, wrapping one hand over her mouth and nose. She gasped, tasting blood where he had pushed her lip against her tooth. The knife dug into her neck. She couldn't breathe.

Footsteps. Read leaned closer. He would kill her and make a break for it. She would suffocate while he waited. She was seeing stars – green stars – her knees were giving out.

‘Oh no you don't.' He jerked her up, his hand pressing against her lips, sliding into her mouth. Choking her.

Green stars like eyes. Esmé. That hand. Dulcie bit down hard and felt the spurt of blood. Felt the knife jerk back by reflex as Read tried to free himself. She kicked – it wasn't enough. Then she heard it – a loud, dull thud! – and she was free.

Gasping for air, she spun around. He had a knife, but she had spirit. And he was lying on the floor. Next to him stood Thomas Griddlehaus, library clerk, panting, a leather-bound folio of Ben Jonson plays held between his hands.

FIFTY-NINE

‘
I
believe I owed you a rescue.' The little man was blinking down at his victim. Read had been thrown off his feet by the clerk's swing, but the first cop on the scene kept him there, hands cuffed behind him. ‘I was afraid I wasn't going to get the opportunity.'

They'd moved down the passage a bit. Griddlehaus had been urging her into the library, but Dulcie couldn't go any further and sat slumped against the wall. There was something satisfying in watching the police as they swarmed. Someone had put the knife in a bag, she noticed. Someone else was going through the pockets of Reed's ruined suit.

‘This was the first item at hand.' He was looking down at the folio. Its binding had cracked. ‘Well, it's all ruined, anyway.'

‘What do you mean?' Breathing was still difficult, her throat hurt, and Dulcie welcomed the distraction.

‘The collection. Everything.' He sat beside her, his eyes on the book. ‘Our Codex.'

‘I know,' she said gently. ‘He made it all up, didn't he?'

Griddlehaus nodded and pushed his glasses up.

‘Is that why the insurance inspection was held up? Did Rogovoy know?' She'd seen the panicked look the detective had given her as his men had secured Read. He wouldn't thank her for this.

‘I don't know, not really.' Griddlehaus seemed to find the cover of the folio fascinating. ‘I do know Professor Coffin was quite frustrated with the delays.'

‘I bet,' Dulcie added. ‘So how did you find out?'

‘The auction house. New York.' Another sniff. ‘I was on the phone with them discussing provenance. I got quite up on my high horse, you know. I was so sure it was stolen.'

‘It was a fake, wasn't it?'

The little mouse shook his head. ‘No, the Dunster Codex is real. It's too well documented for anyone to make up that much of a story. But we had never owned it. The professor put down earnest money and a letter of intent. Then the time ran out, and the seller was tired of waiting.'

‘Huh.' Dulcie leaned back against the wall. So the Dunster Codex did exist, but the professor hadn't managed to buy it. Was that what had pushed him to borrow money from people like Harris and Read? Was it, as she'd first imagined, that he'd simply spent more than he'd saved, playing the role he'd imagined for himself? Maybe it didn't matter. The Dunster Codex was supposed to be the professor's crowning achievement, the ultimate acquisition. It had proven to be the phantom that had brought about his death.

‘That's it for the collection.' Griddlehaus was barely audible. ‘The Mildon. Our reputation is ruined.'

‘What are you talking about?' Dulcie roused and turned toward the little man.

‘This scandal? And then to find out the truth? We have no treasures.'

‘Yes, you do.' Dulcie reached out and gently took the Jonson. ‘You've got tons of important works. This Jonson, for instance. And
The
Wetherly Ghost
.' She paused, an idea coming together. ‘And I could be wrong, but I think I may be on the track of a lost masterpiece – a Gothic novel that was praised by none other than Thomas Paine himself.'

Just then, a clatter of footsteps and raised voices caused them both to start. Dulcie scrambled to her feet in time to see the amassed police turn as one. Then Rogovoy nodded and turned, letting the intruder pass. It was Chris.

‘Dulcie! There you are. It's been crazy.' He looked around, as if suddenly seeing all the police activity. ‘Oh man, what happened? Are you OK?'

And she was. ‘It's a long story, Chris. A really long story.' She turned to the clerk. ‘This is Thomas, Thomas Griddlemaus –
Griddlehaus
.' But Chris was pulling her away.

‘Dulcie, it's Trista. She's been found.'

Dulcie gasped. Had Read—?

‘She's OK. She's fine.' Chris had his hands on her shoulders. He was staring into her eyes, making sure she understood. ‘She's been in Providence all along. She gave that lecture – the Kiplinger? – at Brown yesterday. That's what Jerry was trying to tell me when his cell cut out. She'd just taken off. She was freaked, I guess, and decided she needed some time. She called him right after, and he went down to meet her last night. Jerry says she aced it. Brown is going to offer her a fellowship.'

The relief was physical, draining, and Dulcie collapsed against the wall.

‘Sweetie, are you OK?'

‘Yeah, I'm fine.' She looked up at him and tried to stand. When she stumbled, he caught her. ‘I'm just famished.'

‘Want to go out? Name the place!'

But she was shaking her head. ‘I want to go home. I want to be with our cats.'

SIXTY

A
fter one look at Dulcie, Rogovoy had cleared her to leave, and she and Chris cabbed home. Over three bowls of Raisin Bran, Dulcie had managed to tell her boyfriend about her own morning. Chris, who'd grabbed his own bowl to be polite, was torn between anger and disbelief.

‘Dulcie, you're a heroine. You saved that little guy. But – but how could you?' She had paused in her eating by then, and he reached out to take her hand. Esmé, who had jumped up on the table, sat and watched. ‘How could you sneak off like that?'

‘I thought those guys were long gone. They'd caught the other guy – Harris – at the train station.' Dulcie paused, remembering, and shivered. Chris saw her shudder and leaned over to gather her into his arms. ‘If it weren't for Griddlehaus. And for Esmé  . . .'

They both turned toward the cat. The little tuxedo had settled into her sphinx pose and looked quite pleased with herself.

‘Rogovoy told me he'd been heading to Providence,' she said finally. ‘I knew that had sparked something – I just didn't put it together. The Kiplinger.' She shook her head in disbelief and pushed her bowl back.

‘I know,' Chris said. ‘I could kill her. Not literally!'

‘Not even metaphorically.' Dulcie turned toward her boyfriend. ‘Hey, it wasn't a totally awful morning. I found something in the Mildon. Something Rollie pointed me to.'

‘Rollie?' He looked at her quizzically. Esmé, no longer the center of attention, jumped to the floor.

‘Real name Rodney Gaithersburg – aka Roland Galveston?'

He nodded.

‘Anyway, he really had worked in restoration, and he steered me toward some letters. I've only read one so far, but I'm pretty sure it's about my author, Chris, the author of
The Ravages.
She had fans, including Thomas Paine. And he wrote about her enemies – about how plagiarists were aping her style to discredit her. It's circumstantial, but it's a start.'

She got up and started clearing. Esmé twined around her ankles, but Dulcie's mind was already back at work. ‘I need to read more, though. I need to get into the conservation center, to see if there are other letters and, well, what else is being worked on. I may have a lead on something even bigger.' She stopped and turned toward her boyfriend.