Grey Dawn (20 page)

‘What?' Thorpe was staring into space. ‘No, not then. I, well, I wandered for a while, I'm afraid. I gather I was really not myself. I only came here when I realized that I wouldn't – that I couldn't sleep. It must have been late. Maybe near dawn.'

‘Dulcie.' Nancy's voice had progressed from kindly to stern. ‘That is enough now. Mr Thorpe has had an understandably trying experience. We are here to visit and to comfort him, and if you cannot let him recuperate, then you should leave.'

‘Yes, yes.' Thorpe was reaching for something – a call button, Dulcie could now see. ‘Maybe you should both go. I'm really not myself yet.'

‘I'm so sorry, Mr Thorpe.' Nancy was up and nearly dragging Dulcie out of her seat. ‘Please, don't worry about anything. You just get some rest now.'

Outside, she turned surprisingly fierce eyes on Dulcie. ‘What was that about?'

‘You don't think it odd: Thorpe “isn't himself” and one of the claimants for his position is brutally attacked?' Dulcie was whispering, but such was her excitement that two orderlies in blue scrubs looked over. ‘We saw him, Nancy. He was heading toward the hotel. Toward the Common.'

‘Dulcie, I never …' Nancy was shaking her head, a look of profound sadness on her face. ‘I know that Mr Thorpe can be difficult to deal with. Lord knows, I've been a little discomfited by his behavior recently. But to accuse him of … of … I don't even know what.'

‘It's not his fault, Nancy.' Dulcie leaned in. ‘Not if he can't help himself.'

Nancy only kept on shaking her head. ‘Your books, Dulcie. I fear you've taken them too much to heart. This is simply the case of an ordinary man. An extraordinary man in some ways, perhaps, but an ordinary man when it comes to fear and stress. Don't you know, he was on the verge of killing himself last night? And here you are, accusing him of I don't know what.'

‘Killing himself?' She hadn't gotten that from what her adviser had said. ‘He didn't say that.' She was sure of it. ‘He said he was afraid of
what he might do.
And, Nancy? I'm afraid that maybe he did it.'

N
ancy wouldn't talk about it any more. Nor did she want Dulcie's help with sorting out the various appointments and commitments Thorpe's absence had thrown into disarray.

‘I wonder if you need a break, too, Dulcie,' she had said, with unaccustomed sternness, after Dulcie's umpteenth attempt to get her to understand. ‘You are confusing yourself, with your books and your stories. We're not like that, dear. We live in a much simpler world.'

They'd been out on the plaza by then, and the workday bustle around them almost convinced Dulcie that Nancy was right. At any rate, she knew she didn't want to make an enemy of her.

‘I'm sorry,' Dulcie said finally, despite her conviction to the contrary. ‘Sorry for upsetting you, anyway. May I treat you to a muffin?' The coffee shop on the plaza was known for its muffins and scones.

‘No. No, thank you, dear.' Nancy relaxed, looking tired, rather than defensive, but she mustered a smile. ‘Why don't you treat yourself, though? Take some time for yourself, dear. Here in the sun, outside of the library.'

Dulcie nodded and tried to return the smile as she watched Nancy walk off. Nancy had always been reliable. Comforting and solid. Had she just alienated the one warm member of the departmental staff? Or was the secretary just too grounded to comprehend a supernatural threat? Whatever the older woman believed, Dulcie had to find out the truth.

She turned to go back in. No, she told herself. It wouldn't do to question Martin Thorpe further, even assuming she was allowed in to see him. However, if she were lucky, Renée Showalter would be well enough to receive visitors – and maybe her memory would have returned.

Fearing repercussions from her brief visit with Thorpe, Dulcie kept her head low as she re-entered the infirmary.

‘Renée Showalter, please?' She was speaking softly, her eyes darting.

‘Excuse me?' The receptionist narrowed her eyes. ‘And who are you?'

‘Dulcie Schwartz.' Dulcie tried to speak up, but she heard the hesitation in her voice. ‘I'm a grad student, and Professor Showalter and I were speaking last night, before, well, you know …'

The receptionist, her mouth set in a grim line, considered the young woman before her. Dulcie did her best to look innocuous, even going so far as to bat her eyes.

‘Do you need a tissue?' The receptionist pulled several Kleenex from a box. It wasn't what Dulcie had intended, but she accepted them as a peace offering, and thirty seconds later, the receptionist looked back up.

‘She's in room three-oh-four. Take the elevator up to three.' She checked her monitor again. ‘She's being discharged this morning, so hurry if you don't want to miss her.'

With a quick thanks, Dulcie trotted over to the elevator. This was great news. Surely, the professor must now remember whatever it was she had meant to tell Dulcie. They did have an appointment to meet, but since she was here anyway, Dulcie saw no reason to wait. Besides, Showalter might appreciate her dropping by.

The door to room 304 was open when Dulcie arrived, but the white privacy curtain was pulled shut. Behind it, Dulcie could hear several voices. A doctor, probably, with some last-minute care instructions, or maybe an orderly helping her dress. Dulcie hung back, thinking she'd wait for quiet before announcing herself.

‘There you go, Professor.' A cheery woman's voice. ‘I hope that doesn't hurt too much.' She was right: someone was helping the scholar dress.

‘Thank you.' Dulcie recognized the professor's voice. ‘I hope you catch him – or her.'

‘Do you remember any more details?' Not an aide, then. A cop. ‘You would be doing a service for the community.'

‘I don't know.' A pause. ‘I wish I could be sure.' Dulcie leaned in. If the professor mentioned seeing anyone who sounded even remotely like Thorpe, she'd have her proof.

‘You said that you had been talking to someone who had behaved strangely?' The cop was pushing.

‘Yes.' Showalter drew the word out. ‘But I don't want to cast aspersions.' There was a rustle of clothing, before she resumed. ‘It was odd, though. I had thought that it would be generous to share what I had found. That what I had uncovered was important and would be appreciated. I don't understand what went wrong. I mean, no, I can't say with any certainty, Officer. I'm sorry. But I do know that poor girl did seem somewhat unhinged.'

D
ulcie couldn't believe it. But even as she felt frozen to the spot, she realized she couldn't stay. Flattening herself back against the wall, she eyed the elevators. If the professor and the cop stepped out now, she was cooked. She had come to talk to Showalter when she already had an appointment in a little over an hour; it certainly could seem like she was stalking her.

But – wait – any building of this height would have an emergency exit. Did she dare open those doors? Try for the stairs? No, there was too great a chance that she'd set off an alarm. Instead, in a mad dash that she hoped was open to a more conventional interpretation, she bolted into the ladies' room, where she lingered for a good twenty minutes before daring to venture out.

By then, the coast was clear. She was also late for her section. Though by now the early epistolary novel was the furthest thing from her mind.

Clearly, her students felt the same way. ‘I don't know, Ms Schwartz.' Forty minutes in, Roz, slumped in her seat, was whining. ‘It just seems to go on and on.'

Dulcie nodded in sympathy before realizing that she should counter the sophomore's impression with some context.

‘It does, doesn't it?' She might as well admit that much. ‘But think of what the author is trying to do. Before texting and emails, before the telephone, you caught people up by writing letters. Everything important, anything you needed to tell someone, you would write. Richardson is trying to duplicate the rhythm of those letters. Remember, these women haven't spoken in ages, so everything is fair game. Besides, they had no electronic devices.' Dulcie nodded toward Julie, in the corner, who was clearly texting under the edge of the table. ‘And no TV, so they had more time on their hands for things like reading and writing.'

‘Maybe it's the formatting.' Julie shoved her phone in her bag. ‘It's so hard to understand who's speaking to who.'

‘Whom,' corrected Dulcie. Julie was trying to pretend she'd been reading, that much was obvious. However, that didn't mean Dulcie couldn't use the moment. ‘What you're noticing is the voice. While the language is more formal than what we'd use today, it is a casual, intimate voice. The author is trying to re-create a real chain of letters back and forth between friends. He wants you to see that each writer knows the other, and so they don't need to explain too much.

‘But they don't tell you who's talking – writing – half the time.' Julie wasn't giving up. ‘It's confusing.'

And even as Dulcie answered her – ‘this kind of reading does require a little more concentration than a text message' – it hit her. Dulcie didn't know for sure whom Professor Showalter had been talking about. Granted, it sounded like the professor was talking about her, but maybe she had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

The question then was: whom had she been complaining about? Showalter had been surrounded by students at the bar, and both Lloyd and Trista had been with her. Trista. Dulcie stopped, unwilling to let the thought form. Trista had been at the hotel, waiting for Showalter to arrive. She and Chris had discussed that because Chris had doubted the blonde postgrad as a source of information, and Dulcie had defended her. But why had Trista been so eager?

One possibility came to her immediately. Her friend had a one-year post-doc position, nothing more. Trista always appeared relaxed or at least in control, but Dulcie knew how hard her friend worked. If she thought she had a shot at permanent position under a new department head, she might come on a little strong. And – what? Attack her? No, that made no—

‘Ms Schwartz?' She looked around. Her students were looking at her.

‘I'm sorry,' she smiled at them. ‘Julie, did you have any more to add?'

With an eloquent roll of her eyes, the sophomore let Dulcie know she had missed something important. But right at that moment, the chimes of Memorial Church sounded.

‘Well, we'll pick this up next week,' Dulcie said, trying not to sound too grateful. She had communications of her own to explore.

Trista wasn't answering when Dulcie called. She didn't respond to a text either, though that didn't mean anything. Trista had her own teaching assignments, and Dulcie knew that she was also working hard on a paper for a spring quarterly. That was how postgrads got jobs, Dulcie reminded herself. Not by intimidating professors.

But if it wasn't Trista whom Showalter had been talking about, and it wasn't Dulcie, then whom? Dulcie tried to remember the other faces at the bar. Raleigh hadn't joined them until after. Besides, Lloyd's girlfriend still had years to go on her thesis, and that meant even less motive for an attack.

Maybe the hotel staff would know. Considering what had happened, Dulcie doubted that the visiting scholar would want to keep their appointment – even if she wasn't avoiding Dulcie. But Dulcie should show up. And then, maybe, she could ask some questions.

She might even clear Martin Thorpe, Dulcie thought as she headed toward the Common. Rather to her surprise, Dulcie realized, she wanted her adviser proven innocent. Part of that was practical. Dulcie had already been forced to find a new adviser once. To have to go through that again would almost guarantee her thesis would be delayed another year, if not more. But also, if she were being honest with herself, it was that she felt bad for the man. He had looked so frail in his hospital johnny, and that had brought home to her how vulnerable he must feel. Maybe Raleigh was right. Maybe he did need a kitten. If only Dulcie could be sure that the little orange creature would be safe with him.

Chris might not think that she had a logical mind. Certainly, compared to his years of training with computational Xs and Os, she didn't, but she could follow a train of thought. And one thing kept coming back to her. Professor Showalter's words strongly suggested that she had been bothered by a woman, another student or a rival scholar. But that did not mean that whoever – or whatever – had struck down Mina Love and attempted to hurt Emily Trainor wasn't something much more dangerous. And much more wild.

This was not a pleasant thought to have as she crossed the Common. But in the broad light of day, the open space looked empty rather than threatening, and the leafless trees barely cast any shadow on the asphalt path. In fact, Dulcie could see all the way across the public park, to where another figure was making its slower way up toward the hotel.

‘Emily?' As she gained on the other person, Dulcie saw a cane and recognized the slow, limping gait. ‘Is that you?'

‘Ms Schwartz.' The student turned with a smile, and Dulcie was pleased to see that the younger woman had a little more color in her cheeks. ‘What brings you here?'

‘I was heading to the Commodore.' Dulcie pointed to the building ahead of them. ‘I was hoping to talk to someone there.'

‘That's funny.' Emily turned toward the building, giving Dulcie a glimpse of her bruised neck. ‘I am, too. But I don't know if she's still there.'

‘You're not …' Dulcie paused. This was a strange coincidence. ‘You're not looking for Renée Showalter, are you?'

‘Yeah.' The junior's head bobbed. ‘I am. I missed her talk last night. And I – well, it may be a while before I go out at night again. But I know that Mina would want …' She stopped and bit her lip so hard the color went out of it.