Grey Matters (34 page)

‘No, I searched his apartment. It’s here. But not for long.’ And with that, he slipped out the door and slammed it.

‘What a jerk.’ For a moment, Dulcie felt relief. ‘Good riddance.’ She lowered the professor to the floor. ‘Hang on, Professor. I’ll call 911.’ She stood and looked over the desk. No, it wasn’t just a computer that was missing here. In all his antediluvian splendor, the professor wouldn’t have anything as annoying as a telephone on his desk. And, yes, that was her bag Gosham had taken, either by mistake or pure malice. Well, the kitchen would have a phone. With a quick glance at the professor, she reached for the door.

And found the brass knob wouldn’t turn. It was locked. She started pulling at the door. Kicking it. Banging on it. But the thick old wood stood firm, muffling the sound of her fist pounding on its dark, stained panels. And that’s when she smelled the smoke.

SIXTY-THREE

‘
D
ulcie?’ The professor’s voice was weak and he was still on the floor, though now propped up by the bookshelf behind him. But he cleared his throat again. ‘Dulcie?’ he said, and pointed. Dulcie followed his gaze and saw what he did: the fringe on the ancient carpet was smoldering, its faded pattern embellished by a glowing red edge that was slowly spreading.

‘Oh, hell!’ Gosham’s madness momentarily forgotten, Dulcie ran over to the carpet’s edge and stamped on it, grinding her heel into the thin edges. The immediate crisis consumed her as she looked around for water – a vase, an old coffee cup, anything – to pour on the glowing embers, just to make sure. And saw that two other small fires had been set, one at another corner of the carpet and the other in a pile of old journals and papers, which Gosham must have tented for maximum air flow. Grabbing her coat, Dulcie ran to smother that fire first; the paper had already started curling and open flames began to shoot up as she approached it. To add insult to injury, she recognized the pages piled on top. ‘A new interpretation of
The Ravages of Umbria
,’ she read the title aloud. This had been an early draft, presenting her thesis idea to her mentor. Briefly, Dulcie wondered if the placement of those pages, her name clearly visible in the top right, had been intentional. Then she spread her heavy coat over the flames, stomping on them. Lifting the coat, she saw a spark fly out, and so she quickly re-covered the area, pressing down on it with both hands, hoping to smother the flame.

‘Dulcie?’ The professor still hadn’t moved, but his voice was louder now and she saw why. The other fire, in the fringe, had spread, bright sparks crawling like living things. From the edge of the carpet they had traveled to the frayed stuffing of a chair. Already, the stray threads were curling in the heat. Dulcie found herself staring, mesmerized, as one long fiber twisted back and forth, fighting off its invisible attacker before it blackened and fell to the floor. Another took its place, executing a slow and final dance before breaking off.

‘Dulcie!’ The professor’s voice, as much as the loud crack of a spark, called her back to reality. She raced over to the chair and knocked it on its side, tearing at the upholstery and pulling the loose, smoldering stuffing out. A thin stream of smoke eked out from under her jacket, and she jumped over to stomp on that, as well.

‘Professor? Do you have a fire extinguisher anywhere?’ She turned from the smoldering chair, but he just stared at her. ‘You know, like with foam or something?’ She mimicked holding a canister and spraying, but his face was blank now – either the injury or his illness taking hold. ‘What am I thinking?’ She knew she was talking to herself now, but the sound of her voice was keeping her calm. The professor needed medical attention. And she needed to get out – either to the kitchen, to get a pot of water, or to call the fire department. The little fires seemed under control, but they made her nervous, tangible evidence of Gosham’s ill will, not to mention his craziness.

But even though the small fires in the professor’s office seemed to be more or less out, once Dulcie paused to catch her breath, she realized that the air was getting thicker, not clearer. In fact, her eyes were watering more now than they had been when she’d been pulling the stuffing out of the chair. Could there have been something toxic in the old upholstery?

‘Enough.’ Dulcie reached for the letter opener. She needed to open the door and get them both out of here. How hard could it be to pick a lock anyway, especially one as old as this house? But when she knelt in front of the brass plate, Dulcie felt her head spinning. Maybe the activity had driven the smoke into her lungs. Maybe there had been something funky in that old chair. ‘Hang in there, Professor,’ she called out as she stared at the keyhole, wondering how to begin. ‘This can’t take too long.’

She inserted the letter opener and jiggled it a bit. The smoke was definitely getting thicker, and she coughed just as something seemed to give. Had she jimmied it? Would the door open? Choking, her eyes streaming, Dulcie reached for the knob. And jumped back, knocking the letter opener to the floor. The heavy brass was hot to the touch, hot enough almost to sear her skin. The pain did clear her head, however, and now she saw it: through the keyhole and under the door jam, smoke was pouring in.

‘OK, then.’ Wiping her eyes, Dulcie stood up. Speech made the coughing worse, but Dulcie felt the need to talk. To keep calm. To stay organized. ‘Mr Grey,’ she said aloud, not caring that the professor was right behind his desk. ‘Now would be as good a time as any to help me out!’

Nothing. Nothing, that is, except for a low hiss and a crackle from outside the door. Dulcie took a step toward it, tempted to peek out the keyhole and survey the situation. But she stopped herself. Now was not the time to observe and reflect. Instead, she trotted toward the window. Unlatching the old-fashioned catch, she braced herself under the wooden rail and pushed. Nothing. She moved on to the narrow sill for better leverage, knocking over a full ashtray. The ashes floated down, flaky and cold, but Dulcie ignored them. Instead, pressing her palms up under the rail, she braced herself and shoved. Nothing. ‘Professor, can you lend me a hand?’

He looked up at her, but she couldn’t even tell if he recognized her anymore. The smoke was getting thicker, and Dulcie no longer bothered to wipe her streaming eyes and nose.

‘OK, then. I’m sorry I’ve got to do this, Professor.’ And with that, she grabbed the guest chair and hefted it up. ‘Whoa!’ Between the smoke and the unaccustomed weight of the big, wooden chair, Dulcie nearly toppled over backward, coughing. For a moment, she was tempted to give up. This was crazy. Someone had to have seen the smoke by now. Someone would come to save them. A fit of coughing bent her double, the dizziness driving her down to the floor.

Someone would come.

‘Dulcinea Schwartz!’ To her surprise, it was Lucy’s voice, not Mr Grey’s that she heard in her head. ‘That’s not how I raised you!’ But it had the same effect. Coughing and gasping, Dulcie struggled to her feet and swung the chair. The window cracked and she jabbed at it with the chair legs, the weight nothing to her anymore. Finally, one of the small panes shattered and fell out, the fresh air flowing in.

‘Oh, thank God.’ She pressed her face to the open pane, gulping in air, until a loud snap broke her reverie. The rug was smoldering again; the room filling with smoke despite the missing pane. ‘Enough of this.’

She turned and quickly searched for a suitable tool. The paperweight was heavy, and at that moment she didn’t care about broken glass. Instead, she began smashing pane after pane, letting the glorious air in, finally smashing through two of the wooden crossbars to reach the iron grill.

‘Oh, come on!’ This was ridiculous. Oblivious to the broken glass, she started pushing on the grill, rattling it. Desperately looking for a way to push it out or up, she saw a catch. An old, blackened latch held tight by a padlock.

‘Professor! Professor Bullock.’ She turned toward the blank-eyed man. ‘How do you open this? What should I do?’ He blinked at her. ‘Help! Help us!’ she called through the broken window. But there was no way of telling whether her voice carried far enough beyond the dark ivy to be heard. ‘Help!’

She screamed herself hoarse, settling back on to the sill. This was crazy, she realized. Although they had fresh air, they had no escape from the flames that even now were licking under the door, blackening the old wood and making the aged floorboards warp. They were on the first floor of a house in the middle of the city. The window was open, and yet they were trapped.

‘It’s not like we’re stuck on a mountaintop somewhere,’ she said. And suddenly her own words brought it back. Her dream – the nightmare of the fire. In that dream, she’d been trapped, too. But Mr Grey had spoken in it. What had he said?

The key is in the book.

‘Mr Grey, I don’t need metaphors right now!’ She yelled, causing the professor to look up at her. ‘Mr Grey?’

What if it hadn’t been a metaphor? What if he’d been preparing her? She did, after all, need the key. ‘Professor.’ She knelt by the stricken man, holding him by his shoulders. ‘Is there a key to the window grill? Is it hidden somewhere?’ He looked at her. She resisted the urge to shake him. ‘A key?’

His lips moved, but nothing came out. ‘Professor?’ Behind her, another loud crack and a new smell, acrid, as something else caught on fire. ‘Please?’

‘In . . .’ His voice was faint, more breath than sound. Dulcie waited. ‘The.’ She nodded. ‘Book.’

‘Which book, Professor? Which book?’ But he only stared at her. Another snap and Dulcie noticed that the smoke was changing color. Thick, black and oily, it was curling, gaining ground on the fresh air that came through the broken panes. Easing the professor back against the shelf, Dulcie stood and started pulling books from the shelves above them. One after another, she grabbed at spines, hardcover, paperback, and rifled through them. As the heat grew, she worked faster, tossing them to the ground. Half a bookshelf lay by her feet when she stopped herself. She had to think. There were too many books here not to. She had to have a plan. The key would likely be somewhere where the professor could get at it. Where it wouldn’t be forgotten and lost. It had to be near his desk somewhere. It had to be . . .

Unlocking the Great Books
.

Nearly tripping over the professor’s extended legs, she grabbed her mentor’s great work. There, taped inside the front cover, was a key. Choking again despite the opened window, she climbed up on the sill and, with shaking hands, slid the key into the lock. It fit. It turned. The lock unlatched and Dulcie tossed it to the ground, swinging the grate wide open. Oblivious to the shards of flying glass, she grabbed another book and smashed out the rest of the window and then, taking a huge gulp of air, she turned back to her aging mentor.

‘Professor Bullock! Can you stand? We have to get out of here.’ She crouched by his side and took his arm. It hung loose, like so much dead weight, and she swung it over her own shoulder, wrapping her other arm around his waist. ‘Come on, Professor. Help me here.’

He was muttering something and she leaned in, his beard soft against her ear. But all she could hear was a calm, low voice from another time. ‘You know what makes a heroine, Dulcie. Trust yourself.’

And with that, she dragged the inert man over to the window, climbed up on the sill, and pulled him toward her so that they both toppled through the ivy and into the damp, leaf-strewn yard beyond.

SIXTY-FOUR

‘
S
o Gosham killed Cameron?’ Suze had been the first to get to the hospital, although Dulcie had called Chris as soon as she was allowed to use a phone.

‘Uh-huh. Think so.’ Talking hurt from all the smoke that had belatedly settled into her throat and lungs. ‘Blackmail.’

‘He was blackmailing Gosham. Polly, too?’ Dulcie nodded and gestured with her left hand. Her right was still sore from its many cuts and the stitches, despite the painkillers that made everything seem rather muddy. ‘And the professor?’ Suze sounded skeptical and Dulcie shrugged. To her it made sense: Cameron had focused his extensive research skills on his colleagues and, sure enough, plenty of them had something to hide. It would explain her late colleague’s wealth. And, maybe, his death.

‘So Gosham was stalking him?’

Dulcie shook her head. It was getting harder to focus, but this she was pretty sure about. ‘He’d come looking. The book.’ Her eyes started to close, but as they did, she saw Cameron’s body once again. Cold, still, and unnaturally white. ‘Polly had stolen it. But he’d seen her. He’d yelled and she ran. He figured she’d go back to Bullock’s. But I think she was too upset.’ The image began to fade, and with it her consciousness. ‘She went out looking. Pretty things . . .’ For a moment, she could see them. Gosham showing up at the house. Maybe he’d waited for Polly. Maybe he’d tried to jimmy the door right away, determined to get the incriminating fake away from his patron’s house. Cameron must have surprised him there. Dulcie could picture them, the older man, a little frantic, bent over the lock with his blade. He would have figured he’d been hidden from the street, at least from a casual observer, by the overgrown holly. But Cameron hadn’t been a casual observer. He’d made a career out of watching people, out of manipulating their frailties. He’d misjudged the bookbinder, however. Maybe he hadn’t registered his level of desperation, or else he hadn’t seen the blade the older man held in his hand. Had they argued, Cameron taunting Gosham with the loss of everything he’d so painstakingly acquired? Or had Gosham merely lashed out in surprise or fear or anger? No wonder Gosham had seemed haunted to Dulcie. He’d killed a man, and he still hadn’t recovered the fraudulent book. Yes, he’d been behind the break-ins and, now, the fire. Dulcie recalled one of the police talking about ‘attempted murder.’ That was after the fire trucks had shown up and she was being carried away, an oxygen mask over her face. She’d been in no shape to ask any questions then.

‘Bullock?’ She sat up with a start, the pain in her hands slapping her back to full consciousness as she did.