Grey Matters (9 page)

So much for nature in the city! As much as she missed the quiet of the forest, Dulcie didn’t regret coming East. After years of Lucy’s hodge-podge spirituality, Dulcie found the businesslike hustle and bustle of Cambridge a welcome relief. Life made sense here. Physics had more weight than metaphysics. But sometimes she missed those little touches, the preparation of animals for winter. As she took a step toward the leaf pile, the wind picked up again, swirling the pile into a dust devil of browns and golds. And one bright touch of red. There! Was that a maple leaf? The swirling dust got into Dulcie’s eyes and she blinked, quick tears forming. Through the tears, she tried to focus, wanting to catch that one last touch of October’s brilliance. Just as quickly, Dulcie saw another flash, this time grey. But too big to be that squirrel. No, through her bleary eyes, it looked like a cat. A large grey longhair, diving on to the leaf pile as Mr Grey had so often done, for play as much as for prey. Dulcie wiped her hand across her eyes. Mr Grey? Could it be? But when she looked again, the vision was gone. The pile of leaves once more still.

Was she seeing things or had Mr Grey appeared to her, once again, in a vision? Lack of sleep and way too much caffeine made the former more likely, Dulcie realized as she set off once again across the Yard and toward the apartment she shared with Suze. But as she walked, she saw another flash of red as bright as that leaf. No maple, though, this was a bright beret. A pretty thing, perched on a pale figure whom Dulcie recognized.

‘Hey, Polly!’ Dulcie waved at the familiar figure. ‘Wait up!’

A wan face turned toward Dulcie and then turned away.

‘Polly!’ Holding her bag to keep it from slamming against her side, Dulcie trotted after the older woman. The assistant kept walking, face down, only that red cap marking her out in the dying light.

‘Polly!’ Dulcie caught up to her and put her hand on the other woman’s arm, pausing to catch her breath. ‘I guess you didn’t hear me.’

‘What? Oh, no.’ The older woman looked even more washed-out close up, the bright hat only accenting the lack of color in her lank blonde hair and the faded camel of her coat. ‘I guess I’m rather preoccupied.’ She forced a thin smile.

‘I don’t blame you.’ Dulcie smiled back. ‘But I’m glad to see you’re up and about.’

Polly nodded and started to walk again, her long coat flapping against her legs. Dulcie struggled to keep up.

‘I wanted to touch base with you.’ Even from the side, Dulcie could see the look of pain that crossed the older woman’s already ashen face. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve asked. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ Polly looked over and Dulcie saw the deep rings around her eyes. ‘I mean, as well as can be expected.’

Dulcie nodded. She’d been there, too. ‘I’m sorry you had to come back when you did.’

‘He needs me.’ Her answer was immediate and rather sharp, her thin lips compressing so that even the little bit of color in them drained away.

‘Of course.’ Dulcie was quick to reassure her. ‘But, well, he’s not totally helpless. He was capable of opening the door, you know.’

‘I was on errands for the professor.’ An edge had crept into Polly’s voice, and Dulcie tried to think of how to backtrack.

‘I know! I saw the books.’

Polly shook her head. ‘I can’t believe I dropped them. They’d just come from Gosham’s, too.’

Dulcie smiled and decided against telling the older woman about her own trip there. ‘I’m sure he’s grateful.’

‘Who, Mr Gosham? He should be.’

Dulcie had been thinking of the professor, but clearly Polly had other ideas.

‘Professor Bullock is an esteemed client. Having a recommendation from the professor is enough to make a man like Gosham. Not that he truly appreciates the patronage.’

Dulcie looked at the other woman as they walked. Was she witnessing the result of a lover’s spat? Or was Polly’s loyalty to the professor so complete that she couldn’t give any part of her heart to another man?

‘I’m sure Professor Bullock appreciates your loyalty,’ she started to say. Dulcie didn’t want to think about Raleigh’s accusation, but she couldn’t resist. ‘You must be such a help with his research.’

Polly glared. ‘The professor is quite capable of doing his own work,’ she snapped. Almost immediately, she softened. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just been a horrible, horrible week.’

‘And it’s only Wednesday!’ Polly didn’t so much as smile. Dulcie longed to touch the other woman. But the way Polly was walking, holding herself so tight and upright, it would have felt awkward. Besides, they’d reached the Quincy Street exit. Dulcie’s path took her off to the right. Polly, clearly, was going back to the professor’s house. ‘I think we’ve all been through the mill.’

That won Dulcie a small smile and the two parted ways. After a few feet, though, Dulcie turned back. Had that vision of Mr Grey been a sign of some sort? Had she even seen a cat at all? Watching Polly walk away, she noted her bright beret again. So colorful, and really so unlike her usual attire.

‘Hey, Polly!’ she yelled down the street. The other woman turned. ‘I like your hat!’ And at that, Polly bent her head further into the wind and scurried away.

TWELVE

B
y the time Dulcie got home, dusk had settled, and with it a nippy cold. November had arrived in earnest.

‘Suze! I’m home!’ As Dulcie entered the postage-stamp-sized foyer, she heard music. ‘Suze?’

Peeking over the top step, a small black and white face stared down and mewed. ‘Hey, kitty,’ Dulcie peered up as the small cat raced down the stairs, tumbling the last few steps in her haste. ‘Hang on.’ Dulcie scooped the kitten up and carried her up the stairs. ‘What’s your rush?’ She smiled down at the little animal. ‘Did you have something you needed to tell me?’

The kitten mewed again, squirming, but Dulcie set her down as another, louder voice called out.

‘Coming!’ A flurry of footsteps brought Suze down from the top floor. From the Harvard Swim sweats, Dulcie figured her roommate had either been napping or getting ready for a run. ‘You wanna hit the river?’

The latter. But despite her roommate’s best intentions, Dulcie had already collapsed into a kitchen chair. ‘Susan Rubenstein, are you trying to get me to exercise?’

Suze had her leg up on the other chair by this point, but turned her head with a smile. ‘Never too late to start! Besides, I figure with the week you’ve had . . .’

‘Ben and Jerry is all the therapy I need.’ Even watching Suze stretch was making Dulcie tired. ‘From the cops to my new student—’

‘Cops?’ Suze stood up straight. Of course, Dulcie realized, she hadn’t told her 3L roommate about the meeting. ‘Don’t tell me—’

‘Don’t worry, Suze! I’m not a suspect.’ Dulcie didn’t add ‘this time.’ They both remembered what had happened only a few months before. ‘I was meeting with Professor Bullock when, um, when it happened.’ Somehow, Dulcie still couldn’t get herself to say ‘murder.’ ‘They just wanted some background.’

‘Background?’ Suze pulled the other kitchen chair out and sat down, looking as intent as a cat.

‘About Professor Bullock. Which is odd, ’cause if he’s my alibi, then I’m his, right? But they were asking about his relationship with Cameron.’

Suze raised an eyebrow. ‘Relationship?’ That was enough. If Suze ever became a prosecutor, she’d be known as the strong, silent type. Dulcie spilled: The detective’s vague insinuations, Lloyd’s casual recital of department rumors. Cameron’s recent switch to the much less glamorous department. By the time she got up to Raleigh’s accusations, Dulcie herself was beginning to wonder.

‘But really, Suze, there’s nothing there. The only things we know are true are that he hasn’t published in about twenty years, he works his assistants too hard, and, well, maybe he’s not holding his weight in the department.’

‘Why was Cameron coming to see him?’ Dulcie shrugged. Suze thought for a second, and spoke again. ‘Or, maybe, what had they been talking about?’

‘Had?’

‘Think about it, Dulce. You said Bullock let you in, right? And his slave girl, or whatever he calls her, wasn’t around. So how do we know that he wasn’t meeting secretly with Cameron? Then, I don’t know, he lets you in and Cameron leaves by a back door. There’s got to be a back door, right? And meets his end as he’s coming around the house to the front gate.’

‘But why?’ Dulcie wasn’t going to argue with the mechanics of it. ‘What’s the motive?’ As she asked the question, the image of the dead man leaped into her mind and she forced herself to picture him not as she’d last seen him, but as he’d been in life. Cameron Dessay: playboy. There’d been one other time, early in the fall, when she’d felt his allure. He’d been driving past, hurtling down Broadway as she trudged along the steamy sidewalk. He hadn’t noticed her, of course, but Dulcie’s eye had been caught. He’d been in a cute little convertible, racing green, easily the nicest wheels of any of the grad students. There had been a blonde by his side, and they’d both been laughing, hair blown back by the breeze. For a moment, Dulcie had wished herself into that car, so cool and carefree. But while all that flash might have impressed his fellow students, it would have been small change to a professor who lived on Tory Row. ‘And besides, even if Bullock wanted him dead, who would he have do the actual killing?’

Her own words made her cringe. Suze seemed less bothered. ‘Bullock’s got enough lackeys.’ She was up and stretching again. ‘Maybe he had one of them waiting. Maybe there was someone lurking in the holly as you walked in.’

THIRTEEN

W
ith that unsettling thought, Suze took off for her run and Dulcie contemplated dinner. Earlier in the fall, she and Chris had developed a comfy routine. Mary Chung’s and a DVD, then reading for both. And a squabble, like the one last night, would have been resolved before the next order of takeout. But tonight, she knew, Chris would be working again, Dulcie was on her own.

‘What’s it going to be, kitten?’ The little tuxedoed cat had followed her into the kitchen, sitting by her feet as she and Suze had discussed the aspects of the case. Now she looked up at her human and gave an almost imperceptible chirp.

‘Dumplings? What a brilliant idea.’ Calling in her order, Dulcie opened a can for the kitten. By the time she’d returned with the takeout – including some extras to heat up for Chris as a peace offering if he could come over later – the kitten had finished and sat, diligently working one white front paw over her face.

‘Just like a grown-up cat!’ With a pang, Dulcie found herself thinking about Mr Grey. The beautiful long-haired grey had just shown up one day, already a full-grown cat, ready to watch out for her in exchange for kibble. This kitten was a different matter entirely. Tiny, dependent, and frenetic in a way that Dulcie didn’t understand. Is that why she didn’t feel the bond that she’d felt with the large grey?

‘Maybe, in time . . .’ Dulcie didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until the kitten tilted her head up, bath interrupted. ‘I’m sorry, kitten. That’s not very fair to you, is it?’ The small creature stared, her large green eyes quizzical, and Dulcie reached for her. ‘At the very least, we can get some work done, don’t you think?’

But the kitten had other ideas. Clambering up on to the kitchen table, she sniffed the bowl that had so recently held soup dumplings. Then, seeing Dulcie’s books, stretched out her small claws to scratch.

‘No, kitten!’ Dulcie held the young cat’s paws, removing her claws from the leather bindings. ‘Those are from the library.’ Anyone in her household was going to have to learn proper respect for books, particularly those that came from Widener. To reinforce the message, Dulcie pulled the volume toward her.
Berlette’s Biographies
, the top who’s who of English arts and letters. Well, maybe the kitten had a point. Maybe Dulcie should quit spending so much time trying to figure out who had hated Cameron Dessay enough to kill him and more time trying to work out who had actually authored the work she was writing her thesis on.

Two hours later, Suze had returned and taken off again, muttering something about a Constitutional Law study group. The kitten had completed three crazed laps of the apartment and then fallen asleep. But Dulcie was still sitting at the kitchen table, wide awake. Not that she’d been idle: working through the kitten’s putative scratching post, she’d read through the biographies of the more famous writers and moved on to the smaller ones, the ‘she-authors’ who wrote so many of the popular works of the time. Some of these were well known: Ann Radcliffe, for example, had been the Danielle Steele of her day, churning out best-selling page-turners even as the critics snubbed her. Others were less well known, the educated daughters of mill owners or shop keepers who wrote one romance or adventure and then settled into a life of domesticity, their one brush with public fame tucked away like a keepsake. But Dulcie had always had a different idea about the author of her favorite work.
The Ravages of Umbria
had never won the acclaim of
The Italian
or
The Castle of Otranto
. Hadn’t even been written about at the time of its publication, as if it were truly beneath even the critics’ notice. But the sixty or so pages that survived showed a style and verve that very few of its contemporaries could match. Yes, it had ghosts, a ruined castle, and at least two romantic entanglements. But there was more. Surely, such a smart and subtle author couldn’t have disappeared.

Unless . . . Dulcie started flipping back pages. What if the author of
The Ravages
hadn’t disappeared? What if she – or, yes, possibly he – had published other works, under a different name? Maybe some better-known author had wanted to shed the conventions, to write something a little bit subversive. Wouldn’t that be reason to publish pseudonymously?

‘It’s still done today. Isn’t it, kitty?’ Dulcie watched the tiny thing yawn, and then go back to sleep. ‘Well, I’m intrigued, anyway.’

An hour later, and the idea had gone sour. None of the possibilities – Dulcie thought of them as her suspects – had long enough gaps in their timelines. Nobody who could have pulled off
The Ravages of Umbria
seemed likely to. And those lesser authors, the ones who wrote one book and disappeared, well, they just didn’t have the skills, did they? Dulcie looked at the kitten, who had turned her back to the books.