Grey Zone (15 page)

‘May I help you?' An elegant dark-skinned woman looked up as a set of chimes rang. ‘We've got a group starting in ten minutes, or just help yourself to some mint tea.' Her smile countered the formality of her voice, and Dulcie found herself smiling back.

‘Thanks, I'm actually looking for someone? Philomena McCorkle?'

The other woman shook her head. ‘I'm sorry, Corkie isn't here right now. Would you like to speak with someone else?'

The idea was tempting. Between the police and Dimitri, the strange phone call, and that awful moment at Poche Hall, Dulcie could use a shoulder to cry on. And she certainly was having trouble getting to work on her thesis. But no, if she wasn't actually helping a student then she needed to get to the library – not spend time hashing over the same old issues.

‘No, thanks.' She paused. ‘But maybe I could leave her a message?'

As the smiling woman looked for a pad, Dulcie surveyed the room. It really had changed since its coffee-house days: three very squishy-looking sofas lined this outer room, with a low coffee table and two bean bags filling up most of the rest of the space. Some vintage posters gave it color, and the sweet scent of mint offset the damp basement funk she remembered too well. This was a comforting place. Well, good for them.

It was also a private place, Dulcie realized, as she thought about what to write. Much as she saw Corkie as her responsibility, she also didn't want to intrude. After all, tracking a student down to her workspace, particularly when her work involved counseling, might be a bit much.

‘You know, I don't think I'll leave a message.'

The other woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Everything here is confidential, you know. You can just leave a first name.'

Dulcie's smile widened. ‘I'm not here for – oh, never mind. Would you tell her that Dulcie is looking for her? Dulcinea Schwartz?'

It was a measure of her professionalism, Dulcie thought, that the woman didn't even chuckle as she wrote that down.

But any of her attempts at discretion were moot when, not ten seconds later, Dulcie ran into her charge on the stairs.

‘Corkie!'

‘What? Oh!' The younger girl blinked, clearly distracted.

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you.' Dulcie felt again that perhaps she had overstepped.

‘No, no problem at all. Below the Stairs is open to all. Us female students in particular have reason to want a safe space where we can talk freely about the issues in our lives.'

Corkie's voice had the ring of a memorized speech, but Dulcie admired how well the lines were delivered. ‘This does seem like a good place, Corkie. And I'm really impressed that you're working here. But, actually, I was just looking for you.'

‘Oh?' Corkie's eyebrows arched, confusion registering in her round face.

‘You cancelled? I emailed you, but never heard back. And that note you left?' This was some seriously distracted student. As the door chimes rang softly behind her, Dulcie heard alarm bells going off in her own head. Corkie had already had to withdraw from the college once. ‘Are you OK, Corkie? Are things getting out of control for you?' She paused, not wanting to add the obvious: ‘Again.'

‘No, no, I'm fine.' Corkie backed against the stair rail to let an exiting student pass. ‘Really, you didn't have to come here.' Her voice rose with a note of what sounded like panic.

‘Do you have a moment? Could we go talk somewhere?' Dulcie wasn't convinced.

‘I'm really busy.' She ran a hand over her tightly bound hair, and Dulcie saw how pale she was.

‘Just two minutes?'

‘OK, but not here.' Corkie led her tutor back up the stairs and around a corner. Sheltered slightly by the brick building, she started to talk. ‘I am sorry I blew off our tutorial, and I'm really sorry I didn't get back to you. I mean, I know I've just been let off academic probation and I've got to keep at it. Only, things have gotten crazy now. They've gotten really hectic here –' she nodded back toward the building – ‘and they need me.'

Dulcie bit her lip and took a good look at her student. It wasn't just the pallor; everyone looked pasty by March. She'd gotten so used to thinking of her student as a healthy farm girl that she'd not noticed how much weight she'd lost, or how dark the rings under her eyes had grown.

Corkie was aware of her scrutiny. ‘I'm doing good work here, Ms Schwartz. And I love it.'

Dulcie nodded. ‘I believe you, Corkie. I just want to make sure you're keeping things in balance. After all, you're no good to Below the Stairs if you flunk out.'

Corkie rolled her eyes. ‘Don't I know it. I feel like I spend half my time trying to get girls to stick with it. To stay in school. And sometimes, I don't know. Maybe it's not the best thing for them.'

That was a red flag. ‘Come on, Corkie. You can't mean that. I mean, we all have our problems, but an education is a way out. It can be a solution.'

Corkie shrugged. ‘Yeah, but sometimes things around here can be part of the problem.'

Dulcie had to nod. The pressure – and now the extra burden of grief. She remembered what Suze had said about suicide. How it could become contagious. ‘Are you hearing a lot –' she didn't even want to bring it up – ‘about what happened?'

Corkie looked at her blankly, and for a moment, Dulcie wondered if it was possible that she hadn't heard.

‘I mean, the situation with that young professor, Fritz Herschoft? You know, the chubby one?'

‘Oh, lord!' The volume, the tone of Corkie's exclamation startled Dulcie, and she stepped back. ‘That one! You don't think there's a connection, do you? I don't even want to—' From Memorial Church, a bell sounded. Quarter past the hour.

‘Look, I'm sorry, Ms Schwartz. I'll make up the work, really. But I can't talk about that . . . that
creature
right now. And I've got to go.'

With that she turned and raced back down the stairs, leaving Dulcie open mouthed in shock.

TWENTY

‘
H
e wasn't an attractive man, but . . . but . . .' Dulcie was talking to herself, and even though she was aware of it, she felt unable to stop. Corkie was a caring girl. She worked as a counselor. And yet her reaction to Fritz Herschoft had been callous in the extreme. Dulcie was dumbfounded. And she was still muttering as she made her way back across the Yard, which probably explained why she nearly ran into her colleague.

‘Dulcie!' She looked up to see Dimitri, her tall, pale classmate, now looking slightly more skeletal and even more pallid. For a moment, she started – could he be a ghost? – but his wide smile reassured her that, even if he were, he was of the friendly variety.

‘Dimitri?' Even as she said his name, she half expected the figure in front of her to waver and dissipate.

‘In the flesh.' His smile grew more crooked, and he reached up to adjust his glasses. ‘I love your American colloquialisms. I mean, how else would I be here?'

She smiled back, rather than answer, and then felt her smile melt away. If he knew that she had identified him – she tried not to think of the phrase ‘rat out' – his cheerful good will just might evaporate into the ectoplasm.

‘I'm just glad you're here.' That came out wrong, and she tried again. ‘I mean, not in jail.' That wasn't much better, but Dimitri didn't seem to notice.

‘So you heard?' He was shaking his head, apparently oblivious to how the color had drained from Dulcie's face. ‘That was . . . unpleasant.'

She could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and felt an overwhelming urge to confess. ‘I didn't mean to say anything to them, really. I almost didn't. But I had seen Carrie, the missing girl, the night before, and then when I saw the posters, Suze – that's my room-mate – told me I had to go talk to them.'

He was looking at her as if he didn't understand what she was saying. Since, despite his heritage, he was also a doctoral candidate in English, Dulcie realized the fault lay in her explanatory skills.

‘There was an argument going on – when was that? Three nights ago? Anyway, I was leaving Widener and I heard two people fighting.' He didn't need to know her initial impression. What mattered was the way the confrontation had ended. ‘The woman was Carrie, Carrie Mines. And when I went to the police, they showed me a picture of you and asked if I knew you.'

‘Ah, so that is what happened.' He looked down, then took off his glasses to clean them. ‘My . . . friend Lylah was quite upset.'

Dulcie couldn't help but notice the pause. Odds were, she knew, Dimitri was being discrete. After all, perhaps his friend was simply that, or the liaison was too new to be qualified in any way. But just a little, she had to wonder. Had Dimitri brought up another woman's name because she had mentioned Carrie? A bit of misdirection from a reader of crime fiction, perhaps?

‘Lylah? I don't think I've ever met her.' Dulcie felt sleazy asking.

‘You would not have. She matriculates at the School of Public Health.' Dimitri turned toward her; his eyes, behind their gunmetal gray frames, looked wide and concerned. ‘Why me?'

‘I don't really know.' Dulcie shrugged and tried to think back. ‘It took me a while to get over to the police. I mean, there was the, um, what happened over at the Poche Building.'

‘What happened at the Poche?' He leaned in, his friendly face suddenly intent. ‘Dulcie, tell me.'

How could he not have heard? She took a deep breath and began to speak, hoping to get the worst over with quickly. ‘Someone jumped. Someone jumped and died, Dimitri. It was – it was awful. Terrible. I don't know if it was an accident, or—'

‘
Who
?' He interrupted her. ‘Dulcie, tell me. Who jumped?'

‘Herschoft. He was a professor,' she said. ‘Fritz Herschoft.'

‘Oh, him.' Dimitri seemed to collapse into himself, suddenly looking even more tired than before.

‘Did you know him?' Concerned, she reached out to take his arm. ‘I'm so sorry, Dimitri. Was he a friend?'

‘What? No.' Dimitri seemed to be fading as he spoke. ‘I know
of
him. Friends of friends, is that the saying? Odd, really, thinking of a person that way. Other than that . . .' He shrugged, clearly beyond caring. ‘Look, Dulcie, I am wiped out. The police were not unprofessional, but the experience of being questioned was draining.' He turned toward the street, and Dulcie wondered if she should offer to walk him home.

But one question still lingered, and she kept her hand on his arm. ‘I understand. But Dimitri, would you tell me what happened? Why did the police want to talk to you?'

He shook his head. ‘It is private, I cannot. Other people are involved. Even the police asked me not to talk about it. I am sorry, Dulcie. It's not – I am not the bad guy here.'

She nodded, unsure of what to say. She didn't know Dimitri well, but he seemed like any of her colleagues – a nice, normal guy. Who, right now, looked positively exhausted.

‘Well, I'm sorry if I got you in any trouble.' He turned, and Dulcie was struck by how sunken his eyes were. ‘And I'm sorry to be the one to break the news.'

‘The news?'

‘About Professor Herschoft.'

‘Please, that man was a monster.' He spat the word out like poison. ‘All I can say is, we are all better off.'

Lucy would probably have an explanation, Dulcie thought as she headed back toward Widener. Lucy always saw patterns in the stars.

But even Lucy would have been surprised by what Dulcie found once she descended into the stacks. For starters, someone had been using her carrel. True, other students often sat in empty carrels while doing their own reading. But a kind of honor system ruled their usage. When the assigned student showed up, you vacated the little mini office. And you never,
ever
left a mess. So Dulcie was both troubled and surprised to find her books disturbed: some missing, and one on the floor. And horrified to realize, as she pulled herself into the seat, that that same interloper had put a large wad of chewed gum under the table, just where it was bound to stick to her jeans.

‘Oh,
great
.' She kept her voice low, but inside she fumed. This was not the peaceful study break she had hoped for. Rubbing the gum off the best she could, she got up to search for her books. The two she'd left out were common research works; she'd have put them in the re-shelving carts otherwise. But she couldn't find either. In fact, where
Bulwich's
should have been was a book she'd never seen before. In frustration, she took it down and started leafing through it. It seemed to be a collection of essays and letters. A few looked quite standard: journal entries. And then something hit her. There was something about the style, a clarity of language despite the age.

A woman press'd must make use of her mind
 . . . Yes, that was it. A defense of women as thinkers, as philosophers and writers. This sounded like
The Ravages
, like the other works of her anonymous subject that she had been tracking down. Dulcie kept reading.
A woman of thoughtful turn must
do her work. Such a woman must turn her own hand to the creation and education.
She skimmed ahead. How could she not have read this piece before?

For if the woman thinker be swept aside, she will have no choice but to abandon all. Not her family, nor her virtue, as has commonly been assumed. But all else, fleeing as she would a noisome beast to cross beyond.

Could this be her author? Dulcie felt her pulse quickening as she took the volume back to her carrel. Sitting carefully, to avoid touching the desk's underside, she pulled out her laptop to begin making notes. What was that phrase? Something about ‘noisome beasts,' about a woman thinker being ‘swept aside'? Could that be the missing threat? The last note of desperation?