Grey Expectations (7 page)

Now he turned and glowered at Dulcie and at Trista, who had taken an extra few seconds to scuttle to her seat.

‘They're all here now,' Thorpe said, and Dulcie heard a slight tremor in his voice.

A silent nod appraised them all. The cop took a step forward, but Dr Coffin raised his hand. The cop froze.

‘I have assembled you this morning because of a serious breach.' Coffin, the descendant of Puritan preachers, had a voice of fire and brimstone. Never mind that the librarian hadn't actually called the meeting. It was his now. ‘A very serious breach.' His gaze traveled slowly around the table, and Dulcie swallowed again, aware of how dry her mouth had become.

‘All of you have access to the Mildon Rare Book Collection in the Widener Annex.' The gaze continued, like a lighthouse, making its way from face to face. ‘All of you have utilized that access within the last semester.'

Dulcie felt a wild desire to look around. Had they all been in the collection? Was the entire department in fact here? Was Roland? She hadn't had a chance to check.

‘And so all of you are, of necessity, suspects.' A pause, during which Dulcie heard at least one of her colleagues also try to swallow. ‘At least one of you knows whereof I speak. Perhaps more. For we will uncover the truth and recover—'

‘Professor Coffin?' The spell was momentarily broken as the cop spoke. Maybe it was just the contrast, but Dulcie noticed he was quite attractive. Young, with sandy hair and an athlete's build. ‘Maybe we could get to the point.'

Coffin's glare made it clear he did not share Dulcie's appreciation. It did serve to silence the cop, however, and the large man turned back to the students.

‘There has been a breach of trust. Of security, and of everything we respect and hold dear.' One more scan of the room, and the cop was forgotten. ‘The Dunster Codex,' he said, finally. ‘The Dunster Codex has been stolen.'

TEN

‘
T
he
what
?' Ethan's stage whisper broke the stunned silence around the table. Coffin turned toward him with the kind of look a hawk would turn on a small and not particularly tasty rodent.

‘The Dunster Codex,' Thorpe repeated, emphasizing each word, as if hearing, not comprehension, were the grad student's problem.

‘I haven't seen it, but I know it's an ancient manuscript,' Lloyd, Dulcie's office mate, said, stepping in to explain. ‘Old English. Pre-Norman, anyway. Something to do with the king's grant to a monastery.' He looked around for confirmation. Dulcie shrugged. She knew of the treasure, but its era was way before hers.

‘It's eleventh century, actually, and a real treasure. A king's grant for a monastery to collect taxes, or tithes, to be accurate.' Darien, a medievalist, was probably the only one there to have read the parchment. ‘Access is extremely limited.'

‘Of course access is limited.' Coffin's voice made them all look up. Dulcie thought again of mice. Scared, grey mice. ‘The Dunster Codex is a priceless piece of literary history, undoubtedly the most valuable acquisition the collection has made during my tenure. It is also extremely fragile. All of you have been in the rare book collection. All of you know the protocol.'

Heads bobbed around the table. They'd all surrendered their pens for soft-pointed pencils. They'd all donned the white cotton gloves, lightly dusted with some kind of non-reactive talc.

‘And because you've all been ticketed within the past month, you are all persons of interest.'

‘Ticketed?' Dulcie couldn't help it. The words were out before she could think. All eyes turned toward her, and she remembered: in addition to the regular library security, the special collections had its own appropriately archaic entrance ritual. Those admitted signed a large ledger and were given the blue carbon copy as a receipt. That ticket and two pencils were allowed in, nothing else. In theory, scholars were responsible for showing this ‘blue ticket' if questioned and were supposed to turn it in to reclaim their bags and coats. In reality, the quiet collection got so few visitors that whoever was staffing the front desk could easily keep an eye on everything – and most of them ended up holding on to the little blue slip. It made a handy bookmark.

‘Never mind.' Dulcie couldn't remember the last time she'd gone into the sealed room. Surely it hadn't been in the last month? Most of the Gothics just weren't considered that rare – or that valuable. The only novel from her period she'd ever seen there was a moth-eaten copy of
The Wetherly Ghost
. Still, odds were, if she ever completely emptied her bag, she'd find one or two of the blue slips crumpled on the bottom.

‘We will be investigating.' Coffin's eyes made a circuit, chilling each student in turn. ‘And we will get to the bottom of this.' With that he nodded – once to Thorpe and once to the officer beside him – and left the room, taking, as far as Dulcie was concerned, all of its oxygen with him.

Once they'd all been able to breathe again, the startled students had tramped downstairs to raid the coffee pot and talk. Everyone had questions, but answers were in as short supply as coffee filters. Nancy, as usual, tried to supply both.

‘They're just looking for information,' she said in her motherly tone as she set up a fresh pot to brew. ‘I'm sure it's nothing.'

‘Nothing? How can it be nothing?' Bill was sweating, his face an unhealthy pink. ‘The Dunster Codex is missing!'

‘Didn't we trade, like, a Gutenberg Bible or something for it?' a voice in the corner said, prompting groans.

‘Not a
Gutenberg
 . . .' someone started explaining. ‘But almost as thick. Still, it was one of the priciest acquisitions in the collection's history.'

‘Persons of interest  . . .' A female voice rose above the crowd, tight and anxious. ‘Does that mean we're all suspects?'

‘It was bound in leather at some point.' The explanation continued. ‘Though I gather the binding is pretty much in shreds. There are still traces of gold leaf on the front, probably a later addition  . . .'

‘Are they talking to the staff, too? The cleaning crew and security? I mean, why just us?' More voices chimed in, and Nancy had her hands full trying to calm the crowd. Dulcie simply listened and tried to remember if she'd ever seen the missing book.

‘What is the Dunster Codex again?' Ethan didn't seem to get it. ‘Is it like one piece of parchment, or is it bound or what?'

Nobody answered him. Partly, Dulcie acknowledged with a twinge of guilt, because it was Ethan. He never did pick up on new things, whether it was grading standards or the latest forms for ordering texts. But partly it was because in the momentary lull following Ethan's outburst, Lloyd voiced the question that blew the others away: ‘Coffin said “in the last month”, right?'

Nods all around.

‘Well, does this mean that the Codex has been missing for a month – and they've only now noticed?'

After that, the buzz came back louder and stronger. Dulcie felt a headache coming on. Something was wrong.
Very
wrong. Before she could flee, however, Trista had grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall.

‘It's tied up with Roland,' her friend whispered, leaning in close to be heard. ‘It's got to be.'

‘You think Roland stole it?' Dulcie looked up at her friend. Something wasn't making sense. ‘Or died trying to defend it?'

‘I don't know.' Trista looked around, her pale face strangely stern. ‘I don't understand what's exactly going on, but he did have a job in Widener last semester, and this semester he's been working with rare book conservation. There's something else, too – too much to be mere coincidence.'

‘Wait a minute, Tris. What do you mean – something else? What else is going on?' Dulcie watched Trista as her head swiveled, taking in the crowd. Being a Victorian, she'd been steeped in the moralistic and heavily plotted novels of the period. As a fan of the Gothic, Dulcie knew different. ‘And, Trista, about Roland—'

‘You believe me – that I didn't have anything to do with him. Don't you?' Trista turned back and grabbed Dulcie's hands, her blue eyes fierce.

Dulcie resisted the temptation to shake her friend off. ‘Trista, I meant to say.' Her friend was acting so strange, Dulcie was a little afraid to confront her. ‘What you told me? The cops never mentioned
murder
. They never even actually said he was dead.' She paused. ‘Right?'

‘Look, it's more complicated than you know.' Trista eyes could have shot sparks. ‘You've got to believe me.'

‘I believe you wouldn't kill somebody.' Dulcie was at a loss. ‘But maybe your imagination—'

‘Look who's talking!' Trista's voice had become a hiss.

‘No, it's not that I don't believe you.' Dulcie back-pedalled furiously, trying to figure out what had happened. ‘It's just that
you
said murder. They didn't. And there hasn't been any kind of announcement – no student alerts or anything. Maybe  . . . maybe he's just a suspect in all of this?'

‘I think  . . . well, I can't explain here.' Trista glanced around. The old clapboard had a cozy porch out back, and Dulcie was turning toward the door when her friend stopped her. Their colleagues were all still talking; nobody was paying attention to them. That didn't seem to make Trista any more relaxed. ‘Not  . . . in this building. Not today. Look, Dulcie.' Trista bit her lip, nodding. ‘I can't explain it all right now. I don't have – I've got to talk to some people. Figure something out. Can you just – just don't do anything, OK? And don't
say
anything – to anyone.'

‘Uh, sure.' Dulcie looked down. So did Trista. And as if she'd only just noticed that she had her friend's hands in a death grip, she loosened it. ‘But Tris?'

‘What?' Trista's hands tightened again, just a little, on Dulcie's.

‘I've already talked to Suze – and to Chris, of course. I mean, I told them what you said—'

A little squeeze. Dulcie fought the urge to pull away. ‘Can't be helped.' Trista turned one way, then the other, checking out their classmates. ‘Look, just, nobody else. I'll explain. I promise.' Another squeeze. ‘Please?'

‘OK.' Dulcie wasn't sure about any of this. But Trista was a friend. And whatever else was going on, Dulcie was pretty sure she was not a murderer.

‘Thank you, Dulce. It means the world to me.' Bending slightly, she let go of Dulcie's hands and gave her friend a quick hug. ‘Look, I've got a make a phone call – and I can't do it here. Want to meet at the Brew House in fifteen? Double latte on me? I'll explain everything. I promise.'

Dulcie responded with a weak, but well-intentioned smile. On top of everything, she still hadn't had any coffee. At least she'd get to sit down with Trista and tell her what Suze had said. She'd have to find some way to soft-pedal Suze's theory – that her friend was overreacting due to thesis stress – but she'd find a way. And so it was with a somewhat lighter heart that she watched her friend maneuver around the edge of the mulling crowd and slip out the front. And, with a sigh designed to breathe all the envy out of her body, she went in search of Martin Thorpe.

She found her adviser in the upstairs hallway, apparently on his way to the tiny office where, for all intents and purposes, he lived. Trying not to stare too jealously at the large mug of steaming coffee in his hand, she asked for a word. But instead of inviting her in, as was his custom, her balding adviser looked up with a start. ‘Miss Schwartz?'

‘Yes, is everything OK?'

He seemed as nervous as his students. Instead of ushering her in, he stood there, blinking.

Dulcie figured this was as much of a cue as she would get. ‘I was curious, Mr Thorpe, if you could tell me. I didn't see Roland Galveston here today. Is he— Is everything OK with him?'

He blinked again, and Dulcie imagined a terrified rodent. Some kind of hairless mouse, perhaps.

‘Roland Galveston?' she tried again, raising her voice slightly to make sure he heard. ‘Texan? New guy?'

‘What? Oh, of course.' Another blink, and Dulcie turned to look at the wall behind her. Whatever the balding adviser was staring at, Dulcie couldn't see it.

‘Who wants to know?' The booming voice of Dr Coffin broke in, startling Dulcie, who spun back around. Thorpe actually jumped, his coffee sloshing over the brim of his mug, as the man himself appeared behind him. Coffin hadn't left at all, Dulcie realized. He must have commandeered Thorpe's private office the better to confer with the senior tutor – or to spy on the students. Now he stood in the doorway, behind Thorpe, who had turned to stare up at him, and glowered like a thundercloud. ‘Why are
you
looking for him?'

‘I'm Dulcie Schwartz.' She gathered what was left of her shattered courage. He might look like some evil giant, but she had right on her side – and a minor mystery to solve. ‘Sir. And I'm not looking for him, I just  . . .' This was the part she hadn't figured out yet. What to say that wouldn't betray Trista's confidence or get either of them in trouble. ‘I would like to speak with him.'

Coffin made a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt. In happier circumstances, Dulcie would have seen him as a walrus. Here, he was just scary.

‘Excuse me?' She called on her last ounce of nerve. A fair lady could be brave. Had to be, sometimes.

‘Well,' he grumbled, ‘I assume it will soon be common know-ledge, what with your Facebooks and your Twitters. You may as well hear the truth.'

He paused. Dulcie suspected it was for effect, but it was almost more than she could stand. Trista had been right; Suze wrong. Roland had been murdered.

‘Is he  . . . gone?' Her voice squeaked, and she felt particularly mouse-like.