Into the Grey Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Clea Simon From Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Clea Simon from Severn House

  Dulcie Schwartz Mysteries

  SHADES OF GREY

  GREY MATTERS

  GREY ZONE

  GREY EXPECTATIONS

  TRUE GREY

  GREY DAWN

  GREY HOWL

  STAGES OF GREY

  CODE GREY

  INTO THE GREY

  Blackie and Care Mysteries

  THE NINTH LIFE

  INTO THE GREY

  A Dulcie Schwartz feline mystery

  Clea Simon

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2016

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2016 by Clea Simon.

  The right of Clea Simon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8627-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-731-9 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-792-9 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Jon

  ONE

  ‘I could kill Roland Fenderby.’

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Dulcie regretted them. ‘I’m being hyperbolic, of course.’ She looked around the small office, suddenly aware of the silence that greeted her words – and of the three people staring at her. Surely they would understand that her nasty outburst had not been literal, or even especially heartfelt, but rather the product of a particularly frustrating meeting.

  The three faces that had turned toward her as she had stormed into the office did not, in fact, show the horror that her expostulation could have caused. Instead, they revealed varying levels of sympathy and amusement.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Nancy, the departmental secretary, was the first to respond, with her usual motherly concern. The other two – fellow students, albeit undergrads – exchanged knowing glances as Dulcie felt the color climbing to her cheeks.

  ‘I feared something untoward might happen.’ Nancy had already risen from behind her desk. ‘Would you like some more coffee, Dulcie?’

  ‘Thanks, Nancy.’ Dulcie let the plump older woman fill her travel mug. But even the rich brew – the best coffee in the university – couldn’t assuage her mood. ‘It wasn’t – I shouldn’t be so …’ She caught herself. It was, and she was. Taking another sip, she tried to explain. ‘It’s just that Fenderby is such a toad. He even looks like one, except that no self-respecting amphibian would sport a comb-over like that.’ Dulcie warmed to her subject. ‘He’s like a bloated Thorpe.’

  ‘Dulcie!’ Nancy’s aggrieved tone stopped her short. Dulcie had forgotten that the secretary, for her own unfathomable reasons, had a tendresse for Martin Thorpe, the acting head of the department and her own thesis adviser.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nancy.’ Dulcie apologized as the secretary scooped out the beans for a fresh pot. ‘I guess I’m angry with Mr Thorpe, as well. He could have vetoed Fenderby’s request to be on my thesis committee.’

  ‘Maybe,’ a musical voice chimed in. ‘But it isn’t exactly fair to focus on his appearance like that. You know he’s had health issues, and I believe he’s been trying to lose weight.’

  Dulcie looked up, surprised. Alyson Beaumont was an unlikely champion for the offending academic. The undergraduate was one of the few Dulcie was advising this spring. A junior, Alyson was trying to decide on a topic for her own dissertation, and Dulcie had been spending extra time with her. As was fitting with the romance novel name and the soft, melodious voice that had issued the gentle reprimand, Alyson was quite lovely, with a cloud of golden blonde hair and eyes of clear grey. She was so beautiful, in fact, that Dulcie’s friend Trista had labeled her ‘trouble’ when they’d met a few weeks earlier. And although Dulcie had chided her friend on her lack of sisterly sentiment – she hadn’t wanted to call Trista sexist, exactly – she had to confess, the undergrad’s protest startled her.

  ‘I do. I’m sorry.’ Dulcie admitted. Sometimes graciousness was the best policy, and everyone in the department knew that Roland Fenderby was prone to a stomach disorder that undoubtedly contributed to his pale and puffy appearance. ‘But handsome is as handsome does, and you can’t get me to say he’s being fair.’

  ‘What – what happened?’ The fourth party in the small office, which functioned as the de facto gathering place for students in English and American Literatures and Language – chimed in, in a quavering voice Dulcie h
ad gotten used to over the past few years. Because of his stutter, Tom Walls tended not to speak in public, but his concern for Dulcie had obviously won out.

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’ Dulcie gave the thin young man a smile. She suspected Tom of having a crush on her, given the way he looked at her, and credited this with giving him the power to overcome his habitual shyness. ‘Only, I felt he was being a bit unfair in his review of my latest chapter.’

  It was worse than that. Far worse, but Dulcie didn’t want to cause concern. Besides, she was a little embarrassed by her outburst, especially since her own student had witnessed it. Dulcie was supposed to be helping Alyson with her undergraduate thesis, not instructing her in the horrors of life as a doctoral candidate. Then again, she mused, maybe it was just as well that the pretty younger woman learned the truth.

  ‘Professor Fenderby has been added to my thesis committee,’ she explained, trying to keep her voice level. ‘At Martin Thorpe’s request.’

  Nancy had stepped out of the office, the empty coffee pot in hand. Still, Dulcie didn’t need to elaborate. Winding up their junior years, both the undergrads should know by now that graduate students could form their own thesis committee – inviting senior scholars to read and advise them on their dissertation, guiding them through the process. Only this spring, just as Dulcie was finally completing the three-hundred-page opus that was the apex of her graduate career, Thorpe had brought Fenderby in. Her adviser had said it was to round out the committee. On paper, it made sense. Roland Fenderby specialized in nineteenth-century American political tracts, and Dulcie had linked her dissertation subject, the anonymous author of the underappreciated Gothic novel The Ravages of Umbria, to some political writings that had been published in Philadelphia at the very start of that century. But Dulcie suspected the reasons were more venal.

  For starters, the move was sudden and a bit late in the process. Dulcie’s dissertation was nearly done. More to the point, Martin Thorpe had been the acting head of the department for two years now, and the administration had still not named a permanent replacement for the long-vacant seat. Putting Fenderby on her committee was a way for Thorpe to cozy up to another tenured professor, and maybe win some support for his own bid.

  ‘But–but …’ Tom struggled to put his thoughts into words, his own frustration showing on his face.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Thorpe had his reasons.’ Nancy had returned with a pot full of water. ‘After all, as I understand it, the committee is supposed to point out weak spots in your dissertation before you submit it. That way you can polish it up before your defense. Make it …’ She paused to pour the water into the coffeemaker.

  ‘Bulletproof?’ Tom offered.

  ‘Exactly.’ Nancy didn’t look up.

  ‘Well, I understand the principle.’ For the sake of peace, Dulcie wouldn’t talk about Thorpe. Not with Nancy there. ‘But the way I feel right now? Fenderby better be the one with the ability to withstand deadly violence.’

  TWO

  ‘Chris, you don’t get it.’ Dulcie had called her boyfriend as soon as she’d left, dialing as she strode into the Square. The white clapboard house that served as the departmental headquarters usually felt cozy, but today it was claustrophobic. Plus, Dulcie had to admit, the extra coffee had pushed her over the edge. She needed to walk, as well as to air. And while Chris, a graduate student in applied math, didn’t face the same kind of pressures she did – quantitative work being somewhat less open to arbitrary criticism – he had been at the university long enough to understand the politics. Or so she had thought.

  ‘No, I didn’t get to argue.’ Her raised voice was drawing stares. Chris’s usual calm was tipping over to nonchalance, and pushing Dulcie to the opposite end of the spectrum. ‘His criticism was written,’ she explained. ‘I mean, I will get to respond, but …’

  She took a breath. The meeting had started off peaceful enough, Dulcie explained once again, doing her best to keep her own cool. At this point, as her boyfriend knew, she was meeting with Thorpe almost weekly to keep him in the loop about her progress – and to begin to prepare for the dreaded defense. After five years, Dulcie finally could see the end of her studies – and, while she didn’t mention it now, the end to the life she’d shared with Chris.

  Knowing that things would change – they had to, since she’d be looking for a job and he’d still be working on his degree – had made her feel a little better about missing the final deadline for the spring Commencement this month. Still, she was pretty sure she could finish up in the fall. And though it would feel odd to submit her dissertation in September, when everyone else was just starting the school year, she knew that would give her a bit of breathing room to figure out what to do next. Breathing room for her and Chris to consider their future together, either here or in another university town. Or, Dulcie thought with dread, commuting between cities as each pursued tenure.

  That future had been weighing on Dulcie when Thorpe had called her. After all, she was nearing the end of her dissertation. As she reminded her boyfriend, over the last few weeks, she’d been putting the final touches on this penultimate chapter – a chapter she had intended to submit to Studies in Pre-Modern Fiction, the most prestigious journal in her field. She even had a title: ‘Gender Issues in the Concept of Pre-Modern Authorship, a Discussion of Boundaries and Grey Areas’. It would be the last article before she submitted her dissertation, and the best, she told him. Or so she had thought.

  ‘“The author’s research seems a tad shallow.”’ Thorpe had read the note to her, partly, Dulcie suspected, so he wouldn’t have to look her in the eyes. ‘I’m afraid Professor Fenderby goes on a bit here,’ he’d said. ‘“Either the candidate misunderstands the materials or she thinks such a flip handling will suffice to blind the committee to the gaping holes in her scholarship. We recommend that the candidate abandon this later material and focus more closely on the area she does seem to understand.”’

  Her adviser had looked up then, blinking. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Schwartz. I did warn you, you know.’

  ‘But—’ Dulcie felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. ‘But you agreed that I had reason to expand my topic. That I had made my case that the new manuscript – a manuscript I discovered – belonged in my thesis.’ She paused to gather her thoughts. Yes, she was remembering correctly. ‘You said you were convinced.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He nodded, apparently in agreement. ‘I was, but perhaps that was my error.’ He handed her the critique, brows knit over his watery eyes. ‘You can be quite a forceful person, you know.’

  ‘Well, you can be.’ Chris’s voice broke into Dulcie’s recollection. From the laughter in his voice, she could tell he wasn’t taking her seriously. A computer geek, he did tend to be of a more even temperament, a trait she usually admired. ‘And you have broadened your topic quite a bit.’

  ‘But the work led me there, Chris.’ Dulcie had stopped walking. Equanimity was one thing, but if her own boyfriend couldn’t understand the work she’d put in … ‘You know I’ve done my research.’

  ‘I know that, and you know that.’ Chris sounded conciliatory now, his deep voice warm and calm. ‘And even Thorpe knows that. You just have to convince this guy, too. I mean, he probably hasn’t seen the papers you’re working from – you only started that section over the winter, right? Maybe he hasn’t read your other articles on the new stuff either.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Dulcie wanted to believe Chris was right. He was smart, and she knew he loved her. ‘He’s supposed to have read the rest of the dissertation, but maybe he’s been sick again. This is the first chapter he’s even commented on.’

  ‘There you go, Dulce.’ Chris’s confidence rang out. ‘He wasn’t feeling well and, besides, he’s a tenured professor. He can’t sign on and not say anything, right? Maybe you can make a few changes and then he’ll calm down. It’s not like he’s got an axe to grind.’

  ‘No,’ Dulcie agreed. Chris’s optimism had jollied her into a marginall
y better mood. Marginally. ‘If anyone’s going to be grinding an axe around here, it’s going to be me.’

  ‘You mean to take this guy out?’ Chris was chuckling again.

  ‘If I have to, Chris Sorenson.’ Dulcie started walking again. Academic politics were one thing, but she had a deadline to make. ‘But only if you’ll act as my alibi when they find Fenderby, bludgeoned to death with one of his own books.’

  THREE

  After she’d stuffed the offending note into her bag, Dulcie did her best to put the humiliating criticism out of her mind as she made her way to the Yard. Fenderby was a bother, but she would deal. With luck, he’d be taken ill again – suffering from one of those mysterious spells that seemed more appropriate to a nineteenth-century heroine than a contemporary academic. That wasn’t a charitable thought, she realized with a twinge of guilt … and something resembling anxiety. Her mother, still a proud member of the counterculture, would have called her on it, citing the ‘rule of three’ that would have negative wishes rebounding three-fold back on their source. But surely she could be excused this time, Dulcie thought. Her research time was precious, and she had already lost too much of it in that stupid meeting. She didn’t want to waste any more of it worrying.

  The day helped. Spring had finally, belatedly, come to Cambridge, with a balmy freshness that reminded Dulcie more of her childhood in the woods of the Pacific Northwest than of a New England city. Maybe it was the moisture in the air, a welcome change after the dryness of too many overheated university buildings. Maybe it was the touch of color – new green leaves now joining the crocuses and daffodils along the sidewalk – but Dulcie found she couldn’t hold a grudge for long.