True Grey (16 page)

With a sigh of resignation, she hit ‘play all'. That first call had been from the University Hall number. The voice, however, belonged to her adviser, Martin Thorpe. ‘Ms Schwartz? We need to talk. It's urgent, very urgent. There's been a matter – an accusation. I'm sure it's nothing, and this can all be easily cleared up. But you need to come in. Dean Haitner is looking for you. We both are. He has some questions about the research you've been doing, about your most recent article. He says there are some issues surrounding it. Issues of academic ethics, of the most dire kind.'

I
t was just as she'd feared. Dulcie trotted through the Yard with her head down, thinking. She should never have tried to find out what Melinda was working on. Should not have gone down to the Mildon this morning, and certainly should not have tried to meet with the visiting scholar before her talk.

She'd have to explain that she hadn't been trying to steal the dead scholar's research. Instead of trying to hitch a ride, she had simply been driving along a parallel path. Of course, she had wanted to know what Melinda had uncovered – but more so that she could stay out of her way, find her own area to focus on. After all, until, well, until her unfortunate end, it was clear that Melinda would publish before Dulcie would. And once her book was out, it wasn't like Dulcie could steal her research.

Maybe it wasn't about Melinda, Dulcie thought as she approached the administration building. Climbing those white marble stairs had never seemed so hard before, and she paused for a breath before pulling open the heavy outer door. It was a good thing she hadn't pressed Darlene any more on Rafe's paper, she thought with relief. The respite was short-lived, new doubts appearing with each step along the carpeted hall. The call – that first one – had come in before she'd seen Darlene, but maybe it didn't matter. Maybe Rafe had told some story about her just to get her out of the way, knowing they were going to be competitors.

She had arrived at the dean's office and stood facing the oversized door, struck motionless by a sudden revelation. Rafe wouldn't run to the dean to get the edge on research. No student would. Unless, of course, he – or she – had something bigger to hide. Something like murder.

‘Ms Schwartz! There you are.' Before Dulcie had time to follow through on her own thought, she was facing her adviser. Mr Thorpe had opened the door in front of her, and she found herself staring at the slight, balding man as if she'd never seen him before. Then the moment passed, and Dulcie found herself smiling. For all his nervous tics, Thorpe wasn't a bad guy.

Her adviser didn't smile back, though. Instead, after ascertaining that the person at the door was indeed his student, he lowered his eyes. Ducking his head down meant he gave Dulcie a better view of his shiny and somewhat dented pate. It wasn't that which worried her, however. It was the fact that he wouldn't meet her eyes. As if her glance could convey some contagion, she thought following him into the large and sunlit room. Or, she amended the image, as if she had already been tried and condemned.

She stepped into the room, wondering why she suddenly felt so trapped. It couldn't just be Thorpe. She was used to him ducking his head. He didn't even like taking responsibility for her progress reports. Then it hit her. Her feet had sunk into a deep blue pile of the carpet, silencing even the soft slap of her sneakers. The high windows that captured the afternoon sun were covered with a gauzy curtain, giving the warm light a diffuse look. The room was as hushed as some kind of divine anteroom. Instead of feeling elegant, the overall effect was, well, spooky. The kind of muffled chamber her heroine would have made into the torture room of a depraved lordling. The place where bones were kept.

This was ridiculous. Yesterday's events were getting to her. She turned toward her adviser, determined to break the silence.

‘So, Mr Thorpe, would you tell me what all this is about? I've been going through my notes, seeing what I have there and if I can start another chapter of my dissertation. Until I can get back into the Mildon—'

‘I don't think you'll be going back to the Mildon anytime soon.' Dean Haitner had entered the room by a smaller side door, and now closed it behind himself with a small click. He was a short man despite his girth, Dulcie noted, but he managed a swagger as he crossed the thick carpet and took his place behind a large wood desk. ‘I don't think you'll have to worry about your dissertation either.'

‘Mr Thorpe?' Dulcie turned to her adviser. He was, after all, supposed to be her ally.

The tutor muttered something, staring intently into the carpet.

‘Ms Schwartz, you will need to answer these charges directly.' Dulcie looked up. From the scowl on his face, the dean had not appreciated her turning toward her tutor. ‘And none of your so-called friends are going to be able to help you this time.'

This time? Dulcie tried to rally her thoughts. Of course her friends had come to her aid before, as she had to theirs. ‘Sir?' It was all she could manage.

‘I know you've managed to charm the university police. God knows how, or what wiles you've employed.' The way he said it made Dulcie feel dirty. Even more so when she realized he was talking about Detective Rogovoy. ‘They seem to hold you above blame.'

‘Sir? If you're talking about the accident – the death – about Melinda Harquist, sir, I believe that's all been cleared up.' She didn't know how to phrase it, but surely there was something official – maybe a coroner's report – by now. ‘They saw how I couldn't have been the one . . .' He had to have heard.

But he didn't seem to. ‘Huh.' He threw his well-coiffed head back with a derisive snort. ‘Yes, I know the investigation has moved on, for now. I wouldn't be surprised if that were to change, however. I have it on good authority that the investigators are looking at the missing thesis. And those of us here on the academic side of university life can clearly see who would stand to benefit if that manuscript were never found.'

‘But, no . . .' All of Dulcie's prepared speeches about parallel tracks and which train would be first into the station faded away, leaving her with the most basic truth. ‘I knew she and I were writing about the same author. But I didn't take her thesis. I wouldn't have.'

‘That,' said the dean, suddenly looking down at his desk, ‘is a police matter. For the police to decide.' He brushed several papers aside, then selected one, which he pulled out to look at. ‘Nor do I particularly care what you may have done with the missing thesis. No, my concern is with issues within my authority as the dean of research for the university.'

He scribbled on a paper and held it out. Thorpe, head still bowed, came forward as if be prearrangement, and took it. Nervously licking his lips, he walked over to Dulcie. She watched as he lifted the paper toward her. He didn't say anything as she took it. Across the top, she read the line: NOTICE OF ACADEMIC PROBATION.

‘The police will deal with criminal matters. That's their job; that's what they do best.' Dean Haitner was talking again, but to Dulcie he sounded very far away. ‘I deal with academic issues. Issues of ethics – and ethical violations. And I am presenting you with this letter today, Ms Schwartz, in the presence and with the full knowledge of your adviser and acting head of your department, to put you on notice. Based on the evidence of the salvaged page of Melinda Sloane Harquist's thesis, you have been accused of, and will be investigated for, the most serious offense in the university canon: plagiarism.'

P
lagiarism. The word echoed through her mind as she stood there, mouth hanging open. The dean had left, letting himself out of that same side door by which he'd entered, and she had turned to her adviser, trying to form the words to all the questions that came rushing into her mind. Trying to put together a defense against charges she had not expected. Trying to make some sense of it all.

‘Mr Thorpe, I didn't . . .' Nothing was making sense. ‘From one page? But I've only published one . . . I don't know how to . . .'

‘Don't panic, Ms Schwartz.' Her adviser had been bending over a chair, packing papers into a leather briefcase. For a brief moment, Dulcie thought he was trying to comfort her.

‘I don't expect you'll have to prepare your defense for at least a few weeks yet.' He wasn't. Instead, Dulcie realized as he shoved a handful of papers into his bag with uncharacteristic carelessness, he was telling her not to fuss
at this moment. He no more wanted to deal with an emotional student then he would with any other kind of mess. ‘Now, I'm sure we'll both be hearing from the dean's office in good time. You've got the notice there, and that has a little explanation of the process—'

‘Mr Thorpe!' His blatant desire to flee, as much as anything else, had broken Dulcie out of her stupor. He was her adviser. He was supposed to be her ally, her teacher, the one to lead her through the bureaucratic maze of the doctoral program. The sight of him rushing to abandon her sparked something inside her. Dulcie envisioned Mr Grey, his silky fur rising in anger, and she found her voice. ‘Mr Thorpe, I am not a plagiarist. I am innocent!'

He turned at her outburst, and she found herself facing a man she barely knew: white-faced and wide-eyed, he looked like a ghost. And not a friendly feline one.

‘Ms Schwartz!' He stumbled a bit over her name, and she saw that his lips were trembling. It dawned on her that he was terrified.

‘Mr Thorpe?' This was a complication she hadn't foreseen. For a moment, she almost forgot that she was the one under suspicion. ‘Are you OK?'

Maybe it was her words. Maybe it was her tone of voice, a little worried and solicitous. The balding scholar had taken a deep breath. At the same time, his color had gone from deathly white to red, and, once his lungs were full, he let go with an angry outburst.

‘In case you didn't remember, Ms Schwartz, I am the acting head of the department.' He paused to take more air in, turning even redder as he did. ‘Acting! And while the administration has been quite content to have me fulfill the duties of your former adviser, the great Professor Bullock, it has been loath to grant me the full title, or the requisite compensation that should come with the job. Until today, I had great hopes that this semester would change all that. That my contribution, sizeable as it has been and will continue to be, would be recognized, and that I would be granted the title with all the benefits that confers.'

He had run out of steam by the end of his little tirade, but Dulcie had no response to make. Instead, she stood there, watching his narrow shoulders heave up and down from the exertion, and wondered how he had become the injured party in all of this.

‘Mr Thorpe,' she finally managed, working to keep her voice steady. ‘I am the person who has been falsely accused here.'

‘
Falsely?
' He started to inhale again, and Dulcie rushed to correct herself.

‘Wrongly, then,' she amended. ‘But really, Mr Thorpe, I didn't do anything – anything unethical.' For a moment, her doubts sprang up. Her attempt to meet Melinda, the manuscript, Darlene. That moment of doubt must have shown in her face, because Thorpe took the occasion to pounce.

‘Really, Ms Schwartz. I know how anxious you've been, and clearly I should have been keeping a closer eye on your research procedures. I do not know with any certainty what lengths you would go to. What I do know is that through the randomness of an assignment, my professional career is now staked to yours. I trust that by the time you are called to account, you will have a better defense than “I didn't do it”.'

With that, he shoved what looked like a day planner into his bag and buckled it shut. With a nod to his charge, he walked up to the main door of the office and out – leaving it open as the broadest possible hint that she had no reason to remain.

In retrospect, Dulcie would wish she had. Left alone in the dean's office, she could have looked at the papers on his desk. Perhaps uncovered some trace of who had accused her – or what evidence they claimed to have. At that moment, however, Thorpe's dramatic exit seemed to take all the oxygen out of the room, and Dulcie grabbed up her own bag and stumbled, gasping, out of the office, down the stairs, and back into the improbably nice day.

‘I
don't believe it.' Lloyd was shaking his head. ‘I mean, I know you aren't a plagiarist, Dulcie. That wasn't even a question. What I don't believe is that anyone thinks you are.'

‘Thorpe does.' For Dulcie, it was still sinking in. Sitting here, in the Science Center café with her friends, she was beginning to accept the reality of the charges. ‘He actually questioned my research methods.'

‘That bastard.' Trista was drumming her fingers on the tabletop, barely able to sit still. ‘There's only one cure for sadists like that.'

A part of Dulcie wanted to follow up on Trista's intriguing statement – a very small part. Knowing Trista, the ‘cure' would be almost as nasty as the accusation, but likely more physical. Most of her, however, was still stunned. Despite the rapid gathering of her friends, and the liberal application of both cocoa and chocolate chip cookies, Dulcie still felt dazed.

‘What exactly are you accused of, anyway?' Lloyd reached for the letter. Dulcie had shown it to her friends, and they'd all read the charges. ‘It just says “plagiarism”. It doesn't name any example. I mean, your article went through peer review, right?'

Dulcie nodded, her head heavy. ‘I don't think it's the article. I think it's what I'm working on with my thesis.'

‘But that hasn't been published yet.' Lloyd looked at Dulcie, who shrugged. ‘This is beginning to sound like a thought crime.'