Grey Expectations by Clea Simon Page B

substantial – and as tall – as Thorpe, even while seated at the conference table. Almost as tall, Dulcie noted, daring a glance at the visitor, as the university police officer who stood behind him to his right.
    What he was doing here was a mystery, but his presence had subdued the usual hum of speculation. She stole another peek at the big man. Yes, it was whom she thought: Dr Gustav Coffin, head of Widener’s rare book collection and university legend. Dr Coffin, rumor had it, had built the priceless Mildon rare book library through a combination of charm and bulldog-like tenacity, bullying donors and experts alike to contribute to his own personal climate-controlled fiefdom. Immune to the vagaries of the stock market, which had played such havoc with the university investments as a whole, he had emerged from the jet-setting world of private philanthropy and commanded respect far beyond the halls of academe. It was said he had his own personal keys to the Mildon Collection rooms, set deep within Widener’s stacks. And that when he did emerge, it was to fly to New York or London to secure some new prize, or to consult for the Met, the Louvre, or the Hermitage.
    Every day he worked with the kind of treasures Dulcie and her colleagues only dreamed about, she realized, swallowing hard. But they never seemed to make him happy. Whether it was because of a graduate student disturbing him with another request, or because he was in the midst of dismissing yet one more university request for tighter budgeting when it came to conservation or restoration, he was known as much for his temper as that stone-carved scowl. This morning he looked positively thunderous.
    Now he turned and glowered at Dulcie and at Trista, who had taken an extra few seconds to scuttle to her seat.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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—’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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
    â€˜ 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.
    â€˜The Dunster