Murder Is Academic

by Christine Poulson

  Stephen cleared his throat. He pressed his foot against mine. The room was getting stuffy. A trickle of sweat was making its way between my breasts. My eyelids were closing. I jerked them up. How long had we been sitting there? I’d lost track of time. It could have been five minutes, it could have been twenty.

  The sun clouded over. The room grew darker. There was a draught across the back of my neck. The sounds in the street were fading away. No, not fading away, but taking on a distant reverberant quality as if I were underwater. Something was happening; the air seemed to be getting thicker, my hands were tingling. I felt queasy. It was as though the air was suddenly alive, electric. A dark pit was opening up in front of me. I grabbed Stephen’s hand, but I couldn’t help myself. I was falling forward, head-first.

  * * *

  The garden shimmered and rocked in the heat. Sunlight flickered through the trees and threw up dazzling reflections from the pool. I squinted, my eyes watering as I tried to look into the water. This time I had to know what was there. I saw a dark, swollen face. I wanted to scream, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. A sour wave of nausea was rising up in my throat. I pressed forward, but my limbs felt heavy as if I was trying to force them through something dense and viscous. I was falling back, losing my footing. Suddenly I was gasping and spluttering as the cold water splashed up around me.

  * * *

  I broke the surface of the water. I was clutching someone’s hand.

  ‘Darling, it’s all right, I’m here. It’s all right, it’s all right.’

  Stephen’s face was looking down at me. I touched my face; it was wet.

  ‘We were splashing your face to try and bring you round.’

  Beyond him I could see two pale discs. I tried to bring them into focus. They were faces. One was Merfyn. What was he doing in Margaret’s garden? I couldn’t quite place the other one. I felt weak and dizzy and sick.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You fainted, that’s all,’ Stephen said.

  Merfyn looked shaken. His hair was standing up where he had run his hands through it. Stephen was looking stern, disapproving even. Only Ingrid seemed unperturbed.

  ‘Don’t move until you really feel better,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and make some tea in a minute.’

  ‘I thought you were going into a trance,’ Merfyn said. ‘Perhaps you’re psychic.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Ingrid said briskly.

  ‘But is she going to be all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Right as rain. She just needs to put her feet up a bit more.’

  Stephen looked puzzled. ‘But, what…’

  Now it was Ingrid’s turn to look puzzled. She turned to me.

  ‘You don’t know?’ she said.

  But quite suddenly I did know. The lethargy, the dizziness … A series of images and sensations flashed through my mind: Stephen’s wet face pressed against mine, clothes discarded on the bedroom floor, a wine glass shattering.

  It wasn’t delayed shock after all.

  I was pregnant.

  * * *

  An hour later I was sitting on the toilet lid in the bathroom at the Old Granary. We had gone straight home with only a detour to a chemist’s. I looked again at the diagram in the leaflet. ‘If two blue bars appear in the larger window, the test is positive.’ It was straightforward enough, but somehow I couldn’t get a grip on it. I looked at the white plastic wand again. Yes, there were still two blue bars in the larger of the two perspex windows.

  Stephen opened the bathroom door.

  ‘Cass?’ he said anxiously.

  I nodded and handed him the wand. His gaze moved from my face to the wand and back again. I couldn’t read anything in his face except pure astonishment. He looked stunned.

  Then he turned on his heels and made for the door. He disappeared through it and I heard his feet on the bare floorboards of the stairs. There was a rumbling sound, like a little avalanche, and a muffled oath. In his hurry he must have dislodged one of the piles of books that lined the treads.

  I was only mildly surprised. I went over to the bedroom window to see if Stephen was emerging from the house. Did I really expect to see him get in his car and drive away? I had no idea. I had reached that state of numbness where anything seems possible. Margaret, the least accidental person in the world, had died in an accident; Merfyn believed he was in touch with the spirit world, and now I was pregnant. One thing didn’t seem much more surprising than another.

  The sun was setting. Shafts of dazzling golden light struck through billowing clouds of pink and orange and dove-grey. The sky had all the splendour of a rococo altarpiece. I was still admiring it when I heard footsteps coming back up the stairs. Stephen appeared with a bottle of Bushmills 5 Years Old Malt and two cut-glass tumblers.

  ‘My best Irish whiskey,’ I said. ‘Are we celebrating?’

  ‘Well, are we?’

  ‘I don’t know. I simply don’t know.’

  He poured me a drink. I looked at it doubtfully.

  ‘You’ve been drinking up till now.’ he pointed out. ‘One more won’t make much difference. Anyway you’ve had a shock. For medicinal purposes…’

  ‘Just a small one.’

  I took the glass of whiskey and breathed in its perfume. I took a sip and let the sweet peaty liquor warm my mouth. When I swallowed it, the heat spread through my chest. It seemed to brace me immediately.

  We sat down together on the bed. Stephen took my hand.

  ‘How could it have happened?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing’s a hundred per cent reliable, is it?’

  ‘You didn’t forget to take a Pill?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Of course, I immediately began to wonder if I had forgotten. Surely, I would have noticed, wouldn’t I? But so much had happened, I’d been so busy. Perhaps after all …

  ‘I suppose you do feel certain?’

  ‘It says on the packet that the test’s 98‰ accurate, but Stephen, that’s not all. I’ve missed a period.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘It’s not that unusual for me. I thought it was the shock of Margaret’s death … stress at work.’

  ‘But you’ll check with the doctor, yes?’

  ‘First thing on Monday morning.’

  The whiskey was leaving a sour taste in my mouth. I handed my glass to Stephen. The shock was wearing off, but so was the bracing effect of the alcohol. I felt the first flutterings of panic.

  ‘What on earth am I going to do?’

  ‘We, what are we going to do?’ Stephen corrected me.

  ‘How can I have a baby now? I’ve just taken over as head of department, I’m fighting to save it from closure; I can’t just suddenly disappear for six months or whatever!’

  ‘Look, Cassandra, this isn’t any time for beating about the bush. So I’ll say right away that I’m very willing to get married, help you look after the child and so on, if that’s what you want.’

  But was it? At that moment I had no idea what I wanted. I didn’t want to have my hand forced like this. It was all happening too fast. I wasn’t ready to get married again, perhaps I never would be ready. How much better if Stephen and I could go on indefinitely as we were; leading independent lives, spending the night together at weekends, even going on holiday together occasionally, but always returning to our own separate homes. I liked having Stephen as a visitor, but I didn’t want to live with him. So how could we raise a child together?

  I could feel Stephen’s shoulder trembling against mine. I turned and looked into his face. His mouth was twitching. For a moment I couldn’t read his expression. Then I understood. ‘You’re laughing!’

  ‘What a way to find out! You gave me the shock of my life! I only just managed to catch you in time. You should have seen Merfyn’s face. He really thought you were going into a trance!’

  ‘Perhaps he thought I was going to finish his book for him! Oh, Lord, I didn’t get very far with disabusing him, did I? You don�
��t think Ingrid really is psychic?’

  ‘Of course not. A lucky guess. You heard what she said, she works for an obstetrician! I suppose she sees hundreds of pregnant women every week.’

  * * *

  We spent the next day, Sunday, as we often did. We read the papers in bed, had a leisurely lunch and in the late afternoon we went to Evensong at Ely Cathedral. I am never quite sure where I stand on the God question, but I love the beauty and dignity of the 1552 Prayer Book and the Cathedral service has the power to lift me above the mundane. On that occasion it helped to give some order to my tangled thoughts and emotions. Listening to the pure, high voices of the boys in the choir floating up into the octagonal tower, my eyes prickled with tears. Stephen took my hand and squeezed it tightly.

  That evening we went round to Malcolm’s to return Margaret’s rug and painting. While Stephen got them out of the boot of the car, I rang the doorbell. The lantern above the doorway of Malcolm’s house sent out a watery, yellow light, illuminating the dark, gnarled shapes of the roses in the central flower-bed. Even in the dimness I could see that they had not been dead-headed. The gravel drive was scored with ruts.

  I’d spoken several times to Malcolm on the telephone, but I hadn’t seen him since the inquest. He looked much better. His face looked younger, more relaxed, though some of the deeper lines I’d noticed after the funeral were still there.

  ‘Good of you to bring those things round,’ he said. ‘Come in for a drink, won’t you?’

  We left the picture and the rug in the hall and followed him into the sitting-room.

  As Macolm busied himself with the drinks, I glanced around. The room was clean and tidy enough, though it wasn’t as immaculate as it had been in Margaret’s day. I noticed a box of Playmobil next to the sofa, and a copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on one of the chairs. Malcolm followed the direction of my eyes. He smiled.

  ‘Those are Ellie’s. Jane’s little girl. I sometimes keep an eye on her when Jane’s got an evening surgery. It’s the least I can do. Jane’s been a tower of strength over the last few months.’

  ‘So you’re managing well enough?’ I asked.

  ‘Not too badly. I’m beginning to think about some kind of memorial for her. Perhaps some sort of scholarship. I think she would have approved of that. Mineral water, you said?’ He handed me a glass. ‘And I’d like to put together a volume of her unpublished work…’

  He was too nice to remind me that this was something I ought to be taking care of, and this made me feel even more guilty.

  ‘I know I said I’d be literary executor, Malcolm, and I want to do it, it’s just … well, I’ve been so busy. But let me have the rest of Margaret’s papers and I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Of course, I understand,’ Malcolm said. ‘It can’t be easy having to take over the department.’

  For a moment I was tempted to tell him about my pregnancy. I realized that I was beginning to get used to the idea, was even looking forward to seeing people’s reactions to the news. Did this mean that I had actually decided to go ahead?

  It wasn’t until we were in the hall, about to leave, that I suddenly remembered. ‘The little lacquer box from Margaret’s desk, I forgot to bring it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You keep it,’ Malcolm saw me hesitate. ‘It’s not valuable. I bought it for a few dollars in St Petersburg, but it’s pretty, isn’t it? I’d like you to have something of Margaret’s.’

  ‘It’s beautifully painted,’ I said. ‘Do you know what the subject is on the lid?’

  ‘Margaret thought it was the Snow Queen.’

  ‘Of course, I knew it looked familiar. Thank you, Malcolm. I’ll keep it on my desk to remind me of her.’

  As we drove away, Stephen said, ‘Good old Jane.’

  ‘It’s funny, you know, that time in the churchyard – the day of Margaret’s funeral – I got the impression that she didn’t like him very much,’ I said.

  ‘I wonder if there’s a Mr Jane.’

  ‘Surely, you don’t think…?’

  ‘Oh, probably there’s nothing more to it than good neighbourliness. All the same, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to hear of Malcolm marrying again.’

  ‘He was devoted to Margaret.’

  ‘Exactly. He liked being married, he’s used to it. You mark my words, sooner or later – and it’ll probably be sooner – he’ll be looking around for someone else. It’s the people who haven’t enjoyed being married who don’t want to try it again.’

  I realized that he was probably right, but there was something depressing about the thought. And where does that leave the two of us? I wondered.

  ‘I wonder why they didn’t have children, Malcolm and Margaret, I mean?’ Stephen said.

  ‘I really don’t know. I’d always assumed that it was because she was so taken up with her career.’

  But perhaps it wasn’t that. I thought of the toys scattered around the sitting-room and the warmth of Malcolm’s voice as he’d spoken of Ellie. Stephen was right. Probably he would marry again. Perhaps he might even have children. Before my second divorce that was something I had hoped for, and there had seemed so much time in front of me. And now I was thirty-eight. It might soon be too late. And in any case could I really face having an abortion?

  I pulled up outside Stephen’s flat and put on the handbrake.

  ‘I’m going to have the baby,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure? If you felt you couldn’t … I mean, I don’t suppose it would be too late…’

  ‘Yes, it would. For me it would. She’s here now.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Oh, all right, maybe he. Of course, it’s perhaps not the most convenient time…’

  ‘We’ll manage.’ He put an arm round my shoulder and hugged me awkwardly across the gearstick.

  ‘But one thing,’ I said, disengaging myself. ‘Let’s not think about marriage just yet. We don’t have to rush into anything. We can go on as we are for now, can’t we?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘But if you want to come and stay tonight…’

  Chapter Nine

  I lay back in bed and listened to Stephen having a shower in the bathroom next door. The sound of the running water was soothing. Through the window I saw clouds drifting across a moonlit sky. How extraordinary it was that in just one weekend everything could have changed so completely. It was a daunting thought, but now that I was getting used to it, a fountain of excitement was welling up inside me. It would be spring when the baby came. A good time with the summer ahead and a good time to have maternity leave, too. Would it perhaps be sensible to consider moving back into Cambridge? I’d heard that there was a good nursery in Barton Road. But no, I couldn’t leave the Old Granary, and my mother … she’d want to meet Stephen now. Oh, Lord. Well, I wouldn’t worry about that yet. What a wonderful excuse to buy some more books. At the first opportunity I’d raid the pregnancy and child care section in Waterstone’s.

  I was almost asleep when the phone rang. I sat up and fumbled on the bedside table. The telephone was balanced on top of a couple of books. It toppled off, taking the books with it, and landed on the floor with a thud and a tinkle. With an effort, I bent down over the side of the bed and made a grab for it.

  A tiny sound like the buzz of an angry bee issued from the receiver.

  As I put it to my ear, I heard Lawrence saying, ‘Cassandra? Cassandra? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, hello, Lawrence.’

  ‘I tried to get hold of you earlier. You’ve been out all day,’ he stated. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid, very bad news. One of your third-year students, Rebecca Westerley, I’m ringing from Addenbrooke’s. She’s in Intensive Care.’

  ‘Intensive Care? But, what…?’

  ‘She’s got a fractured skull. It’s too soon apparently to tell if she’s going to survive, and even if she does, there may be brain damage.’

  ‘An accident? Her bicycle?’

  That was an all
too common occurrence in Cambridge, though the results weren’t usually as serious as this.

  ‘No. I’m afraid it was a deliberate attack.’

  Stephen came whistling out of the bathroom with a towel round his waist. As soon as he saw my face, he stopped in his tracks. I watched the water trickling down his legs and soaking into the rug as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

  ‘It must have happened last night, but she wasn’t found until this morning,’ Lawrence was saying. ‘She had hypothermia. It’s lucky it wasn’t a very cold night.’

  ‘She was attacked? Was she—?’

  ‘Raped? The police aren’t saying as yet. Her parents drove down from Newcastle this morning. I went to Addenbrooke’s with them, and I’ve left them there waiting by Rebecca’s bedside. I know you will want to speak to them yourself in due course, Cassandra.’

  ‘Of course. You’ll let me know the instant there’s any more news, won’t you?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  * * *

  I was late getting into my office on Monday morning. A visit to the doctor had confirmed that I was about four months pregnant. The first thing I saw as I sat down was my diary lying open on the desk. The appointment with Rebecca was written in for ten o’clock. If it hadn’t been for this assault, she might be sitting opposite me now instead of lying unconscious in Addenbrooke’s. What might she be telling me at this very moment? The thought nagged at me. I spent almost the whole day in my office so as to be near the phone. I kept remembering Rebecca’s anger and misery when I had last seen her, the sulky eyes refusing to meet mine, the noise of the slammed door reverberating down the corridor. The thought popped into my head that the attack had something to do with me, that perhaps it was somehow my fault. Irrational, yes, but once I had entertained the idea even for a moment it wouldn’t leave me alone. I found myself going over and over our conversation, trying to remember her words, the nuances of facial expression.