Murder Is Academic

by Christine Poulson

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I think it would be best if I stayed on here. I don’t feel I can let you live alone while all this is going on.’

  The chicken breasts landed on the work surface with a little thud. ‘Can’t let me?’

  ‘Don’t jump down my throat. As Jim pointed out, it’s very isolated here.’

  I looked at him suspiciously. ‘What did you say to him before I got here? Did you put him up to warning me?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that! But if it had been, could you really blame me? If you’re right about Rebecca’s death, then there’s someone out there who is prepared to walk into a busy hospital and murder someone in their bed.’

  I leaned over the table and took hold of his hand.

  ‘O?, sorry I snapped, but surely you don’t want to drive in and out of Cambridge during the rush hour every day?’

  ‘All right: why don’t you move in with me, then?’

  ‘Oh, sweetie, I can’t do that. I need my study and all my books. And what about Bill Bailey? He’d be miserable in your flat. We mustn’t feel stampeded into a decision we might regret.’

  ‘I really would feel happier if I was out here with you, Cass. It needn’t be permanent, if you don’t want it to be.’

  He had a point. I thought of the long dark evenings, and the night when I had been so startled by Bill Bailey – and that had been before Rebecca’s death. True, there were new security lights on the house and by the gate. I’d had to take out a bank loan to buy them. But how much protection did they really give? The Old Granary was half a mile away from the nearest farm, and there was the baby to consider now. I was slower, more vulnerable. I was carrying a heavy cargo and sailing lower in the water.

  Stephen squeezed my hand. I looked into his face. The bandage around his head had gone, but there were still scratches on his cheek and a bruise on his forehead. I thought of that moment on the side of the cliff when Stephen had snatched his hand away from mine so as not to imperil our unborn child.

  ‘O?,’ I said. ‘Let’s give it a try. At least until Rebecca’s murderer has been found.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  That was Friday evening. When I arrived in college on Monday morning, the police were already there. I was impressed and rather taken aback by the speed of this reaction. The college was buzzing with activity. I had instigated all this disruption. It was as thought I had poked an ants’ nest with a stick.

  By the porter’s lodge, students were hanging about in little groups speaking sotto voce. I looked at their serious young faces and felt sorry that this shadow had fallen upon them. For all their bravado and adoption of streetwise manners, they weren’t much more than children who were upset by Rebecca’s death and disturbed by this disruption of the everyday. I didn’t really think that they had much to fear from the police enquiries. Their defiance of the law wasn’t likely to go much further than breaking the speed limit or smoking the occasional joint, but I could understand their unease. I had that familiar feeling that the presence of authority always arouses in me, that somehow without knowing it, or perhaps without remembering it, I had transgressed, and now I was going to be found out.

  At the lodge, John was busy with the switchboard and his usual place by the counter had been taken over by a police constable who was ticking off names on a list and arranging interviews. It was as if the college had been taken over by an alien occupying force.

  The constable knew immediately who I was. ‘Oh, yes, Dr James, you’re the girl’s tutor, aren’t you? Chief Inspector Hutchinson would like to see you as soon as possible. I wonder if you could go along to the interview room right away?’

  When I was ushered in, I saw two men sitting at the big central table. One was a burly man, probably in his forties and completely bald, the other was dark and cadaverous and much younger.,

  The burly man got heavily to his feet and extended a hand. He had the yellow fingers of a heavy smoker.

  ‘Dr James?’ he said. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Hutchinson.’

  He introduced his sergeant and waved me to a seat opposite the two of them.

  The interview room was actually the teaching room where I held my seminars on Victorian poetry. Usually I was the one asking the questions in here. Today there were butterflies in my stomach and my mouth was dry. I could smell the stale cigarette smoke coming off Inspector Hutchinson’s clothes even from the other side of the table. There was a packet of Silk Cut lying in front of him like a mascot.

  ‘A bad business this,’ he said. ‘Let me begin by thanking you for coming forward. Inspector Ferguson has passed on what you told him. Now let me see…’ He turned over one of the papers on the table. ‘I’ve got a summary of it here.’

  He read it out. I was impressed by its concision. My opinion of Jim rose even higher.

  ‘Anything to add to that?’ he said.

  I shook my head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Right then. So, we need to know where you were yourself on the evening of Saturday 14 October, and also last Wednesday afternoon.’

  ‘On 14 October I was with my boyfriend. We spent the night together.’

  He glanced down at his summary. ‘That would be Mr Stephen Newley?’

  I nodded. ‘And last week I was actually at the hospital.’

  ‘That’s right. We’ve got a statement from Rebecca’s mother saying that she was with you from the moment you arrived in the ward until you both returned to the hospital after the fire alarm. And the security guard gave us a good description of you.’ He smiled. ‘Everyone remembers a pregnant woman.’

  Emboldened by this pleasantry – though also resenting it somewhat – I asked him if there really had been a fire.

  ‘A small one. In the staff toilets on the fifth floor, in a wastebin. Could have been caused by someone having a sneaky fag and being careless. It’s strictly no smoking everywhere in the hospital. It’s going the same way everywhere. Even down at the station,’ he added sourly.

  ‘And Rebecca? Do you know what it was? What happened at the post-mortem?’

  He picked up the packet of cigarettes, examined it, and put it back on the table. For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to reply. Then he raised his head. Two shrewd, rather bloodshot brown eyes met mine.

  ‘Not as yet.’

  I wasn’t sure that I believed him.

  ‘I don’t think we need detain you any longer, Dr James.’

  As I closed the door behind me, I heard him say to his sergeant, ‘For pity’s sake, find me an ashtray, would you?’

  * * *

  The Senior Common Room was crowded and buzzing with conversation. Over by one of the big sash windows, Aiden, Alison, Merfyn and Cathy were sitting on two sofas on either side of a low coffee table. As I threaded my way through the little groups of people and shabby overstuffed sofas, Aiden saw me coming and moved over to make room for me. I sank down onto the sofa beside him. It was a tight squeeze.

  Merfyn was looking gloomy.

  ‘It’s a bloody nuisance to have to postpone my seminar on “Literature and Imperialism”,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to find another slot for it so near the end of term. If you ask me, the police are being over-zealous. They can’t seriously think anyone here is responsible for the attack on Rebecca. They’re clutching at straws.’

  For once Aiden seemed to agree with him. ‘Trying to deflect attention from their complete lack of progress,’ he said, nodding.

  ‘Perhaps they know something that we don’t,’ Cathy said.

  Silence followed this remark.

  Alison said. ‘You’ve already had your interview, haven’t you, Cass? What did they ask you?’

  I hesitated, although Inspector Hutchinson hadn’t actually asked me not to say anything. I looked at the four people whose faces were turned expectantly towards me. They looked just as they always did. Merfyn, sitting opposite, was wearing a tweed suit complete with waistcoat, watch chain and red silk handkerchief overflowing from his breas
t pocket. He was leaning forward with his clasped hands dangling between his knees. Aiden, lounging beside me, was wearing a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, black jeans and Doc Martens. Beyond him was Cathy in her favourite red sweater with a cup of coffee in her hand: as usual her reading glasses were on top of her head, nestling in dark hair that was as springy as heather. Alison was sitting next to Merfyn, the review section of the Guardian open on the lap of her blue woollen dress. It seemed ludicrous to imagine that one of them might be a cold-blooded killer. ‘A cold-blooded killer’! With what readiness that cliché of tabloid journalism had sprung into my mind! What was happening to me? I was letting my imagination run away with me, that was what.

  I said, ‘They wanted to know what I was doing on the day that Rebecca was attacked, and between two o’clock and five o’clock on the afternoon that she died.’

  Cathy and Aiden both spoke at once.

  ‘Last Wednesday?’

  ‘But surely—?’

  Cathy gestured to Aiden to continue. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘that can’t be important.’ Understanding dawned. ‘Unless…’

  The same thought appeared to be registering on the faces of the others. No-one wanted to complete the sentence.

  Merfyn said, ‘They’re going to be asking us all where we were last Wednesday afternoon?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s just routine,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a bit awkward all the same.’

  ‘Why, where were you?’ Aiden asked.

  Merfyn said nothing, but he gave me a glance that was clearly intended to be full of significance; I had no idea what it meant.

  Aiden laughed. ‘Man of mystery.’

  ‘I suppose you can account for your own whereabouts?’ Merfyn said coldly.

  ‘I spent the afternoon in the university library.’

  ‘See anyone you know?’

  ‘Oh, stop it, you two,’ Alison snapped. ‘You’re like rutting stags, always trying to score points off each other.’

  Merfyn looked indignant. Aiden grinned. He sat back and crossed his legs. He was wearing his sardonic Jack Nicholson look, but he wasn’t as relaxed as he pretended to be. He was tapping his foot rapidly on the floor. Where his leg was touching mine on the sofa I could feel the vibration.

  ‘Anyway,’ Alison went on, ‘I don’t suppose for a moment that you’ll be the only ones who’ll find it difficult to account for their whereabouts.’

  Aiden and Merfyn needling each other, just as they always did, and Alison mildly irritated by them, just as she always was. There had been dozens of mornings like this. Except that Margaret wasn’t there and a student was dead; two students, in fact, I reminded myself.

  ‘Two students and the head of department in – what? – six months, nine months?’ Aiden said. It was as though he had read my mind. ‘You can’t blame the police for wanting to poke about a bit.’

  There was silence around the table.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Must go. I want to get over to the library.’

  He stood up.

  As we followed him to the door, Cathy fell into step beside me.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I checked the list of college undergraduates for an Annabelle, but we haven’t got a student of that name. Why did you want to know?’

  ‘Oh, it was just a rather strange wrong number,’ I said.

  Aiden must have paused momentarily because Cathy trod on his heel and bumped into him. He turned and darted a sharp glance at me.

  It was that glance that reminded me. Annabelle was the name on the piece of paper that Aiden had snatched from my hand. Annabelle Fairchild. But I didn’t have time to think what that might mean because Merfyn was touching me on the arm.

  ‘Can I come and see you, Cass? This afternoon?’

  * * *

  ‘It’s very awkward,’ Merfyn said.

  I was sitting behind my desk and he was sitting beside it on the upright chair that I usually reserve for students.

  ‘Last Wednesday,’ he went on. ‘You see, I was with Ingrid. At least for the first part of the afternoon. It’s embarrassing, having to tell the police that I was at a séance.’

  Don’t worry, I nearly said, they already know, but I stopped myself in time.

  Instead I said, ‘All the same, I really think you should.’

  ‘I thought I’d better have a word with you first. You did say that you didn’t want it to get around.’

  ‘Just as a matter of interest, what were you doing the rest of the afternoon?’

  ‘Oh,’ Merfyn raised his eyebrows and shrugged, ‘just wandering around, thinking things through.’

  He stood up to leave.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ I said firmly. ‘Sit down, Merfyn.’

  He seated himself reluctantly.

  ‘How is it going now, the book?’

  ‘Oh, much better, in many ways. I’m plugging on with it and I’m getting encouraging responses from Conan Doyle.’

  I sighed. It went against the grain to act as though I accepted this, but if Merfyn really was making progress.…

  ‘In what ways isn’t it going well?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said, in most ways it’s going well. That suggests that there are ways in which it isn’t.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Our eyes met and Merfyn looked away quickly. I picked up a pencil and began to tap it softly on my desk. I realized that I was behaving exactly like Lawrence and put it down again immediately.

  The silence stretched out between us.

  Merfyn pulled the red silk handkerchief out of his top pocket and blew his nose with a loud trumpeting sound. This seemed to give him confidence. He stuffed the handkerchief away in his trouser pocket with an air of decision.

  ‘There are problems with the publishers,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t they like it?’

  ‘No, no, they think what they’ve seen is first-rate.’

  ‘Well, then?’ I sat back and spread out my hands. ‘Where’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, about a week ago, a message came through from Conan Doyle. He wants the book to be translated.’ He hesitated.

  ‘Translated? You mean German? French? What?’ I found that I was fiddling with my pencil again.

  ‘He says he wants the message of spiritualism to reach the widest possible audience. He wants my book to be published in Esperanto.’

  I dropped my pencil. It rolled off the desk onto the wooden floor.

  ‘The thing is,’ Merfyn went on, ‘Esperanto was all the rage when he died in 1930. He’s sure it must have become a universal language by now. He won’t take any notice when I try to explain that no one uses it. He says that St Etheldreda’s was founded to further internationalism and that we ought to lead the way. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  He looked as if he was on the verge of tears.

  My mouth was hanging open. I closed it. For a while I didn’t feel anything, nothing at all. Then I did feel something, but I didn’t know what it was. It hit me like a shot of neat vodka. It was anger: pure, white-hot, liberating anger.

  Merfyn seemed to sense what was coming. His eyes opened wide. He pressed himself against the back of his chair.

  ‘You don’t know what to do?’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you what you are going to do, Merfyn. Are you listening?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Really listening?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘Good.’ I found I was enjoying this. ‘First let me make my own position quite clear. I do not believe that Conan Doyle has contacted you from beyond the grave. I do not believe that he is dictating your book to you or that he wants it published in Esperanto.’

  Merfyn opened his mouth to speak. I lifted up my hand. He closed it.

  ‘I can’t prove it. I don’t know for certain what happens to us when we die. But this I do know.’ My voice was rising. ‘I know that the problem of finishing this book is your problem, not Conan Doyle’s. And you are going to fini
sh it, make no mistake about it. It is all that stands between you and redundancy. In fact, it’s all that stands between all of us and redundancy. So I don’t want to hear a single word more about séances or writer’s block. I’ve had enough, Merfyn. I’ve reached the end of my rope.’

  I leaned as far forward as I could; given the fact that I was almost six months pregnant, it wasn’t all that far.

  ‘You’ll get off your backside,’ I said. ‘You will go away and you will write this book. You will finish it and get it published. In English!’

  I thumped my fist on the table. Merfyn flinched.

  ‘IS THAT CLEAR?’ I roared.

  He nodded. We regarded each other, our eyes locked, for a few seconds. Merfyn was the first to look away. He got up and left the room, closing the door very softly behind him.

  I felt intoxicated. Would losing my temper with Merfyn have done any good? Who knew? who cared? A sense of wellbeing and relaxation was permeating my entire body. It was like the relief that comes from a storm breaking. It didn’t last long. Intoxication never does. It soon ebbed away, leaving me wondering if I had been too histrionic. Reasoning with Merfyn hadn’t worked, so perhaps this would.

  My eye fell on a pile of student essays on the corner of my desk. I had tutorials with these students the next day. I sighed, and glanced at my watch. Five o’clock. It was time to collect Stephen from his first day back at work. I’d have to take the essays home with me.

  Already there was a touch of frost in the air and the glow from the porter’s lodge struck sparks of light from the pavement. I paused on the threshold to pull my hat down over my ears, and fumbled in my coat pockets for my gloves.

  The car park is tucked round the side of the college and is reached by a narrow path that runs along one of the residential wings. I’d been late that morning, so the car, Stephen’s Audi, was parked near the far end. This was a favourite spot in the summer because it was sheltered by a group of mature trees, but today, with my bulging briefcase pulling my shoulder down, the extra distance was irksome. The car park was pock-marked with shallow potholes in which delicate feathery films of ice were forming.

  I opened the car door and put my briefcase on the passenger seat. As I fastened my seat belt, my thoughts ran ahead to the Old Granary, a warm welcome from Bill Bailey, a pot of lapsang souchong tea. There were some crumpets left, too. If I got a move on, I could get through the essays in an hour and a half, a couple of hours at the most. Then dinner with Stephen, and an early night with an undemanding book, perhaps not a crime novel. There was a copy of the latest Anne Tylor novel that I hadn’t started yet.