Murder Is Academic

by Christine Poulson

  It took me a moment to realize that, although I had turned the key in the ignition, nothing had happened. I tried again. Still nothing.

  The battery was completely dead.

  The perfect end to a perfect day.

  I folded my arms on the steering wheel and laid my head down.

  Soon I’d go back to the porter’s lodge, sort the situation out, be my normal competent self. But just for a second I needed to surrender to the awfulness of everything and the cussedness of inanimate objects.

  I buried my head deeper into the cradle of my arms.

  That was why I didn’t hear the footsteps approaching the car and why I jumped as if I’d been electrocuted when I heard the tap on the window.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alison’s anxious face was looking in at me. I put my finger on the button for the electric window, forgetting that it wouldn’t work. With a sigh I opened the door.

  ‘You OK there?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, yes. I was just allowing myself to feel miserable for a bit. The car won’t start. I think it’s the battery.’

  I dragged my briefcase over the passenger seat, cursing as I caught it on the hand-brake, and struggled out of the car.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll go back into college and ring Stephen, ask him to get a taxi and come over to pick me up as well. No point in ringing the garage until first thing in the morning. They’ll have gone home by now.’

  ‘I was wanting to have a word with you anyway, Cass, I’ll walk back with you. Here, let me take that.’

  She reached for my briefcase. I surrendered it to her.

  ‘What on earth have you got in there? Bricks? Gold bullion?’

  ‘If only. Let me see.’ I counted them off on my fingers. ‘Laptop, batch of student essays, proofs of an article – overdue – two books that should have been back at the university library last week, and a kind of compost of unanswered correspondence. My briefcase is a mobile pending tray.’

  ‘You won’t have had a chance to look at my article yet, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s in there too, Ali. But I have skimmed through it, and read the beginning. I thought it looked terrific.’

  ‘I’ve got some good news. I sent a copy to the editor of Literary Women and he rang me this afternoon to say that he’s got an unexpected gap in the Spring edition. He wants to use it.’

  I was impressed. It was quite a prestigious journal. ‘It’ll be a great boost to our research profile. And wonderful ammunition against Lawrence. He’s been on my back about the RAE submission.’

  ‘Well, you’ve had other things on your mind, haven’t you?’

  We walked in silence, thinking about those other things.

  Alison said, ‘Any news yet about Rebecca’s funeral?’

  ‘No. I suppose the family will have to wait for the police to release the body. I don’t know when that’s likely to be.’

  ‘Poor Rebecca,’ Alison said. ‘And even if she had survived, what kind of life would she have had? Perhaps she would have been dependent on other people for everything.’

  Her voice was troubled. I looked at her. We were just passing under a light. It caught the single lock of white in her hair and emphasized the pallor of her face.

  ‘Death isn’t always the worst thing that can happen, is it?’

  She’s not really talking about Rebecca, I thought.

  ‘Paul’s worse, isn’t he?’ I said.

  She nodded.

  We reached the porter’s lodge. I said, ‘When I’ve rung Stephen, let’s go and have a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’

  Tea was being cleared away from the Senior Common Room, but we were just in time to grab a cup. The large room was deserted except for a solitary lecturer from the Spanish department reading the Daily Telegraph in the far corner.

  When we had settled ourselves, Alison said, ‘It’s his eyes at the moment. He’s having trouble focusing. He can still cook, just about, but he can’t read without getting a terrible headache.’

  I felt a pang of sympathy. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than not being able to read. What was it that Logan Pearsall Smith wrote? ‘People say life is the thing, but I prefer reading.’ I often think that should be my motto.

  ‘He’s been like this before, hasn’t he?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. It may well improve, so I mustn’t make too much of it. I’m probably just tired. We’ve had a few bad nights lately, and I’ve been working hard, too.’

  I nodded. She was about to say something more. Her lips parted, her eyes met mine. Then she seemed to think better of it.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  She pushed back her hair.

  ‘Well, I was wondering – the thing is, it’s a bit ghoulish – about the RAE – will we be able to count Margaret’s work? If there was stuff that was just about finished, but hadn’t been published, well, could we get it published and use it for the RAE? Or is that too macabre?’

  I turned it over in my mind.

  ‘Do you know?’ I replied slowly. ‘I think you’ve got something there. Malcolm did ask me if I would see about getting her unpublished work into print, but that’s another thing I haven’t had time to do. There is a lot of stuff, mostly on disk fortunately. He let me have it months ago and I haven’t looked at it since. I’ll have to ask Lawrence about the policy for posthumous publication. There might be things that are almost ready. Or joint publication could be a possibility.’

  The lecturer from the Spanish department folded up his newspaper. He switched off the standard lamp by his chair and left the room, nodding to us as he passed. We listened to his footsteps retreating down the corridor. The college was very quiet now and it was warm in the Senior Common Room. The only light came from the table lamp next to us. I stifled a yawn and slumped deeper into the sofa.

  ‘You won’t overdo things, will you?’ Alison said. ‘You should be taking things easy. With the baby coming, I mean. I’d be happy to help if I can.’

  I was touched by her concern. ‘You are kind, but it needs a nineteenth century specialist. I’ll get round to it sooner or later. After the end of term.’

  We sat in silence for a while.

  Alison asked, ‘What are you going to do when the baby’s born? About Stephen, I mean.’

  ‘He’d like to get married,’ I admitted.

  ‘But you’re still not sure?’

  ‘Oh, we’re good companions, yes, but … Oh, I just feel there’s something missing. I’m not sure what it is – passion? romance? But then, do I really want those, considering where they’ve got me in the past?’

  ‘Well, marriage is about the long haul, you know. Romance isn’t everything,’ Alison said with mock solemnity. ‘As my mother used to say, there’s more to marriage than—’

  ‘Four bare legs in a bed!’ we concluded together.

  ‘It’s a bloody good start, though,’ I said.

  ‘Looks to me as if you’ve already made a start!’

  We were still giggling like two schoolgirls sharing a dirty joke when Stephen appeared round the common room door.

  I struggled to my feet, feeling guilty. ‘You should have asked the porter or the cab driver to look for me,’ I said.

  ‘It’s better if I move around, I don’t get so stiff.’

  The three of us walked slowly together towards the porter’s lodge. Just as we reached the seminar room that the police were using for their interviews, the door opened and Aiden came out. He tried to smile at us, but he was obviously rattled. Without a word he brushed past us and walked off rapidly down the corridor.

  ‘So much for Mr Cool!’ said Alison.

  ‘I wonder what’s wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t spend last Wednesday in the library after all.’

  I said, ‘There probably isn’t any way of knowing for sure, if he didn’t see anyone he knew.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’ said Alison. There was a sardonic inflection in
her voice.

  I looked at her curiously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The library is doing a survey of reader use. They’re keeping a record of who uses the library, and the times they go in and out.’

  ‘But the information’s supposed to be confidential, isn’t it?’

  ‘How long do you think that will last in a murder inquiry?’

  ‘But surely you don’t think that Aiden’s involved? I mean, what possible reason could he have?’

  ‘No, no, I very much doubt that it’s got anything to do with the college at all, but he’s so bloody cocky. I’d just like to see him sweat a bit.’

  Stephen hadn’t uttered a word during this exchange. I looked at him for a response. He was leaning heavily on his aluminium crutch and was peering in the direction in which Aiden had gone.

  ‘That was Aiden, was it?’ he said. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

  ‘The college Christmas party?’ I suggested.

  ‘More recently than that.’ Stephen shook his head. ‘It’s maddening when that happens. I just can’t think where it was.’

  * * *

  ‘You little bugger!’ I shouted.

  I ran down the stairs to the sitting-room. Bill Bailey bounded ahead of me, sliding along on the wooden boards. He tore across the sitting-room floor, ears flat against his head, swerving like a racing driver to avoid the furniture. His tail disappeared round the corner of the stairs to the kitchen. He was in a skittish mood and anxious to prolong the morning game of hide-and-seek for as long as possible.

  I followed him over to the kitchen. With difficulty I got down on my knees and pulled the squirming bundle of fur out of the tangle of plastic bags in the space between the cooker and the fridge. I up-ended him and cradled him like a baby in my arms.

  ‘You rascal,’ I said.

  He purred and narrowed his eyes benignly, accepting that the game was over. I tucked him under one arm and stepped outside. Stephen was waiting by the gate, glancing impatiently at his watch. I pulled the door shut with my free hand and tipped the cat onto the ground. He sauntered down the path in the weak wintry sunshine, immediately absorbed in the sounds and smells of the garden.

  The low rays of the winter sun flashed off the water in the dyke and dazzled me as I drove along the track to the road. I drove as slowly as I could, but even so Stephen winced with every bump. I felt heavy and listless. I wanted to go back to sleep and couldn’t stop yawning. I hadn’t finished my marking until eleven o’clock the night before and then I had passed a restless night. I couldn’t remember exactly what I had dreamt, but it had left me feeling uneasy.

  On the way to my office, I looked in on Cathy. She was sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, kneading her scalp. When she looked up I saw that there were shadows under her eyes.

  ‘A migraine?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m hoping it won’t develop into that, I might just be tired. Hannah didn’t get in until one o’clock last night.’

  I tut-tutted in sympathy.

  ‘Selfish little cow,’ she said.

  I must have looked started because she added hastily, ‘Oh, I don’t mean that really. She’s only fourteen. I can’t expect her to understand just how much I worry.’

  ‘Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? Some paracetamol?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ve taken one of my special pills.’

  I was on my way out when she said, ‘Oh sorry, Cass, I almost forgot to tell you. Merfyn’s wife rang in. He’s ill and won’t be able to see his students today. I’ve put a note for them on his door.’

  When I reached my office, I sank into my chair with a groan and clasped my head. Yesterday’s euphoria seemed incomprehensible. How could I have kidded myself that losing my temper with Merfyn would do any good? I should have realized that retreat would be his instinctive response. Now I would probably never get another written word out of him. Perhaps I wouldn’t get any teaching from him either.

  The morning didn’t get any better. Half my students didn’t turn up. They were being interviewed by the police, or were waiting to be interviewed, or were using the situation as an excuse to bunk off. Those that did come were vague and distracted. Under the circumstances it was hard to expect them to work up much interest in the later work of Henry James. I didn’t feel very interested myself. I smiled to myself as I remembered how Margaret used to classify the novels of Henry James: James I, James II, and the Old Pretender. I made a note not to include The Wings of the Dove or The Golden Bowl on next year’s syllabus.

  By midday my head was throbbing. The office was stuffy. The ancient radiators, lumpy with many generations of peeling cream-coloured paint, were always too hot to touch; either that or they were stone cold. I opened the window and let a current of cool air refresh me. I was just deciding to buy a sandwich and an apple from the buttery when the telephone rang.

  ‘Car OK?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘The garage man’s coming out this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, good. I won’t come home with you this evening. I’ve got to work late and Rod’s going over to Ely, so he’ll give me a lift back later. And listen, I suddenly remembered where I saw Aiden. I was dictating a letter to a client as a follow-up to a meeting we had in the Garden House Hotel the Wednesday before last. That’s where he was – quite unmistakable, dressed all in black like an undertaker. And he was with a very attractive woman. They were walking through the reception together. Actually I noticed her first, because she was wearing a really beautiful camel coat, and the point is, I overheard him say: ‘Same time next week then.’ I remember that because, well, I thought all right for some.’

  ‘You thought…’

  ‘Yes, love in the afternoon. He was looking, well, elated is the only word.’

  ‘And it sounded as if they were going to meet again the next week? It’s bloody expensive there.’

  ‘Perhaps she was paying?’ Stephen suggested.

  ‘Annabelle,’ I said.

  ‘Annabelle?’

  I told him about the piece of paper that Aiden had snatched out of my hand, and about the mysterious phonecall.

  ‘What did she look like?’ I asked.

  There was a short silence. Then, ‘You know what, I’m not sure. I don’t think I really saw her face.’

  ‘So how do you know she was attractive?’

  ‘Only an attractive woman would wear a coat like that.’

  I knew what he meant.

  ‘And also…’ He fumbled for words. ‘Something about the way she carried herself. Her confidence. I think she was blonde, and another thing, she wasn’t young. I’m certain of that.’

  Instantly an image appeared in my mind’s eye. A woman of a certain age, understated and sure of herself, a curtain of fair hair expertly cut and tinted, clothes by Nicole Farhi or Katherine Hamnett. Married to a wealthy farmer – there are still plenty of those in East Anglia – or a commuting stockbroker. Could I imagine Aiden with a woman like that? Is the Pope a Roman Catholic?

  Only one thing didn’t quite fit.

  ‘She sounded young on the telephone,’ I objected.

  ‘It’s easy to be deceived about that when you can’t see the speaker.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I wasn’t quite convinced. Something about that voice had been wrong for the Annabelle of the Garden House Hotel. The way the voice had gone up at the end of each sentence: that was a young person’s habit, and the speaker had so easily been thrown off balance by her mistake.

  I was still pondering this as I went to buy my lunch. Turning the corner into the corridor that leads past the police interview room, I was struck by a sense of déjà vu: Aiden was again emerging and closing the door behind him. I stopped and stared. It wasn’t quite the same today, though. Aiden was smiling and there was a spring in his step. As soon as he saw me, he too did a double take. At the same moment, as though we were taking part in a dance, we moved forward to meet each other.

  I looked at him enquiringly.

 
Aiden cleared his throat. ‘There was something I remembered that I hadn’t told the police. Nothing important.’

  ‘Annabelle.’

  The word was out of my mouth before I knew it. Whatever had possessed me to blurt that out? I couldn’t believe I’d said it. The blood rushed to my face. My cheeks grew hot.

  Aiden looked equally amazed.

  ‘How on earth did you find out?’ he said.

  ‘Stephen saw you with her at the Garden House Hotel.’

  He stared at me as though he didn’t know what I was talking about.

  Then his face cleared. ‘Ah.’ It came out as a long sigh of enlightenment.

  For a moment I thought that he wasn’t going to say any more. Then he laid a confiding hand on my arm.

  ‘I hope this needn’t go any further. For various reasons it really wouldn’t do for my connection with Annabelle to become public knowledge.’

  I stepped back, letting his hand fall away.

  ‘It’s nobody’s business, but yours,’ I said stiffly. ‘As long as it’s not one of our students, that is.’

  ‘Oh, I can promise you that she most certainly isn’t.’

  Was there a touch of irony in his voice? I felt myself blushing again.

  ‘Well,’ he continued, rocking back on his heels, at ease now. ‘Must be getting on. Lots to do. Places to go, people to see.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He went off down the corridor. I walked slowly on, thinking that my sense of disorientation most likely came from feeling that I’d made a fool of myself.

  I looked back just in time to catch Aiden doing exactly the same thing. I turned quickly away, but not before I got the distinct impression that he was laughing.

  * * *

  The afternoon wore on. When neither of my last two students arrived for their four o’clock tutorial, I decided to go home.