Murder Is Academic (16 page)

‘Ah,' I said, ‘I see.'

So Margaret and Lucy had met socially, not just as head of department and student. That made sense.

Jane looked at me, then at Stephen, and back at me. She reached out to Bill Bailey, who drew his head back.

I waited to see what she would say. The silence between us lengthened.

At last she said, ‘What were you doing at Thor's Cave? Was that just a coincidence?'

I didn't know what to say. On the face of it, this seemed a ghoulish thing to do, to go visiting the place where one of your students had died. In the end I didn't say anything. I just shook my head.

‘You know, don't you?' Jane said.

‘About…?'

‘About Margaret and Lucy.'

I nodded.

‘I thought you probably did, that day in the churchyard after the funeral.'

‘No, I didn't know then.' I thought about what she had said that day. ‘What you said about Malcolm, that he might be having an affair: that was a kind of smoke-screen, wasn't it? You didn't believe that, did you?'

‘Of course not. But I thought that if I said that, you might let something slip about Margaret.'

Stephen was looking baffled.

‘What are you talking about?' he asked.

To me it made perfect sense. I said, ‘You wanted to know, didn't you, if there were any rumours floating around the college about Margaret and Lucy? But you didn't want to ask outright, because if there weren't, well, you didn't want to start any. The bit about Malcolm: that was just to float the idea that there was something wrong with their marriage, to see if I'd take the bait.'

She nodded. ‘When
did
you find out about it?'

I told her how I had found the letters.

Jane heaved a sigh. ‘I was afraid she'd kept those. I was worried that Malcolm might come across them. I even had a surreptitious look through her cupboards when I was helping Malcolm sort out her clothes. What did you do with them? Where are they?'

‘I burnt them.'

There was a small shock of recognition between us. Without taking her eyes off mine, she slowly nodded.

‘Good. Does anyone else know?'

‘Only Stephen.'

Jane said, ‘I'm glad you did that. Margaret was desperate to keep it a secret – and to protect Malcolm. I haven't told anyone. I hoped I was the only person who knew. You've got no idea what a relief it is to be able to talk now. I've felt so guilty.'

‘You? Why?' I was surprised.

‘I should have been there in Derbyshire with Lucy. We used to go for a week's walking every year. But this time Ellie got chickenpox a few days before we were due to leave and I didn't feel I could leave her just with her dad. And it was pretty much about then that it all started to go wrong for Lucy.'

I remembered that last letter I had read. ‘She forced Margaret into a decision?'

Jane nodded. ‘She pushed Margaret too hard. But Lucy was like that: impulsive, uncompromising. She always had to go full out for what she wanted. Margaret rang Lucy in Derbyshire to tell her that she had decided to stay with Malcolm. Lucy must have been beside herself. She tried to ring me, but she got my answering machine. I'd been up with Ellie several nights running, and when she finally fell asleep I just switched on the machine and went to bed.'

Her face creased and tears welled up.

‘I didn't hear the message until the next morning. She was crying, she said she was going to try and walk the misery out of her system. That was the last time I heard her voice. She went straight out and had that bloody stupid accident, and I was the one who had to break it to Margaret.'

Jane covered her face with her hands. I got up and put my arm round her shoulder. When she removed her hands, her face was wet with tears. I gave her a tissue from the box on the bedside table.

‘How did she take it?' Stephen asked.

‘Stunned. Almost catatonic with shock. It was lucky that Malcolm was away on business. But when she recovered a bit, she asked me to help. I had a spare key to Lucy's flat. We retrieved Margaret's letters and burnt them. I gave her some tranquilizers to help her through the worst, and when Malcolm came home, she told him she'd got flu.'

‘You weren't angry? You didn't feel that she was to blame for Lucy's death?' I asked.

‘No-one was to blame really, and I wouldn't have had the heart when she was blaming herself so much. And she felt so guilty for having got involved with Lucy in the first place. She'd never been unfaithful to Malcolm before. Evening after evening we spent together going over and over it. Then when at last she seemed to have come through it…' She shook her head.

‘It's quite a coincidence, isn't it?' said Stephen. ‘Lucy and Margaret both dying within a couple of months of each other?' His voice was strained. I looked at him. His face was pale and drawn. I guessed that his ribs were hurting.

‘Coincidences do happen,' Jane said. ‘I'm sure it wasn't suicide, if that's what you're thinking. Margaret was genuinely on the road to recovery. There wasn't any question of her not being able to cope.'

‘She was having problems at work as well,' I said.

‘Well, yes, I know she was worried,' she said firmly, ‘but I'm sure there was nothing she couldn't handle. Look: when someone dies in the prime of life, it can be hard to accept that it was just a stupid, tragic accident. I've seen this in my patients, they go over and over it, searching for some hidden meaning. I found myself doing exactly the same thing after Lucy died, and again after Margaret died. But you know, things are usually just as they seem.'

She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, Lord, I really must go. Malcolm was keeping an eye on Ellie, but I ought to get home and put her to bed. And Stephen – what am I thinking of? You'd better have your injection, take the edge off that pain.'

She opened her medical case. She swabbed Stephen's arm with surgical spirit, and took out a syringe and a little bottle. I watched her draw the fluid up into the syringe and check that there wasn't any air in it, just like they do on television or in films. Just for a moment, just for a blink of an eye, I saw the scene as if it were a still from a movie, something by Hitchcock perhaps: the syringe held up to the light, the look of frowning concentration on Jane's face, Stephen on the bed with his arm bared. I felt a momentary impulse to lean over and dash the syringe from Jane's hand. The needle was touching Stephen's arm, he was grimacing and looking away. Then it was over. Jane pressed a piece of cotton wool against his arm. She packed away the syringe and the bottle, and closed the case, clicking the locks shut. I was letting my imagination run wild again. Jane was just what I had first taken her to be: level-headed, sympathetic, and no doubt an excellent GP.

As I followed her out of the room, something she'd said earlier came back to me.

‘Did Margaret say exactly what it was at work that was worrying her?' I asked.

Jane stopped and looked at me. She narrowed her eyes in an effort of recall. ‘Now, what did she say? There
was
something, but just a passing comment. I know she was concerned in a general sort of way about – what is it? – the RE something or other?'

‘The Research Assessment Exercise.'

‘That's it. She was heading for a showdown with someone, and she wasn't much looking forward to it.'

‘Was it a colleague she was talking about, do you think? Or could it have been a student?'

‘Oh, a colleague. I think she was talking about a man. Can't quite remember why I got that impression.'

From the spare room window I watched Jane's tail lights diminish to pinpricks and then disappear into the night.

Stephen said, ‘Do you think she's on the level?'

‘Yes, I think so. It all seems to hang together. And I can't help liking her. She seems so decent and straightforward.'

I wondered who Margaret had been dreading confronting and why. If it was a male member of the English Department, it could only be Aiden or Merfyn, unless she had been thinking about Lawrence. That was the most likely thing.

Stephen said, ‘Are you quite sure you're doing the right thing?'

I looked at him and saw that he was frowning.

‘What do you mean?' I asked, puzzled.

‘Keeping Malcolm in the dark about this, covering up Margaret's affair.'

I felt a surge of irritation. ‘Why are you bringing this up again? I thought we'd finished with all that.'

‘It didn't seem so bad when it was just between the two of us and we thought no-one else knew.'

‘But what's the point of causing him unnecessary pain?'

‘So we smooth everything over, conspire to protect him? Aren't we treating him like a child? It just sticks in my gullet,' he went on, ‘the thought of the poor guy mourning for his perfect marriage, when we know otherwise.'

I remembered the flash of complicity between Jane and me. All the same, I was nettled by Stephen's accusation.

‘Well, OK, so it wasn't perfect. But what relationship is? They had a lot of good years together and don't forget, Margaret had decided to stay with him. She
did
love him. She didn't want to hurt him by telling him about what happened with Lucy. Why sour his memory of her now when it's not absolutely necessary?'

‘What might you see fit to conceal from me for my own good?'

‘So that's what this is all about!'

I glared at him. He glared back. The telephone rang.

Fuming, I walked into the kitchen and snatched up the receiver.

‘Hello,' I snapped.

‘Cassandra, this is Lawrence. I hope you are feeling better?'

I made an effort to compose myself. ‘Yes, I am, thank you very much, Lawrence. I'll be back in college in the morning.'

‘And Stephen, improving I trust?'

‘Very much so.'

‘Splendid,' he said urbanely. ‘Good news all round then. I'm ringing to let you know that Rebecca is showing signs of regaining consciousness.'

Chapter Thirteen

‘Good news, isn't it, Dr James? About Rebecca?' John was beaming all over his face.

I realized that I was, too. I had the feeling of wellbeing that one has on a sunny day. It was only since Lawrence's phonecall the evening before that I had understood how much I had been steeling myself against the possibility that Rebecca might never recover. Perhaps, I thought, she might soon be able to throw light on who had attacked her and why. Things were starting to move at last.

‘And Mr Newley? Is he on the mend?'

I smiled. The porters always know everything.

‘He's fine. I know he's feeling better because he got his secretary to bring him some work.'

‘And you yourself, are you well? My eldest is expecting her third in January.' John said, too polite to refer directly to my pregnancy.

‘Grand, thanks. And all the better for this news,' I said.

Even the most voluminous jumper could not disguise my swelling figure. What's that old saying: love and a cold cannot be hid? Well, pregnancy is a by-product of love, I suppose. No point in imagining it was not public knowledge. I was growing used to acquaintances, and even perfect strangers, making detailed enquires about the state of my health, handing out advice – and occasionally even wanting to pat my belly! Older men were avuncular, older women indulgent. Childless women of my own age looked thoughtful.

‘How is your daughter?' I asked.

‘Oh, doing nicely, thank you,' replied John.

Still smiling, I headed for the staff pigeonholes to collect my post. Turning round the corner into the Senior Common Room, I bumped straight into Aiden who was coming the other way. As he grabbed my arms to steady me, the sheaf of papers he had been carrying flew up into the air and fluttered down around us.

‘Oh, Lord. I'm so sorry, Aiden. I wasn't looking where I was going,' I said.

‘Are you all right?' His hands were still on my arms, and he was looking into my eyes. One of his pupils was an irregular shape, spilling over into the green of the iris. I hadn't been this close to him since the debacle amongst the books in Smith's. I wondered if he was thinking of that, too. The moment stretched out. Then he blinked and released me.

‘We can't go on meeting like this, Cassandra,' he murmured. ‘People will start talking. No, no, don't worry,' – as I started to bend down – ‘I'll do that.'

He squatted down and began gathering the papers up.

‘I was thinking about Rebecca,' I said. ‘You've heard the news?'

‘Yes, thank God for that.'

I leant against the table by the pigeonholes and watched him. I remembered that he still hadn't given me any details of what he was working on, and in all the worry over Rebecca I hadn't got round to chasing him up.

‘I still don't have your research plan, Aiden.'

He paused. His back was towards me so I couldn't see his face, but he smoothed back his thinning hair.

‘Ah, yes, sorry. I'll make that a priority.'

‘What
are
you working on at the moment?'

‘Oh, it's still Romanticism. I'm at the ideas stage.'

‘Perhaps we can have a chat about it sometime?'

‘Sure. Not now though, I'm seeing a student.'

With one fluid movement he stood up without touching his hands on the ground. I was envious: I hadn't been able to do that even when I wasn't pregnant.

It wasn't until he was halfway down the corridor that I saw he had missed one of his papers. I stooped awkwardly and picked it up.

‘Aiden!'

When he turned, I waved the paper at him in explanation. As he walked back towards me, I glanced down at it. My eye was caught by a name scrawled in a bold hand – Annabelle Fairchild. The name rang a bell.

Aiden stretched out his hand, looking at the paper as he did so. I was surprised to see him blush right up to his hairline. I hadn't the slightest idea what was the matter, but embarrassment is infectious and I felt my own face grow hot. He snatched the sheet of paper from my hand, turned on his heels, and went striding off.