Murder Is Academic (21 page)

‘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.

It was dark when I drove up to the Old Granary. As I pulled up by the gate the security lights came on immediately, triggered by the movement of the car. They had cost me a fortune, but it was worth it. I got out of the car expecting Bill Bailey to tear out of the bushes and wind himself around my legs, but there was only stillness. Beyond the semicircle of dazzling white light that spilled down the wall and across the garden, the darkness seemed solid.

I quickly let myself into the house. In the kitchen I filled the kettle and draped my coat over a chair. Struggling up the stairs to my study, I decided that it was time to stop carrying half the contents of my office around. I opened my briefcase and tipped the contents onto the desk. Oh, God, the library books. If I hung on to them much longer, I'd have to take out a bank loan to pay off the fine. Promising myself that I'd take them back tomorrow, I sifted idly through a sheaf of old letters and memos. It was all too much. I swept the whole lot off the table. Some went straight into the bin, others landed on the floor.

I heard the click of the kettle switching itself off in the kitchen. As if that had been a signal, the telephone began to ring.

It was in the second of silence after the first shrill peal, that I heard a soft, muffled thud overhead.

There was someone upstairs in my bedroom.

Chapter Seventeen

The telephone went on ringing. My outstretched hand froze in mid-air.

There was a pattering sound and Bill Bailey appeared at the top of the stairs, stretching and yawning. He bounded down, his fluffy tail held high, greeting me with a stream of affectionate little noises.

I collapsed onto a chair by my desk, breathing heavily. My heart seemed to have come loose from its moorings and was banging about in my breast. Bill Bailey sprang onto my knees.

I reached for the telephone.

‘Cass?'

‘Stephen!'

‘What's the matter?'

‘I've just had the shock of my life. I thought there was someone in the house.'