Murder Is Academic (12 page)

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.

Lawrence rang me around eleven to tell me Rebecca was still profoundly unconscious. She had not been raped but all the same the police weren't discounting a sexual motive to the attack. Stephen rang at twelve to offer to cook dinner. Apart from that, the telephone remained inert on my desk. Around three o'clock I caught myself glancing at it for at least the fiftieth time, willing it to ring with news of Rebecca. I took myself in hand. On the principle that a watched pot never boils, I drove to the university library to continue hunting biographical details for my edition of nineteenth century verse. I forced myself to wait until it was half-past six and time to leave before I rang the hospital. I somehow felt that self-control had earned me good news. My heart sank when the ward sister told me that there was no change.

Stephen's flat is in a block built in the thirties near the river over by Midsummer Common, only a ten minute drive after the rush-hour.

As soon as he saw my face, he said, ‘No more news about Rebecca then?'

‘Not really.'

Walking through the little entrance hall into the sitting-room, I breathed in the smell that I always associated with Stephen's flat; a mixture of the soap he always used, Cussons Imperial Leather, furniture polish and the pleasantly musty smell of old books. There was something cosy and old-fashioned, but also very masculine, about the solid mahogany furniture and the rugs with their warm, faded colours, which he had inherited from the North Devon vicarage where he had grown up.

Stephen took my coat and I sank with a sigh onto the sofa.

‘I suppose a large Scotch is out of the question,' he said, ‘but there's a shepherd's pie in the oven.'

‘Bless you.'

‘I can't believe you're four months pregnant,' he said, sitting down beside me.

‘It can be quite a long time before it really shows apparently.'

‘I keep counting back and wondering when exactly it was.'

‘Do you know when I think it was? That day that I burned the letters, when there was the thunderstorm.'

Stephen thought about that for a while. ‘That seems appropriate somehow, though I'm not quite sure why.'

Over the meal I told him what I'd found out about the attack on Rebecca.

‘She shares a house with some other girls in Cherry Hinton, one of those big Victorian villas. One of her friends found her in the shrubbery, next to where they leave their bikes. I keep wondering if I should say something to the police. Or to Lawrence. About what Rebecca said, I mean.'

‘It's hard to see what connection there could be with this attack. I'd be inclined to wait and see what happens. The police may well make an arrest very soon.'

‘Lawrence would absolutely not want all this about Margaret and Lucy to come out. You know, Stephen, I think, if he had been the one to find those letters, he would have done just what I did, but not for same reason.'