Murder Is Academic (29 page)

There was a pause.

‘Then what happened?'

She cleared her throat. ‘I lost my temper. There was a pile of exam papers lying on the table beside her. I grabbed the top one and tore it in half. That got her going all right. She went for me and I pushed her away. She fell into the swimming pool, hit her head on the side and sank like a stone. At first I did think of going in after her and pulling her out, but then…'

She looked up and flushed when she saw me gawping at her.

‘It just seemed meant to be, somehow. An accident, really, like Lucy's death. After all, I didn't actually
intend
to kill her.'

This time Alison was the one to glance away, and I saw a muscle twitch below her left eye.

‘Margaret had been wearing a wrap-round skirt over her swim-suit,' she said. ‘I took off all my clothes and waded into the pool and managed to get it off her. I didn't want any doubt about its being an accident.'

The image that this conjured up in my mind was one that I knew I'd never forget.

‘I searched the house for Margaret's copy of the thesis. At last I found it, in a little drawer tucked underneath her desk; both a disk and a hard copy. Then I just walked home quickly. Luckily there wasn't a soul about.'

‘Did you tell Paul what had happened?'

‘Of course not. That was the whole point, don't you see?' she said as though I was being wilfully obtuse, ‘I didn't want Paul to be worried. I didn't even tell him my job was at risk. The week after the funeral, I managed to get into Margaret's office and check for anything incriminating. After that I thought I was safe.'

I felt a heaving sensation and a warm wetness between my legs.

I saw my own astonishment mirrored on Alison's face.

‘What is it?' she asked.

‘My waters have broken.'

I grabbed a towel and stuck it between my legs.

‘You'd better let me in. I've been through this myself, remember, and I was with my daughter when she had her baby.'

I looked doubtfully at her. ‘The doctor should be here soon. And Stephen.'

‘Oh, come on. I won't hurt you – or the baby,' she said impatiently.

‘You wouldn't hurt me! What about the cake? You switched it for a piece with cannabis in it! That's what Paul was smoking to relieve his MS, wasn't it?'

She looked contrite. ‘I didn't think that it would have such a dramatic effect. I just wanted to get you out of the way for a while.'

‘And when you realized that Margaret had another set of backup disks, you searched my house!'

‘I'm so sorry about breaking that sweet little bowl.' This seemed to worry her as much as anything.

A wave of pain hit me. Something inside was being pulled tighter and tighter.

‘No, no,' I groaned.

I clutched my belly with one hand and thumped the wall again and again with the other. I bit my lip until blood came. Just when I thought that I couldn't stand it a moment longer, the tension relaxed and the pain slowly subsided.

‘Cass, please let me in! Please!'

I looked up. Alison's face was at the window. Her eyes were wide with alarm.

I can't do this on my own, I thought.

‘Even if I could bear to harm the baby,' Alison said, ‘what good would it do me? Think about it. I heard you on the phone; Stephen knows what I've done. So do the police by now. They'll probably all arrive together.'

I thought about it.

‘Like something out of a Marx brothers movie,' she added.

At that moment she sounded just like her old self. Perhaps it was that as much as anything that decided me.

‘Very well. Put your bag down over there, near the gate. Yes, that's it. Now take your clothes off.'

‘What?'

‘Just down to your underwear will be enough, but do it, or I won't let you in.'

‘But why?'

‘I want to make sure that you haven't got a syringe hidden about your person.'

She flushed. I thought she wasn't going to do it. Then she kicked off her shoes and pulled off her fleece, dropping it on the ground. A few moments later, her sweater and jeans joined it. She stood there shivering in her white cotton knickers and bra; a big, pale, Rubenesque woman.

‘Socks as well?' she asked.

‘No, that's enough.'

I went into the hall and opened the door. Alison walked through into the kitchen and I followed her.

‘You can put my coat on,' I said.

She took it off the chair where I had left it when I came in, and slung it round her shoulders. She sat down at the kitchen table. The rope of hair was still lying there. Alison just looked at it at first, then she stroked it.

‘I never thought you'd pluck up the nerve to get rid of this. It really suits you.'

‘Thanks.'

‘How about a cup of tea?'

I thought it over. ‘Oddly enough, it's just what I feel like, but I'm not supposed to eat or drink at this stage, am I?'

‘Oh, sod that. Your body will tell you what it wants.'

Alison put the kettle on. I watched her moving about the kitchen laying out cups, getting the milk out of the fridge.

‘Why don't you sit down?' she said.

I shook my head. I had to keep moving, pacing up and down between the door and the window, the palms of my hands resting on my aching belly.

There was still something I needed to know.

‘What about Rebecca?'

Alison poured out the tea. ‘She tried to blackmail me. Told me she was finding the work too difficult, but couldn't afford to re-take her final year, so could I fix things for her? She said it would wreck my career if it came out about me and Lucy. I couldn't think how she knew.'

‘She didn't,' I said dryly. ‘You both must have got the wrong end of the stick. She thought it was you, not Margaret, who'd been having an affair with Lucy. You thought she meant the thesis.'

Alison's mouth gaped. She groped for a chair and sank onto it, her eyes never leaving my face. I struggled not to feel a grim satisfaction as I told her about Margaret and Lucy.

‘You didn't know about that, did you? You needn't have killed Rebecca.'

Her eyes were now fixed on the table.

‘When you went to the hospital to finish her off, did you inject her with whatever Paul used? Something from the chemistry lab, I suppose.'

Her head jerked sharply. ‘I couldn't risk her incriminating me. How would Paul have managed if I'd been arrested?'

The folder from my briefcase was still lying on the table. The flap had fallen open.

‘That's my article,' she said, sounding surprised.

‘Do you know, I've been carrying it around in my bag for months. I never did get round to reading the rest of it.'

She took the article out of the folder. ‘This isn't going to be much use to you now, is it? I'm sorry about that.' She folded it neatly in two. ‘What's going to happen to the department, do you think?'

‘We'll be OK.'

Alison tore the article in half very slowly and neatly.

‘Why did Margaret have to make such a fuss?' she said.

She went on with her work of folding and tearing. A little white mound of torn paper was growing in front of her. I stood on the other side of the table and watched her.

‘All this need never have happened,' she continued.

She scooped up the scraps of paper in both hands and tossed them up. They flew out of her hands like startled birds and then floated down with majestic slowness, landing on her shoulders and hair like giant flakes of snow. Some settled in our cups and the tea turned them ochre.

‘It's not Margaret. It's you,' I said. ‘You're the one. You're the Snow Queen.'

She looked at me, puzzled. I studied her face, taking in her creamy complexion, the slightly ironic set of her lips, the lock of white hair springing up from her forehead.

The anger I'd felt earlier returned. I could hardly speak for emotion, but at last I spat the words out. ‘You mustn't try to put the blame on anyone else. Of course Margaret couldn't let you steal someone else's research. Of course she couldn't. Trying to tell the truth about things – that's what academic life is about. If we haven't got that, we haven't got anything. It's more than a job, it's what we
are.
'

Alison and I stared at each other across the kitchen table. She was the first to look away. I watched her eyes slowly fill with tears. Her face softened and relaxed.

‘You're right,' she said.

‘Why did you want to see me?'

She sighed. ‘I just wanted to explain how it all happened, and I had a vague idea that I maybe could protect my daughter and her family. It'll be bad enough for her already that we're dead. I thought perhaps the rest needn't come out. Silly, really.'

‘Stephen will be here before too long – and the police.'

She shrugged. ‘There's nowhere to run to. May as well wait here as anywhere.'

I nodded.

‘Paul was so fond of you, Cass,' Alison said. ‘He really used to look forward to those chess games.'

I pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. She smiled at me and stretched out her hand across the table. As I reached to take it, pain tore through me. I sucked in my breath and closed my eyes. A gigantic wave was lifting me higher and higher. Alison's fingers tightened around mine.

I was hemmed in by the table. I struggled to my feet.

‘I've got to lie down,' I groaned.

Alison leap up and put her arm around me. Clasped to one another like Siamese twins, we staggered together up the stairs, the narrow space squeezing us close. I sank to my knees on the floor of the study. Alison came down with me as if we were yoked together.

‘I can't go any further,' I gasped.

She began working quickly and efficiently, unfastening my clothes, pulling off my sodden tights and knickers. I parted my thighs.

‘Yes, yes, take a deep breath. Now push. Push!' she shouted.

She leant over me. I looked up at her face. She was grimacing in sympathy.

‘That's it. Grip my hand as hard as you can. Try to breathe slowly. Yes, that's it.'

For a few blessed moments the pain stopped. I relaxed my grip. Then it began again: something bigger, more important and more complicated than pain. I slid to a lying position and drew my knees up. I was dimly aware of sounds in the background, a door banging, voices shouting.

I heard Alison cry, ‘Yes, yes! That's it! Yes!'

She was sitting behind me now with her legs spread wide. She pulled me back against her breasts. I gripped her knees and braced myself. The crown of the baby's head appeared between my thighs.

I heard thudding on the stairs. I looked up and saw Stephen appear in the doorway, with Jane at his shoulder. They stood for a moment transfixed. I clenched my fists, gritted my teeth and gave a last, great heave. With a final slithering rush, our daughter was born.

Stephen was just in time to catch the blood-smeared baby in both hands.

Epilogue

Futile – the Winds –

To a Heart in port –

Done with the Compass –

Done with the Chart –

Emily Dickinson

‘Careful, careful.'

‘I am being careful,' said Stephen as he unbuckled the carrycot and eased it out of the back seat of the car. ‘I can still hardly believe that they've let us take her home.'

‘I know. I was expecting to feel a heavy hand on my shoulder as we walked out of the hospital.'

Stephen and I stood for a moment at the gate to the Old Granary with the carrycot between us. We watched the clouds scudding across the huge expanse of fenland sky. It was a deliciously fresh, sparkling spring morning in early April. After six weeks in the premature baby unit, Grace was coming home on the exact day that she should have been born. It had taken a while for us both to recover from the shock of her early arrival, and then Grace had suffered jaundice. I had stayed in the hospital with her. After all the weeks spent under artificial light, it felt strange to be outdoors. The world was full of movement and energy, and everything seemed too brightly coloured.

There was a sound behind me. I turned my head to see Jane and Cathy standing at the door of the house. They were both grinning. Jane was holding a bottle of champagne and Cathy was clasping Bill Bailey to her breast. He struggled free, bounded down the garden, and wound himself around my legs in an ecstasy of welcome.

‘I know you'll want to be quiet,' Stephen said, ‘but I didn't think you'd mind Jane and Cathy. They helped me get things ready.'

‘It's lovely to see them.'

Jane came forward and Stephen tilted the carrycot so that she could peep into it. I folded back the white cellular blanket and we admired the little sleeping face. Grace's thumb was in her mouth and her other hand, curled into a fist, was resting against her cheek. Jane put her face close to the baby's and inhaled.

‘Oh, God, the smell of small babies! It always make me wish I'd become a paediatrician or had six kids of my own! Isn't she gorgeous?'

‘Just perfect,' I agreed.

Up in the sitting-room, Stephen put Grace in her carrycot on the window seat. I sat down beside her. The familiar room seemed different somehow. Then I saw that it
was
different: there was a new rug on the floor. Underneath it, I knew, were stains that hadn't quite come out of the floorboards. But that wasn't all: there was more space. The books had gone from the floor, and the wall by the stairs was covered in new bookshelves.

Stephen was about to ease the cork out of the champagne bottle. He paused and glanced over at me, gauging my response to the changes.

‘You don't mind, do you? I know you'll want to sort the books out yourself, but I thought I'd just get them off the floor. Safer for the baby. Plus, I've decorated the little bedroom for her. I took yesterday off work to do it. I wanted it to be a surprise.'