Free Murder Is Academic by Christine Poulson

the writing was on the wall. And, whatever else she might have been, Margaret was no fool.’
    *   *   *
    â€˜Why didn’t Margaret tell me what was going on?’ I asked Cathy.
    It was the following day and we were sitting over a cup of coffee in Margaret’s office. The night before, I’d slept twelve hours and woken up feeling as if I’d been under an anaesthetic. I still felt groggy. Cathy didn’t look too good either. She was pale and her eyes were bloodshot. I’d never seen her so subdued. Even her dark, springy hair seemed flatter than usual.
    â€˜I think she was trying to get Alison and Merfyn up to speed first,’ Cathy said. ‘And that was starting to happen. At least, I know that a couple of weeks ago Alison gave Margaret an outline for an article that she thought she might write.’
    â€˜Every little helps.’
    The cornerstones of our RAE submission would have to be Margaret’s biography of Charlotte Yonge, I thought, and my own book on Victorian poetry that was nearly finished.
    â€˜And then there’s Aiden,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘No problems there.’
    Cathy seemed about to say something, then she shook her head.
    â€˜What’s up?’ I asked.
    She shook her head. ‘Margaret did say something about Aiden. I can’t quite remember what, but I know she thought there was a problem.’
    I’d have to look into that.
    â€˜But Alison and Merfyn know what the situation is?’
    Cathy nodded. ‘She put a rocket under them. I don’t know exactly what she said, of course, but I saw Merfyn when he came out: he looked a bit shaken up. He was supposed to come and see her again before the end of term.’
    â€˜When exactly?’
    Margaret’s office diary was lying on the desk beside us. Cathy reached for it and flicked it open. She ran her finger down the pages for the previous week.
    â€˜Oh,’ she said.
    I gave her a look of enquiry. She turned the diary towards me and pointed to the entry.
    3.30 p.m. on the previous Friday.
    The day of the funeral.
    The entry had been made in Margaret’s own neat hand. After it, in brackets, she’d written ‘with first chapter of book.’
    I sighed. ‘I’d better find out what’s going on.’
    â€˜I’ll ring him and ask him to come and see you, shall I?’
    â€˜No, no, I’ll do it. I don’t want him to feel that I’m … well, that I’m…’
    â€˜Pulling rank?’ She looked at me quizzically.
    â€˜I want to tread carefully.’
    Cathy pushed her glasses up onto her hair, got to her feet, and collected the coffee mugs. She stood there hesitating and frowning. I wondered what she wanted to say. She’d worked closely with Margaret, and had probably known her better than anyone else in the department. If anyone had known what was going on between Margaret and Lucy, it would have been Cathy.
    She put the mugs back on the table, but still didn’t speak.
    â€˜What is it, Cathy?’
    â€˜Would I still be kept on if, you know, if things came to the worst? Margaret told me that I’d be OK. She knew I was worried about Hannah – with her still being at school – and I don’t get much from her dad in the way of maintenance.’
    â€˜Sorry, of course, I should have mentioned that earlier. The college would keep you on. Lawrence said so. You’ll be all right, I promise.’
    When she had gone, I let myself have a few minutes to gather my thoughts. Margaret’s office was a spacious room on the first floor of the college. The sun was striking through the Venetian blinds onto a deep red Persian rug. That wasn’t college issue, nor was the single painting on the wall, an abstract of red, black and white squares. I’d have to take them round to Malcolm, along with her other personal possessions. There wouldn’t be much. Unlike most academics