the writing was on the wall. And, whatever else she might have been, Margaret was no fool.â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âWhy didnât Margaret tell me what was going on?â I asked Cathy.
It was the following day and we were sitting over a cup of coffee in Margaretâs office. The night before, Iâd slept twelve hours and woken up feeling as if Iâd been under an anaesthetic. I still felt groggy. Cathy didnât look too good either. She was pale and her eyes were bloodshot. Iâd never seen her so subdued. Even her dark, springy hair seemed flatter than usual.
âI think she was trying to get Alison and Merfyn up to speed first,â Cathy said. âAnd 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
âEvery little helps.â
The cornerstones of our RAE submission would have to be Margaretâs biography of Charlotte Yonge, I thought, and my own book on Victorian poetry that was nearly finished.
âAnd then thereâs Aiden,â I said, thinking aloud. âNo problems there.â
Cathy seemed about to say something, then she shook her head.
âWhatâs up?â I asked.
She shook her head. âMargaret did say something about Aiden. I canât quite remember what, but I know she thought there was a problem.â
Iâd have to look into that.
âBut Alison and Merfyn know what the situation is?â
Cathy nodded. âShe put a rocket under them. I donât 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
âWhen exactly?â
Margaretâs 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.
âOh,â 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 Margaretâs own neat hand. After it, in brackets, sheâd written âwith first chapter of book.â
I sighed. âIâd better find out whatâs going on.â
âIâll ring him and ask him to come and see you, shall I?â
âNo, no, Iâll do it. I donât want him to feel that Iâm ⦠well, that Iâmâ¦â
âPulling rank?â She looked at me quizzically.
âI want to tread carefully.â
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. Sheâd 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 didnât speak.
âWhat is it, Cathy?â
âWould I still be kept on if, you know, if things came to the worst? Margaret told me that Iâd be OK. She knew I was worried about Hannah â with her still being at school â and I donât get much from her dad in the way of maintenance.â
âSorry, of course, I should have mentioned that earlier. The college would keep you on. Lawrence said so. Youâll be all right, I promise.â
When she had gone, I let myself have a few minutes to gather my thoughts. Margaretâs 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 wasnât college issue, nor was the single painting on the wall, an abstract of red, black and white squares. Iâd have to take them round to Malcolm, along with her other personal possessions. There wouldnât be much. Unlike most academics