Free Murder Is Academic by Christine Poulson Page A

– my office was a chaos of books and paper – Margaret was a minimalist. I opened the desk drawer. There was a box of Tampax, a toothbrush in a case, a small tube of toothpaste, a packet of Fisherman’s Friend, and nothing else. The desk was almost bare, too. The only decorative object was a small round black lacquer box containing paperclips. I looked at it more closely. On the lid was a painting of a woman swathed in white furs standing in a sleigh pulled by a dappled horse. The strong, clear colours – red, yellow, orange – stood out sharply against the black background. It looked like an illustration to a fairy tale, but I couldn’t quite think what.
    With an effort I turned my attention back to the matter in hand. What was I going to say to Merfyn?
    When I’d first met him about fifteen years ago, he was a dashing young lecturer with a penchant for wearing cloaks and fedoras, and I was a humble research student. I was in awe of him. He’d recently published some groundbreaking articles on the super-natural in Victorian fiction and was known to be working on an important book on the subject. He seemed light-years ahead of me, in a different league altogether. He’d been something of a mentor. But over the years there’d been a gradual shift in our positions. Merfyn’s book didn’t appear – and people stopped expecting it to. When my own book on Victorian women poets was published, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t just drawn level with Merfyn, I had overtaken him. Merfyn still talked as though the book would be finished one day, but I didn’t really believe it any more and I wondered if he did.
    Putting this discussion off wasn’t helping. I punched in the number of Merfyn’s extension, cravenly hoping that he wouldn’t answer or that, if he did, he wouldn’t be free. But he did, and he was; he would come straight round to my office.
    When he arrived, he was wearing the same linen suit, even more crumpled, that he had worn on the day of the funeral. I gestured towards two armchairs on either side of a coffee table. He sank into one and placed a decrepit briefcase at his feet. I took the chair opposite.
    There was a moment when neither of us seemed to know what to say.
    â€˜How’s Celia?’ I asked. Merfyn’s wife was a high-flying civil servant in the Home Office.
    â€˜Oh, fine. She’s always complaining about her minister, but she loves it all really.’
    â€˜And the girls?’
    â€˜Oh, fine, fine.’
    There was a short silence.
    I took a deep breath, but before I could plunge in, Merfyn said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll feel that congratulations are in order, Cass, under the circumstances, but for what it’s worth, I’m sure you’re the right person to take over from Margaret.’
    â€˜Thanks, Merfyn. Yes, it’s something of a poisoned chalice. You know, we really have got our backs to the wall.’
    He nodded. ‘The RAE, yes, I know.’
    He delved into his case and pulled out a bulging blue cardboard folder. He presented it to me with a flourish.
    â€˜I think this will relieve your mind to a certain extent.’
    Pulling out the top page, I saw it was headed ‘Chapter One’.
    â€˜What’s this? It’s not…?’
    Merfyn was beaming all over his face.
    â€˜It is? It’s your book? But that’s…’
    For a few moments, words failed me.
    â€˜It’s, well, what can I say? It’s just great!’
    â€˜No need to hide your amazement,’ Merfyn said. ‘I’m pretty surprised myself. And my publishers must have despaired of it years ago. I’ll have to break it to them gently, they might have a collective heart attack!’
    I read out loud the title of the first chapter. ‘ “Is there anyone there?” Spiritualism in the mid-nineteenth century. Wow! How much is there here?’
    â€˜First four