Murder Is Academic by Christine Poulson

table. He pushed it towards her and then, well, something extraordinary happened.’
    Despite my scepticism, I was sitting on the edge of my seat.
    â€˜She pushed it towards me,’ Merfyn said, ‘and the man sitting next to me nudged me to let me know that I was meant to pick it up. Then, well, it’s difficult to describe, but I seemed to slip into a kind of trance, my hand started moving of its own accord, and I just found myself writing, on and on. And when I’d finished there were several pages. What I’d got was the beginning of my book, more or less as it is there.’
    He gestured towards the folder that I was still holding on my knee.
    I stared at him, speechless.
    And it was at that precise moment that there was a knocking sound, scarcely audible. A gentle rat-tat-tat. Merfyn’s eyes widened. My mouth went dry. Neither of us spoke and then it came again, a little louder. Our heads swivelled towards the door. The handle turned, it slid open, Cathy’s dark curly hair and then her face appeared round the edge of the door.
    â€˜I’m frightfully sorry, I wouldn’t have interrupted you, but I’ve got Lawrence on the line. He needs to know immediately if you can attend a meeting for departmental heads at ten o’clock on Monday morning.’
    â€˜OK, don’t worry, tell him that’s fine.’
    She closed the door.
    Merfyn caught my eye and grinned. I couldn’t help grinning back.
    â€˜I don’t know what the hell I thought that was,’ I said. ‘But, look, Merfyn, this isn’t a laughing matter, is it? What exactly are you trying to tell me? Where does the medium come into it?’
    â€˜Oh, she’s just the channel,’ he said. ‘You must have heard of automatic writing.’
    â€˜So you think someone else, someone who’s dead…?’
    He nodded. ‘And from various hints that he’s dropped, it’s pretty clear who it is.’
    â€˜So…?’
    â€˜I think it’s Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.’
    Was he pulling my leg? One glance at Merfyn told me that he was entirely serious.
    â€˜You really mean to tell me that you think Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is dictating your book to you?’
    Merfyn looked uncomfortable. ‘Not exactly that, that would be cheating really, wouldn’t it? It’s more like a collaboration. I’ve done all the research, he helps me to put it all together, get it down on paper. It’s not really so surprising, Conan Doyle was a fervent believer in spiritualism, you know. He wants to make sure I get things right.’
    We sat in silence as I tried to work out the implications of this. There had been a pair of women writers at the end of the nineteenth century – Somerville and Ross, was it? – didn’t one of them claim that they had gone on writing together after the death of the other? I felt a powerful resistance to the idea and the more I thought about it, the more problems I could see. There was the question of academic detachment, for one thing. If the book turned into a polemic in support of spiritualism, no reputable academic publisher would touch it with a bargepole. I fingered the blue cardboard folder, which was still on my lap.
    â€˜Perhaps we could meet again when I’ve had a chance to read this?’ I said.
    â€˜Of course, of course.’
    I tried to imagine explaining to Lawrence how Merfyn had at last come to write his book. And what if it became more widely known? I could already see the tabloid headlines: ‘Elementary, my dear Watson!’ Oh, God, what would that do for the future of the department?
    â€˜Does anyone else know about this?’ I asked.
    â€˜Only Celia.’
    â€˜Let’s keep it that way, shall we?’ I said.
    He was halfway to the door when I remembered the occasion that Merfyn had spoken to me about a conjuring trick. It had been outside the church on the day of Margaret’s funeral, and