Murder Is Academic by Christine Poulson Page A

he had been referring to my discovery of Margaret’s body. Now you see her, now you don’t. It was as if a cool hand had brushed the back of my neck. In spite of the warmth of the room I found myself shivering.
    â€˜Merfyn,’ I said.
    He stopped and looked round.
    â€˜Merfyn, you’re not still doing this, are you? Going to séances, I mean? It was just a one-off, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜Well, actually, I did go again. Just once or twice. What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?’
    â€˜You wouldn’t … Margaret … you haven’t … You wouldn’t try to…?’
    â€˜Margaret? No, I haven’t. I wouldn’t – and anyway, I haven’t been to a séance since she … well, since she died.’
    Then something seemed to occur to him. He stood thinking for a moment or two.
    â€˜You know, they say that people who’ve died a sudden or violent death, those are just the sort of spirits who tend to remain earthbound.’
    I stared at him. ‘Merfyn, please tell me you won’t try to contact Margaret. I don’t believe for a moment that you could, but please don’t even try. Promise me.’
    The very thought was repugnant.
    He hesitated.
    â€˜Promise me,’ I insisted.
    â€˜All right. But you know, Cassandra—’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I’m not promising that I won’t ever go to a séance again. And if I do, what’s to stop her from trying to make contact?’

Chapter Six
    â€˜Checkmate.’
    â€˜What? No, no, it can’t be.’ I surveyed the chessboard. ‘Oh, Lord, so it is.’
    â€˜You know, Cass, I just don’t think you’ve got your mind on this,’ Paul said. ‘You usually give me a better run for my money.’
    He began putting the chess pieces back in the box.
    â€˜You’re right. I’m not feeling my best.’
    I was feeling out of sorts in a way that was difficult to put my finger on: tired, lethargic, a bit of a headache. I realized that I hadn’t felt really well since the day I’d found Margaret’s body – a couple of months ago now. Surely I couldn’t still be suffering from shock?
    Paul wedged the chessboard and box of pieces under one arm and made his way across the room, shifting his weight awkwardly from one piece of furniture to the next. I knew better than to jump up and help. He was a small, wiry man with a lot of nervous energy and it had hit him hard when multiple sclerosis had forced him to retire from his job as a researcher in the university’s chemistry laboratories. That had been a year ago.
    He put the chess things away and sank with a sigh into a chair. The table next to it was piled with a jumble of books and cassettes: a biography of Darwin rubbed shoulders with The River Café Cook Book. He fumbled among them and brought out an oilskin bag and a packet of Rizlas.
    â€˜I expect having to go to the inquest has taken it out of you,’ he said sympathetically. He began the smoker’s ritual of the roll-up.
    â€˜You’re not kidding.’
    I had been the first to give evidence. Then I sat listening with a dry mouth to the reports from the police and the pathologist, fearing that Margaret’s affair with Lucy would after all come to light, or even – absurdly – that someone would get up and denounce me for having burned the letters.
    The pathologist had found no water in Margaret’s lungs, but apparently this was by no means uncommon in death by drowning When water comes into contact with the vocal cords, the muscles around the larynx go into spasm and the breathing reflex is inhibited. Death is caused by suffocation. Margaret had died quickly and painlessly. The contents of her stomach and the level of alcohol in her blood suggested that shortly before her death she had eaten a meal with which she had drunk a couple of glasses of wine, but no