Murder Is Academic (24 page)

I turned my attention back to Stephen. He put my free hand to his lips. I smiled at him. Now something else was puzzling me, refusing to allow me to sink back into sleep.

‘The phone?'

‘Lawrence asking after you.'

My mouth felt dry. There was a jug of water on the bedside table. Stephen intercepted my glance. He put a pillow behind my head and held a glass to my lips.

‘What time is it?' I asked.

‘Nine o'clock.'

‘Nine o'clock. So it must be…' I couldn't quite work it out.

‘It's Friday. Do you remember being brought in on Wednesday night? They gave you a sedative. You slept most of yesterday.'

‘What happened?'

‘You collapsed in the library. They called for an ambulance. One of the library staff knew who you were and rang the college. Lawrence rang me.'

Fragments of the bad dream were coming back to me. The terror of being trapped in the library, the wonderful exhilaration of realizing that all the books were in my own head, a voice shouting – was it my own voice? I couldn't be sure – hands holding me down, a struggle, a pulsing blue light, a siren wailing. There was a gap and later, Stephen's face looking down at me, strangely distorted, like a face reflected in a spoon.

‘How do you feel now?'

I considered this. My limbs felt heavy and limp, but I was growing clearer-headed by the moment.

‘Not too bad. Did I really sleep all yesterday? And have you been here all the time?'

‘You don't think I'd leave you here on your own, do you?' He squeezed my hand tightly. He looked exhausted: hair tousled, bags under his eyes. ‘I stayed with you on Wednesday night. Yesterday I rang your mother. She came up and sat with you last night. I went home and got some sleep.'

So that accounted for what I could smell.
Diorissimo,
my mother's favourite scent. I looked vaguely around me as if she were there in person and I had somehow overlooked her.

‘I sent her off to my flat to get a few hours' rest. I don't know what I would have done without her. I've told her everything, she's been a tower of strength.'

I stole a glance at him. He had met my mother and that was all he had to say about her?

The door opened and a tall man in a white coat came in.

‘This is Dr Nathan,' Stephen said. ‘He was on duty when you came in.'

He was about fifty with thinning grey hair and a tired, much-lined face. He unhooked a clipboard off the end of the bed and looked at it.

‘And how are you today?' he asked me.

‘OK I think.'

‘Fine, fine,' he said absently. He sat down on the edge of my bed and took hold of my wrist, referring to his watch. After a while he nodded and put my hand gently back on the bed.

‘Your pulse is back to normal. Your partner here has told you that the baby seems just fine?'

‘Thank God for that. But what happened to me?'

‘Just a moment; I need to ask you a few questions.'

He picked up the clipboard.

‘Your full name, please?'

‘Cassandra James.'

He ticked something off.

‘What year is it?'

I told him.

Another tick.

‘How old are you?'

‘Thirty-eight.'

Tick.

‘Who is the Prime Minister?'

‘Disraeli.'

The pen had already begun to descend. It halted abruptly and his head shot up.

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘It's Tony Blair, of course. I sometimes wish it
was
Disraeli, or rather, Gladstone. I don't suppose I'd have voted Tory even in the nineteenth century.'

He tossed the clipboard onto the bed.

‘I don't think there's much wrong with
your
mental processes,' he said dryly. ‘Now, your partner and your mother tell me that, as far as you know, nothing like this has ever happened to you before. Is that the case?'

I nodded.

‘You were in a pretty bad way when you got here. You were having hallucinations, thought someone was trying to murder you. At first we were afraid you might have something called eclampsia. It's pretty rare in this country, because high blood pressure is an early symptom and that's checked at the antenatal clinic, but if it is not detected, it results in fits and can be very serious. No, it's all right,' he said, catching the anxiety on my face. ‘We don't think you have it. Now I need to ask you some more questions. I gather from your partner that you're not a drug user?'

I shook my head.

‘Alcohol?'

‘Virtually none since I've been pregnant. Just a glass of wine now and again. That couldn't have—?'

‘No, no. Any psychotic episodes? Hallucinations? No? Any history of mental illness at all?'

‘Mild depression a few years ago after my marriage broke up. I had anti-depressants for a few months, that's all.'

‘Ever had an epileptic fit?'

A cold pit opened up in my stomach.

‘No. Do you think that's what it could have been?'

‘It's hard to tell without an EEG – an electroencephalogram, that is. We'll do that later today. It's about 95 per cent accurate at detecting epilepsy. Try not to worry. Even if it was, it could just be a one-off thing, possibly related to your pregnancy. That's not uncommon.'

More and more was coming back to me. I remembered rushing headlong down the library steps, stumbling, bouncing off the walls.

‘You're really sure about the baby? That I couldn't have hurt her by throwing myself around?'

‘This is your first, isn't it?' he said kindly. ‘Well, babies are tougher than you might think. We monitored her heartbeat when you were brought in, and she was a teeny bit distressed. But it's quite normal now—'

Off to my left a door was opened and the doctor saw the newcomer before I did. He stopped in mid-sentence. His eyes widened and he forgot to close his mouth. His face registered a mixture of surprise, enquiry and, yes, even a touch of reverence. All of a sudden he looked years younger.

I sighed and turned my head to look at the figure on the threshold of the room. She was dressed in a chunky sweater in a neutral colour, cut short to reveal a glimpse of a white T-shirt and a plaited leather belt on a pair of well-cut blue denim jeans. Her long legs ended in soft brown suede ankle boots. She wore her ash-blonde hair shoulder length with a feathery fringe. She looked like a woman from a magazine article about models who were famous in the sixties. They tell the interviewer how they have at last found true happiness with six children in a croft in the Orkneys, or running an animal sanctuary in the West Country. In the photographs they are more stunning than ever in a casual effortless way.

‘Hello, Mother,' I said.

*   *   *

The results of the EEG came back that afternoon. They were normal.

‘I want to go home,' I told Dr Nathan.

He was leaning against the rail at the end of the bed, looking at me over the top of half-rimmed glasses. Stephen and my mother were sitting on either side of my bed, and Stephen was holding my hand. I was sitting up against the pillows. My mother had brushed and plaited my hair for me and brought in a proper nightdress. Now that I was out of the hospital gown I felt more like my old self and was ready to put up a fight.

‘That wouldn't be wise,' Dr Nathan said. ‘I've agreed with your obstetrician that the best thing would be to transfer you to the Rosie and keep you under observation for at least a few more days. Possibly longer.'

‘But the neurologist couldn't find anything wrong. No-one can find anything wrong. You said so yourself.'

‘Grounds for cautious optimism,' he admitted. ‘But I wouldn't feel justified in allowing you home yet. You need complete rest. Stress may well have played a part in this.'

After what had happened to Rebecca, this was the last place I was likely to feel relaxed. I remembered my dream of being chased through the hospital. It was still as vivid as if it had really happened. In fact, it was more vivid in the way that dreams sometimes can be. I felt sick just thinking about it. I couldn't stay here. But what would the doctor think of my mental state if I told him that I thought one of my students had been murdered in the hospital? I looked at Stephen. He was frowning. I guessed that he was probably thinking the same thing.

I'd already opened my mouth to speak when my mother cleared her throat. I looked at her. She caught my eye, winked slightly and gave a barely detectable nod. I didn't know what was coming, but I knew it was going to be good. I relaxed against my pillows. She stood up and
Diorissimo
wafted across the room. She put her hand on the rail next to Dr Nathan's, lifted her face and looked straight into his eyes. I'd seen that look before. It was guaranteed to stun a man at a hundred paces. I knew that from experience; it had bowled over every single one of my boyfriends – except, it seemed, for Stephen. In classical times that expression could have launched a thousand ships and burned the topless towers of Ilium. The doctor swayed like a tree in the breeze.

‘I'm afraid it really is impossible for my daughter to stay in hospital a moment longer than is strictly necessary,' she said gently. ‘You see, she suffers from hospital phobia.'

If that hadn't been true before, it certainly was now. The most convincing lies are always composed largely of the truth. I was desperate to get out of the place. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Stephen registering faint surprise. I glared at him. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders.

For a moment I thought Dr Nathan had swallowed this whole. Then he rallied.

‘There's nothing about it in her notes,' he said, ‘and, if this is the case, why didn't she request a home delivery?'

Why indeed? I knew I was about to find out.

‘That was my doing, Doctor. Perhaps it was selfish of me. I had such a hard time with my own babies, I couldn't let Cassandra take any risks.' A brave little smile played around her lips.

Was this too much? I examined Dr Nathan's face. He caught my eye. I hastily arranged my face into a simper.

‘But surely you must have noticed,' my mother went on, ‘that we haven't left her alone for a single instant. She'd panic immediately if one of us wasn't with her.'

Bravo, Mother, you are a genius.
I thought.

‘Well…' said Dr Nathan.

My mother pressed home her advantage. ‘If there are any problems at all we'll bring her straight back, won't we, Stephen?'

‘Oh, yes, of course.'

‘I'll have to consult my colleague,' Dr Nathan warned her.

‘Naturally.' She beamed up at him. ‘Thank you so much, Doctor.'

He paused at the door.

‘But it must be clearly understood that complete rest means just that. There is no question at all of Dr James going back to work.'

‘Oh, surely…' I began.

‘We'll see that she follows your instructions to the letter,' Stephen said hastily.

He looked at me sternly. ‘Is that a promise?'

I nodded. He left the room.

‘Well, Laura,' Stephen said. ‘You're wasted as an accountant. You should have been an actress.'

She checked her already immaculate make-up. There was an air of triumph in the way that she snapped shut her Mary Quant powder compact.

‘Or possibly a master criminal,' I said.

‘Of course, he couldn't have forced Cass to stay,' Stephen went on. ‘If the worst had come to the worst, she could have discharged herself.'

‘Of course she could, darling, but Cass is too law-abiding to feel happy doing that.'

I recognized this picture of myself and winced.

‘And quite right, too, with the baby coming,' she added hastily. ‘He could make things very difficult for her.'

*   *   *

I wound down the window on the passenger side.

‘I can't help feeling a bit defeated,' I said. ‘There's still so much to take care of at the college.'

Stephen put his hand over mine on the edge of the car window.

‘They'll have to manage without you. Nothing's more important than your health and the baby's. And it'll be a relief to me to know that you're safe in London.'

I closed my fingers around his. My mother tactfully busied herself with Bill Bailey, who was complaining bitterly from his cat carrier on the back seat of her BMW.

‘Forget about the college for a while,' he said. ‘Ring me as soon as you arrive, OK?'

To my chagrin I felt tears welling up. I squeezed my lips together and nodded. His ribs were still too bruised for him to bend down and kiss me. He gently unpeeled my fingers, raised the palm of my hand to his mouth.

‘I'll come down next week,' he said.

He released me and stood back. I pressed the button for the electric window. The glass barrier rose up between us.

Mother started up the car. Bill Bailey immediately began a rhythmical wailing that I knew he would keep up indefinitely. He'd be hoarse by the time we got to London.

As we drove down the street, I watched Stephen's reflection grow smaller in the wing mirror. When we pulled out onto the road by the river, I saw him give a final wave before he turned to go into his flat.

It felt as though something was ending, and in a way it was. I didn't know it at the time, but the play was nearly over. What kind of play was it? A tragedy, in which the spring was wound tight and was almost ready to be released.

But it was to be several weeks before the last act would begin.

Chapter Nineteen

It was on a Saturday towards the end of January that the call came.

I was lying on the sofa in the first floor sitting-room of my mother's little mews house, where once hay and tack had been kept. Downstairs, where the horses had lived, were two small bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen. Over the weeks a routine had been established. I spent my days resting or working quietly on my book, occasionally catching the Tube to the library or having a walk in Kew Gardens. Stephen came down at weekends. Bill Bailey had at last settled in. Today he was stretched out full-length on the window seat in a pool of winter sunshine. Stephen was in an armchair next to him, reading the
Independent.
My mother was out shopping. I was reading one of my favourite Trollope novels,
The Small House at Allington,
in a little blue World's Classics edition.