Murder Is Academic by Christine Poulson

there’s a race tomorrow.’
    â€˜Academic work takes precedence over sport, you know that, Rebecca.’
    She put a hand on the edge of my desk and drummed her fingers. I let my eyes drop to her hand and then raised them to meet her gaze. After a moment she looked away and removed her hand, but her chin was still lifted defiantly and her small mouth was tight with anger.
    The interview wasn’t going as I had expected. I was surprised by her intransigence. Students don’t mean to cheat as a rule, and they quickly apologize when they realize what they’ve done wrong. And even if they do mean to cheat, they’re usually smart enough to play dumb and put on a show of being contrite.
    â€˜If I don’t have this essay by next week, and if I’m not satisfied that it’s all your own work, I’ll have to inform the Master. You could be suspended from the college.’
    Finally I seemed to have got through to her. Her lips were still pressed tightly together, but her eyes were brimming. One single tear spilled over and wound its way down her cheek.
    â€˜What is it, Rebecca?’ I asked more gently. I took a tissue from the box on my desk and handed it to her.
    Her face crumpled. The corners of her mouth went down in a grimace. She looked like a child about to have a tantrum. For a few moments she struggled to speak. Eventually a single word emerged.
    â€˜Lucy,’ she said.
    My heart stopped for a moment, and then lurched. Then I thought perhaps she didn’t mean Lucy Hambleton. Names go in fashions and the college was full of Lucys, Emmas and Kates.
    â€˜Rebecca, you’d better tell me what this is all about.’
    â€˜I thought she loved me. She did love me until … until that woman came along,’ she wailed. ‘It wasn’t fair. She tried to hide it from me. And she’d still be alive, Lucy would still be alive if—’
    She was almost incoherent in her anger and misery.
    â€˜If what, Rebecca?’
    With a visible effort, she got herself back under control. ‘If she hadn’t come to this rotten place!’
    She reached over and took her essay off the desk. In front of my astonished eyes she ripped it in two.
    â€˜I’m not going to do this fucking essay Just you try and make me. I can make trouble for you and this bloody college, and don’t you forget it!’
    She grabbed her rucksack and ran out of the room. I got to the door just in time to see her vanish round the corner of the corridor and hear her feet running down the stairs.
    *   *   *
    â€˜Thanks.’
    â€˜What for?’ Stephen asked.
    â€˜For not saying, “I told you so”.’
    We were in The Free Press, a small pub in the tangle of little streets and terraces of Regency houses to the north of Parker’s Piece. It’s a rowing pub, and the wooden panelling is crowded with memorabilia. Faded photographs of young men in blazers looked down on us, and above the threshold of the tiny inner bar, where we were having an early lunch, was the blade of an oar on which the names of a long-gone boat team were painted in white. It was very busy – it always is – but that makes it a good place to talk. No one can hear you above the hubbub.
    â€˜I won’t say I’m not tempted,’ Stephen admitted. ‘I’ve thought all along that someone somewhere probably knew about Lucy and Margaret. It’s difficult to be as discreet as all that – especially when you’re mad about somebody.’
    â€˜I know, I know. I just so much hoped that it was all in the past now and that Malcolm wouldn’t have to know.’
    â€˜This Rebecca – you think she had something going with Lucy herself?’
    â€˜Looked that way. Stephen…’
    â€˜Yep?’
    â€˜There’s no question of letting Rebecca get away with this. If she doesn’t write a new essay, I’ll have to report her to