Murder Is Academic by Christine Poulson Page B

you.’ The remnant of his Welsh accent was far more in evidence than usual.
    I sat down opposite him, trying to disguise my annoyance. ‘Merfyn, don’t you realize how important this is for the future of the department, and for you?’
    â€˜Of course I do.’ He was impatient. ‘And it isn’t as if I haven’t been working hard. I’ve done hardly anything else all summer. In fact I wrote several chapters.’
    â€˜So what’s the problem?’
    He didn’t reply. As I sat regarding Merfyn, a familiar feeling swept over me, a compound of embarrassment, weariness and a a profound longing to be somewhere else. If only I could close my eyes and open them again to find that I had miraculously been transported to a desert island. Actually, I reflected, it didn’t even have to be a desert island. Anywhere would do, anywhere that wasn’t here.
    Get a grip, I told myself, you’re in charge here. I sat up straight, too quickly perhaps because specks of light danced before my eyes and my head reeled. I lowered my head and closed my eyes.
    â€˜Cassandra? Are you all right?’
    â€˜Yes, yes, I’m fine.’
    Merfyn was leaning forward, looking at me anxiously.
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Yes, really. Look, Merfyn, even if you’re not satisfied with it, I’d like to see what you’ve produced over the summer.’
    The silence between us lengthened.
    Eventually he heaved a huge sigh and said, ‘If you must know, I’ve destroyed what I wrote.’
    I stared at him.
    â€˜It’s the truth. I’ve torn it into little pieces.’
    â€˜But – you’ve got it on disk? Yes?’
    â€˜â€™Fraid not. I’ve deleted it from my word processor.’
    I sat back. An image flashed into my mind: a little sheaf of white paper tumbling into the darkness of cyberspace, slowly turning over and over, growing ever smaller, like an astronaut whose lifeline has been severed. Gone for ever. I almost missed what he said next.
    â€˜I knew you wouldn’t understand.’ He shook his head and looked away.
    â€˜Merfyn! Look at me!’
    His eyes slid back reluctantly.
    â€˜You’re not going to like it,’ he said. ‘Conan Doyle told me to do it.’
    In fifteen years of teaching, this was the most original excuse for an unfinished piece of work that I had ever heard.
    Merfyn was lying back in his chair, legs stretched out, watching the ceiling, apparently relieved to have got this off his chest.
    â€˜Are you out of your mind?’ I said.
    Scarcely had the words left my mouth when I wondered if this was more than a figure of speech. Could it be something pathological here, a syndrome to which a psychiatrist could give a label? Perhaps Merfyn couldn’t help himself? Perhaps he just could not finish this book? Was he even a little bit crazy? He didn’t look as if he had lost touch with reality, but then what does a person who has lost touch with reality look like? Did I think he’d be gibbering and picking at his clothes?
    â€˜Not at all,’ he said calmly. ‘He came directly through the medium this time. Told me that what I’d written wasn’t good enough. Of course, as soon as he said that, I realized. I think I’d probably known it all along. I’ll just have to do it again.’
    I seized on this. ‘So it was the medium who told you.’
    â€˜No, I told you, it was Conan Doyle acting through the medium.’
    â€˜And who is this person, this medium? Does she take money for this?’
    â€˜No, she doesn’t. She’s very strict about that. Ingrid’s a perfectly respectable person, a medical secretary, actually. It’s a gift she has. She tries to help people.’
    I thought this over.
    â€˜Now, look here, Merfyn,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be honest with you. I do not believe that you had a psychic experience.’
    Merfyn was shaking his head