Honest Doubt by Amanda Cross Page A

herself than me. “Not after the first few years, anyway. And those for whom teaching is a joy, those who don’t long for time off, don’t get tenure; they certainly don’t get the thanks of their academic institution. They used to; not anymore.”
    â€œBut people keep on getting Ph.D.’s in English.”
    â€œRight. And they hate their professors, among other reasons you may unearth, because there are no jobs; certainly few good jobs. And the older guys, the established ones, don’t like being resented. There’s a lot more than that—arguments over fields, subject matter, new genres of criticism—but I’m leaving you to find that out on your own. A college like Clifton may be very different from a university of the sort I’m used to.”
    â€œIt sounds as though murder is not as unlikely as I thought.”
    â€œThere’s a great deal of anger and fear. Whether or not that leads to murder is a question; I doubt it, but I used to doubt a lot of things that have recently become quite ordinary.”
    I sighed. She was right. I didn’t want to be burdened with more than the general picture; I wanted to decide about the characters in this story without having to fight against Kate’s impressions, with which I would probably be tempted to agree.
    â€œWell,” I said, a bit too plaintively, “at least I can ask you about Tennyson, can’t I?”
    â€œBy all means; I’m always ready to bone up on poetry and literary criticism, particularly of figures I haven’t ever taught or even thought about in years. But Tennyson may not turn out to be the motive here.”
    â€œHe very well may be. Anyway, that’s what Claire Wiseman thought; that’s mainly why I was supposed to consult you.” I sighed, and started to my feet again. Tomorrow I’d begin interviewing these folks.
    â€œI forgot to tell you,” Kate said. “That’s me— babbling on about the academic world and forgetting practicalities. Reed has found you a detective sergeant in the New Jersey police who’s ready to pass the time of day. He owes Reed one, is how Reed put it.”
    â€œI don’t like to think of Reed calling in his chips on my account.”
    â€œDon’t worry. I suspect Reed suspects, or anyway hopes, that you’re the only reason he will ever have to call in a chip from New Jersey. I’d offer you a drink now, but it occurs to me that drinking and driving don’t go together any better on a motorcycle than in an automobile.”
    â€œTrue, alas.”
    â€œYou’ll have to come one evening on public transportation,” Kate said. “We’ll have a lovely tipple when this is over, or even underway.”
    â€œRight,” I said. Banny, to my delight, got up to see me out. I suspected this was less affection than the thought of some treat that would materialize when I was out of the way. But all acts of affection are welcome, I thought, worrying about tomorrow, and wondering how soon I’d have an excuse to see Kate again.

How fares it with the
happy dead?
    â€”TENNYSON,
In Memoriam
    Four
    I HAD planned to visit Clifton College the next day, but when I returned home from my visit to Kate, there was a message from Donald Jackson, calling, he said, at the suggestion of Reed Amhearst. This was Reed’s New Jersey policeman whom Kate had mentioned. So I arranged to meet with him before facing the Clifton English department. I could, of course, have interviewed most of the faculty in New York, where, like Dawn, many of them lived; few, it seemed, were prepared to live in New Jersey.
    I have never understood what this odd prejudice is against New Jersey. Certainly the view from their side of the Hudson—a view of Manhattan—beats any vista New York itself can provide. But emerging on my bike from the Lincoln Tunnel, I had to admit that the scenery along the Jersey Turnpike certainly