Murder Is Academic by Christine Poulson

gasping and pushing his hair back. I slammed the door behind him as if the storm might follow him into the house. Water was streaming off him. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his sodden jacket and dropped it on the floor. We stepped into each other’s arms. Leaning against him, eyes closed and my face pressed against his shoulder, I breathed in the familiar citrus scent of his cologne mingled with wet, freshly laundered shirt. The dampness soaked into my shirt and made me shiver. I pulled away and got a towel from the kitchen.
    We climbed the first flight of stairs with our arms wrapped around each other’s waists. The second flight was narrowed by the books I’d piled on either side of each tread. We went up single file, Stephen towelling his hair as he followed me.
    Sheets of rain were sliding down the bedroom windows. The view out across the fens wavered, dissolved, reformed.
    I left my clothes where they fell and got into bed. Stephen did the same. I poured the wine and handed it to him.
    â€˜I thought you were saving this for a special occasion.’
    â€˜Isn’t every day a special occasion?’ I raised my glass. ‘To “days of wine and roses”.’
    Stephen touched his glass to mine.
    â€˜â€œThey are not long…”,’ he said, ‘Isn’t that how it goes? Tennyson?’
    â€˜Ernest Dowson. One of the poets of the decadence.’
    Stephen picked up a handful of my hair and held it up to the light. Red and gold strands glistened among the brown.
    â€˜There’s something decadent about making love to a woman with hair down to her waist. Have you ever thought of cutting it?’
    I looked into the familiar face: the hazel eyes with their heavy lids, the slightly aquiline nose.
    â€˜Never,’ I said. I leaned across and pressed my lips to his. His arms tightened around me.
    A little later, a wine glass rolled off the bed. I heard it crack as it hit the wooden floor, but it was too late.
    *   *   *
    I awoke with a jolt. For a few moments I couldn’t think where I was or what time of day it was. The bedside light was on. Beyond its circle of light the room was dim. The clock on the bedside table said five to ten. Next to it was a half-full bottle of wine and one empty wine glass. My mouth was dry and I was heavy with sleep. I pulled myself up against the pillows. My hair was everywhere, stuck to my back, netted over my breasts. I gathered it up in both hands and pushed it back over my shoulders. Clothes were strewn around the bed, some of them Stephen’s. The day came back in a rush: Margaret’s study, the letters, the storm, the urgent love-making, and afterwards our bodies stuck together with sweat.
    A distant clatter of pans and a droning noise, which I recognized as Stephen singing, told me that he had gone down to the kitchen to start cooking.
    I got out of bed and opened the window. The wet garden glinted in the light from the house. The rain had sharpened the scent of the flowers and there was a delicious freshness in the air. In the deepening twilight only Bill Bailey’s white paws, chest and muzzle were visible as he strolled down the garden path.
    I poured myself a glass of wine, got back into bed and pulled the sheet up over my breasts. Presently, I heard Stephen coming up the stairs. He appeared in the doorway with a tray. He was wearing only a tea towel knotted round his waist.
    â€˜You know, you’re in pretty good shape for a man of your age,’ I said.
    â€˜Why, thank you. I can cook, too. Here we have penne with anchovies, olives and capers.’
    He put the tray in the middle of the bed and clambered in next to me. We ate in ravenous and appreciative silence. When we had finished, Stephen moved the tray and pulled me towards him. I put my head on his shoulder. He shifted round to kiss me, but I put a hand on his shoulder to hold him off.
    â€˜I want to ask you something. How easy do you