turned to get back into bed, I saw that Stephen had propped himself on his elbow. He was staring at me as though Iâd just lobbed a hand grenade into the bed.
âWhat?â I said.
He went on looking at me with an expression of exaggerated incredulity.
âWHAT?â
He flung himself back onto the pillows. âHow could you do that, Cassandra?â
âYouâve just said yourself she should have destroyed them.â
âBut she didnât,â he said, emphasizing every word. âShe did not destroy them. And it wasnât your place to do it for her. What did you do, burn them?â
I nodded. âStephen, I couldnât let Malcolm see those letters. It would tear him apart.â
âIt wasnât up to you to decide that, Cassandra. They were evidence that should have been put before the coroner.â
âEvidence of what? You said yourself that itâll be difficult to tell if Margaret committed suicide. Why should Malcolm suffer more than he already is? Heâs the innocent party in all this.â
âAs far as you know,â Stephen said grimly. âSuppose he got wind of the affair and gave Margaret a helping hand into the pool?â
I stared at him. âYou donât really think that.â
âHow the hell do I know?â
âBut ⦠no, he wouldnâtâ¦â
At the sight of my stricken face he relented.
âOh, well, probably not. You said he was away on business, didnât you? The police will have checked that out. But even so ⦠And another thing, how can you be sure that youâre the only one who knows about this?â
This stopped me in my tracks. âIt was a secret. Lucy said so in her last letter.â
âReally, Cassandra, for an intelligent woman, you are remarkably stupid sometimes. For all you know Lucy could have had a string of jealous lovers. She might have married, too, like Margaret!â
Chapter Five
From a bench outside the French windows of the Senior Common Room, I could hear a murmur of conversation from within. The end of term lunch of salmon and mayonnaise, strawberries and cream was over and I had slipped out with my cup of coffee. The storm of the previous night had cleared the air and the fine weather had returned. The carefully tended garden with the trees, its shaved lawns and its flower-beds spread out before me in the sunshine. When I came for my interview at St Etheldredaâs, I had been charmed by the domestic scale of its neo-Georgian revival architecture, and red brick and white paint, like an immense dollâs house. It was comforting to think that so many students and teachers had wandered in this garden for so long. The size of the copper beech testified to that. Probably it had been here before the college.
I leaned back, closed my eyes and let the sun soak into me.
First thing that morning I had gone into the college registry and got out Lucy Hambletonâs file. I looked at the next of kin box: Angela Hambleton. It was scrawled in a casual hand, one that was familiar to me from the letters. I felt a pang at the sight of that routine entry, which she little suspected would one day be needed. I skimmed the rest of the form. There was nothing to suggest she had ever been married. I noted that she was twenty-eight, a mature student in fact. I remembered now that she had been a bit older than the normal postgraduate. That made me feel a bit better about her relationship with Margaret. I saw she had been working as a qualified librarian at Durham University before being accepted to do a PhD at St Etheldredaâs, working under Alison Stirling, our specialist in sixteenth and seventeenth century literature. Because Lucy wasnât working on the nineteenth century, I hadnât had much to do with her. I looked at the photograph attached to the form: a narrow, bony face with a nose that was very slightly crooked, shoulder-length dark hair swept back from her
âWhat?â I said.
He went on looking at me with an expression of exaggerated incredulity.
âWHAT?â
He flung himself back onto the pillows. âHow could you do that, Cassandra?â
âYouâve just said yourself she should have destroyed them.â
âBut she didnât,â he said, emphasizing every word. âShe did not destroy them. And it wasnât your place to do it for her. What did you do, burn them?â
I nodded. âStephen, I couldnât let Malcolm see those letters. It would tear him apart.â
âIt wasnât up to you to decide that, Cassandra. They were evidence that should have been put before the coroner.â
âEvidence of what? You said yourself that itâll be difficult to tell if Margaret committed suicide. Why should Malcolm suffer more than he already is? Heâs the innocent party in all this.â
âAs far as you know,â Stephen said grimly. âSuppose he got wind of the affair and gave Margaret a helping hand into the pool?â
I stared at him. âYou donât really think that.â
âHow the hell do I know?â
âBut ⦠no, he wouldnâtâ¦â
At the sight of my stricken face he relented.
âOh, well, probably not. You said he was away on business, didnât you? The police will have checked that out. But even so ⦠And another thing, how can you be sure that youâre the only one who knows about this?â
This stopped me in my tracks. âIt was a secret. Lucy said so in her last letter.â
âReally, Cassandra, for an intelligent woman, you are remarkably stupid sometimes. For all you know Lucy could have had a string of jealous lovers. She might have married, too, like Margaret!â
Chapter Five
From a bench outside the French windows of the Senior Common Room, I could hear a murmur of conversation from within. The end of term lunch of salmon and mayonnaise, strawberries and cream was over and I had slipped out with my cup of coffee. The storm of the previous night had cleared the air and the fine weather had returned. The carefully tended garden with the trees, its shaved lawns and its flower-beds spread out before me in the sunshine. When I came for my interview at St Etheldredaâs, I had been charmed by the domestic scale of its neo-Georgian revival architecture, and red brick and white paint, like an immense dollâs house. It was comforting to think that so many students and teachers had wandered in this garden for so long. The size of the copper beech testified to that. Probably it had been here before the college.
I leaned back, closed my eyes and let the sun soak into me.
First thing that morning I had gone into the college registry and got out Lucy Hambletonâs file. I looked at the next of kin box: Angela Hambleton. It was scrawled in a casual hand, one that was familiar to me from the letters. I felt a pang at the sight of that routine entry, which she little suspected would one day be needed. I skimmed the rest of the form. There was nothing to suggest she had ever been married. I noted that she was twenty-eight, a mature student in fact. I remembered now that she had been a bit older than the normal postgraduate. That made me feel a bit better about her relationship with Margaret. I saw she had been working as a qualified librarian at Durham University before being accepted to do a PhD at St Etheldredaâs, working under Alison Stirling, our specialist in sixteenth and seventeenth century literature. Because Lucy wasnât working on the nineteenth century, I hadnât had much to do with her. I looked at the photograph attached to the form: a narrow, bony face with a nose that was very slightly crooked, shoulder-length dark hair swept back from her
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