Read Murder in the English Department for Free Online Page A

have had Murchie, the most sexist professor in the department, ask to visit her class. Of course he would walk in the morning she was discussing how John Milton had exploited his daughters and his three wives. Angus Murchie, who had spent thirty years re-reading ‘Comus’ and ‘Samson Agonistes’, now knew that she ‘carried her politics into the classroom’. Nan found that a peculiar allegation, as if political opinion were unsanitary, disposable material which one might check into a locker. Oh well, the tenure committee would also consider other criteria.
    Could Murchie ever understand her, let alone appreciate her? When he faced tenure thirty-five years before, the procedure wasn’t so precarious. He was a bright young man who had gone to the right schools where he had met the right men who cheered him on. Still, Nan doubted he was conscious of the privilege. He had an innocent aristocracy about him, as if he deserved his professorial status. He seemed surprised by and then affronted by the ‘outsiders’ who had broken into academia, the Jews and blacks and women. He complained most about the women. In recent years he had grown more vitriolic in putting down his female colleagues and more reckless in attempting to bed down his female students.
    Nan felt relieved as she passed Murchie’s office. She wondered if she would find Mr Johnson on duty. It had taken her five years to get past the stage of silent nods with the old black janitor. After a thousand evenings of Mr Johnson stopping by her door, ‘just to check’, they had come to a mutual liking. For a while, he tried to persuade her not to work in the sixty-year-old building at night.
    â€˜Not to scare you more than’s necessary,’ he had said, rubbing his grey eyebrows nervously, ‘but this place isn’t safe for a lady at night. Those weirdos come up from Telegraph Avenue and find ways into the building.’
    How could she explain that she was working for tenure. Such an absurd system. Seven years of teaching and writing and then they decided if they would admit you to the club. Even her family wouldn’t accept that she could get fired after all these years. As Joe said, in one of his sweeter moments, ‘They’d never get rid of a good worker like you.’ But Mr Johnson did understand tenure, or at least its results, because he had seen other Assistant Professors disappear.
    â€˜I guess I’m better at working than relaxing,’ she explained finally.
    So Mr Johnson continued to check up on her each evening, usually serving up an admonishment with his protection. Sometimes he accepted a cup of Red Rose tea in return.
    Nan was thinking now that the bottle of Cutty Sark she had presented Mr Johnson, with best wishes for himself and his wife in the New Year, was probably the most successful present she had found. She was not so sure about the earrings she had given Shirley or Lisa’s silk blouse. But then you could never be sure.
    Nan’s door was covered with maps and quotations, an amusing diversion for students while they waited to see her and an effective blind when she didn’t want anyone to know she was in. Her light never spilled into the hall as did Murchie’s.
    On the small, square piece of corkboard by the door was an index card proclaiming:
    Nan Weaver, Assistant Professor
    English 20, Modern British and American Literature
    English 175, Women Writers
    Office Hours: Tuesday–Thursday 2–4 (and by appointment)
    Underneath the white card was tacked a blue vellum envelope covered in elegant black calligraphy.
    Nan knew it would be from Marjorie Adams. She unlocked her office, set down her books and walked over to the window with the letter. If Marjorie was saying that she couldn’t make the appointment, Nan would explode. Last quarter one student had managed to miss four special appointments. Sometimes she felt like a self-serve filling station, open