The Professor

by Pil Lee

In 1961, the Professor’s condition grew suddenly worse.

She was still only 52, and had been in Dartmoor for 13 years. I thought the family had long resigned themselves to never finding out what happened that night so long ago, but with the news that his sister’s convicted killer might be dying, Laura’s brother rang me again.

“I don’t know what I can tell you, Mark,” I said. “The Professor hasn’t made any recent statements. This series of strokes was unexpected, and I believe doctors are looking after her, but she hasn?t asked to see me and as far as I’m concerned the case is closed.”

As always, Mark refused to back down. I remember thinking he was like a tall, intelligent but annoyingly tenacious tracker dog during the trial.

“So you think the jury was right? That she did do it?”

“Mark, that is not something I am prepared to discuss with you, nor has it ever been.”

“But you were her Counsel,” he persisted. “If you say the case is closed you must think the jury was right and they got the right person.”

I counted to five before I answered. “Mark, the jury found her guilty. If there had been an appeal I would have continued on in the Professor’s defense, but she didn’t want one and, as I have said, for my part this case is closed.”

He drew a breath to speak again but I kept on going. ”It’s been 13 years, Mark. Why are you calling me?” I knew I sounded terse and tried to soften my tone. “I know it was terrible to lose your sister like that, but really, if you want to speak to someone about the Professor you should be calling your own lawyer.”

There was silence at the end of the line, then a soft sigh, and I felt the years roll back. “Can I see you and talk to you?” he said. “Please.”

So out of sympathy and, I told myself, nothing more, we arranged to meet the next day for lunch in Covent Garden.

Mark was about to order drinks and I cut him off as the waiter approached, ordering water and appertisers for both of us. The last thing I wanted was to slip back into the quasi-camaraderie that I’d stupidly had with my client’s victim’s brother more than a decade ago.

I took control straight away. “The Professor has now suffered a serious stroke. They tell me another is expected and it will probably be the end. That’s all I know and all I want to know. There have been a lot of other cases under the bridge since then and I don’t know what I can do for you.” Mark opened his mouth to speak but I didn?t want to prolong this more than necessary. “What do you want of me Mark? Tell me now, straight out, and I’ll tell you whether I want to, or can, help you and then we can just have our lunch.”

He looked me straight in the eye and I remembered how unnerving that had always been. “I want to know,” he said.

Even though I’d suspected that was coming, I still felt the old sense of despair at his words.

“I can’t tell you,” I said. I opened my mouth to say more but he interrupted.

“I want to know,” he repeated, “and I have no way of finding out.” He looked down at his plate and for a second I saw the sweet but twisted smile that had captured me once, but I swore never again. He looked back up and I avoided his eye. “The rest of the family thinks the Professor killed Laura, and as far as they’re concerned, that’s that. But I don’t understand. Why would she do such a terrible thing? To anyone, let alone Laura. The kindest person you?d ever meet.”

I waited for the tears that used to pour but there were none, this many years on. Instead there was a bitterness to his voice I’d never heard before.

“Was it her? There were no other suspects, were there?” His hand snaked out and he caught my wrist. I met his eyes and saw the pain that had never died. “I want to hear her tell me before she dies, Christine. I want you to take me in with you and I want to hear her say it to me.”

“Mark, it’s been 13 years,” I pleaded.

“13 years that Laura’s been dead,” he said, and of course, there was nothing I could say to that.

I prayed futilely for the next week that the Professor would draw her final breath and spare me, but the next Wednesday I met Mark outside the Visitor’s door as planned. “You?re my clerk,” I reminded him, still inwardly amazed that I had let him talk me into this. “Do not say a word until we’re in the waiting room.”