The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

is so much I want to say; so much I could say. Julia’s barely concealed animosity towards McKinley is palpable, like the taste of smoke on bonfire night. Marie-Claire, slightly more forgiving, is still clearly suspicious. I would probably only have to say a few words to either of them, and Desra’s career at Lennoxton – and possibly at that posh private school in Rhode Island – would be over.

That, however, wouldn’t get me the information I need. Once I find out about Desra’s involvement with Michael, I will happily feed her to Julia and Marie-Claire; but not just yet.

‘I couldn’t really comment on her academic merit,’ I say, feeling like I am tiptoeing through a minefield. ‘I mean I come from a healthcare background. But she does seem a bit slipshod.’

‘Slipshod!’ says Julia. ‘That’s an understatement. Arrogant, incompetent, unprofessional more like.’

‘Maybe she’s just getting warmed up,’ counters Marie-Claire. ‘I mean she did have to step in at short notice.’

For a moment Julia looks as if she is going to lose her temper, but almost immediately her face softens.

‘It’s one of the things I love about you most,’ she whispers, leaning over and giving Marie-Claire a kiss. ‘You always give people the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Well we’ve got to try to make the best of things I suppose. I mean we’re in a beautiful location, with good wine and good friends.’

‘Why didn’t you both just cancel when Maire Donaldson backed out?’ I say. ‘I mean it’s not like this course is really going to help you write your wedding vows, is it?’

‘They didn’t let us know until a week ago,’ replies Julia. ‘I’d already booked the travel, taken time off from my job, and we got a discount when they told us she had cancelled. Maybe you should ask for one too?’

‘Maybe,’ I say, unwilling to tell them that the sole reason I have come all this way wasn’t for the noted Scottish poet, but for the suspect Desra McKinley. ‘Is there any way that we could find out about her PhD? I mean if she actually does have one?’

‘Well aren’t you the little detective,’ says Julia, with a wicked smile. ‘Normally a PhD will be registered with the university where the person completed it. Trouble is, Desra refused to tell me which one that was, hence my wondering whether maybe she’s telling porkies.’

‘Alors,’ cries Marie-Claire, clearly excited by the mystery. ‘If she did her thesis in the UK it wouldn’t just be registered with the university …’

‘But with the British Library as well!’ says Julia, rubbing her hands together in glee.

‘The British Library?’

Julia’s expression becomes catlike. ‘Standard,’ she purrs. ‘Provided she did her PhD in the UK, it will be registered.’

‘What if she did it when she was in Canada?’

Julia is not daunted. ‘We could do an author search on the Theses Canada website.’

‘Shall we go up to my room?’ I say. ‘My laptop is fired up and ready to go.’

It doesn’t take long to find the British Library’s electronic thesis online service, as well as the Theses Canada Portal.

‘Des-ra Mc-Kin-ley,’ says Julia, typing the name into the search engines for each site.

There is no result.

‘Are you spelling it right?’ Marie-Claire asks.

‘Of course I am.’ Julia points to the screen. ‘I’ve tried it three times, and nothing.’

‘I think you’d better try Susan O’Neill,’ I whisper.

Julia looks up from the keyboard. ‘What?’

‘Susan O’Neill, try Susan O’Neill.’

Marie-Claire moves closer. I can smell the musky scent of her perfume. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us, chérie?’

‘So, you’ve come all this way to try and prove that Desra McKinley, or Susan O’Neill, is a fraud?’

Julia and Marie-Claire are sitting on the bed staring at me. I’m not sure if they buy my story of my fictional niece’s poetry being stolen by McKinley when she was one of her students. I may need to hint at more.

‘I know it sounds trivial,’ I say, ‘but Lisa was only a sixth former. She was seventeen years old, incredibly talented, and she trusted her.’ Holding out my phone, I show them the image of Michael and Lisa at the school fundraising event. ‘Afterwards, she became very depressed and gave up her place at university.’

‘But why now?’ Marie-Claire asks. ‘Six years later?’

‘Lisa eventually did go to university,’ I reply, ‘she graduated last month.’ The lies are like liquid on my tongue. ‘She stayed with us for a few days afterwards. One night we were celebrating and got a bit drunk.’ I imagine all those hoped-for conversations I should have had with Michael, and I find myself blinking back tears. ‘That’s when she told me what Desra – or Susan, as she was known at that time – had done to her, and how she had completely destroyed her self-confidence and faith. Then she told me that she had heard that O’Neill was back in the country, was now calling herself Desra McKinley, and was teaching at Lennoxton.’ I take a crumpled tissue from my back pocket and blow my nose. ‘Lisa was determined to come here to seek her out, but I convinced her not to as I knew it wouldn’t be good for her mental health. She only relented when I promised to do it myself.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me about McKinley stealing her work,’ says Julia. ‘A mediocre undergraduate’s work would be better than most of the stuff of hers I’ve seen so far.’ She glances at me. ‘No offence to your niece of course.’

‘I hate to be the only dissenter,’ says Marie-Claire softly. ‘But do you have proof that she stole your niece’s work, or that it wasn’t all some sort of fantasy?’

‘Marie-Claire!’

‘Oh, come on, Julia. If the young woman had a fixation for her teacher, which is not unheard of, she could have constructed this entire story and pulled poor Kate into it.’

‘She said she wrote a poem on a piece of paper when she was at Desra’s flat.’ I feel the flush of guilt as I shamelessly plagiarise and distort Lisa’s story.

Julia raises an