Too Many Murders(22)

“Is there any mistaking his mug?” Carmine asked.

“Not a chance. For one thing, it’s made of fine china—the rest are ordinary thick pottery mugs. And for another, it’s got ‘The Dean’ on both sides in German Gothic script. I guess the writing of fifteenth-century Italy wasn’t florid enough, but his story was that his wife gave him the mug. He poured boiling water into the mug, carried it to his chair, and sat down. His smile was so—self-satisfied! We knew we were in for a long morning, that he’d found something fresh to discuss.

“Sure enough, ‘I’ve found out something extremely interesting I wish to share with you, gentlemen,’ he said, and stopped to blow on the surface of his tea. Funny, how vividly I remember that! He snorted and said something none of us really heard—about the tea, we all think in retrospect. Then he lifted the mug to his mouth and took a series of little sips—it had to have been scalding hot, but he made a real production of those sips, as if he was telling us we didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to drink such hot liquid. Next I think was the noise, though Bill Partridge says the change in his face came first. I don’t honestly think it matters much either way. He started to make a strangling, gurgling kind of noise, and his face went a bright red. He seemed to stretch out from the top of his head to his toes, stiff and straight as a board. Foam gushed out of his mouth, but he didn’t retch like a vomit. His hands flailed about, his feet drummed on the floor, the foam flew around as his movements grew wilder, and we—we just sat there paralyzed and looked! It must have been close to a minute before Bill Partridge—he’s the most scientific of us—suddenly jumped up and shouted that the Dean had had a seizure. Bill ran to the door and yelled for someone to call an ambulance, while the rest of us backed away. Bill came back and checked the Dean’s pulse, looked at the pupils of his eyes, put his ear on the Dean’s chest. Then he said the Dean was dead! And he wouldn’t let any of us leave!”

“A sensible young man,” said Carmine.

“Maybe so,” said Terence Arrowsmith grimly, “but it sure destroyed a day of classes! The ambulance guys called the cops, and the next thing we knew, everybody was talking poison. Bill Partridge said it was cyanide.”

“Did he, indeed? Upon what did he base that assumption, Mr. Arrowsmith?”

“A smell of almonds. But I didn’t smell any almonds, and neither did Charlie Tindale. Two did, two didn’t. Not good enough,” said Mr. Arrowsmith.

“Did Dean Denbigh say anything from the moment he began sipping his tea until he died?”

“He said nothing, he just made obscene noises.”

“What about the paper packet enclosing the tea bag? You said the Dean dropped it on the cart. Did anyone go near it?”

“Not while I was in the study, sir, and I didn’t leave until the criminal pathology technicians came in.”

“Did he simply drop it, or did he crumple it up?”

“He ripped it open to get the tea bag, then dropped it.”

Which marked the end of Terence Arrowsmith’s useful information. And, as it turned out, of the usefulness of all four students. Even Mr. William Partridge, the scientific one, could add nothing to Terence Arrowsmith’s admirably sedate description of events. All Partridge was concerned about was cyanide. So when Carmine was done with them, he breathed a sigh of relief and headed around the corner to the Dean’s wife’s study.

She too was senior in the college; he had found that much out sitting at his desk in County Services. What he wasn’t prepared for was her absolute detachment. A tall woman whom a great many men would call extremely attractive, she had a mass of red-gold hair pulled into a soft bun on her neck, a creamily flawless skin that didn’t show her age, chiseled features that reminded Carmine of a Grace Kelly without the vulnerability, and a pair of yellow eyes. A lioness, if ever he had seen one.

Her handclasp was firm and dry; she put Carmine into a comfortable chair and seated herself in what he assumed was “her” chair when she wasn’t behind her desk.

“My condolences for your loss, Dr. Denbigh,” he said.

She blinked slowly, considering his statement. “Yes, I suppose it is a loss,” she said in a light, clipped voice, “but luckily I have tenure, so John’s death doesn’t affect my career. Of course I’ll have to move out of the Dean’s apartment, but until Lysistrata College is finished in 1970—I’m in the running for Dean—I’ll live in a room upstairs among the girls.”

“Won’t you find that confining?” Carmine asked, fascinated at where she was leading their conversation.