Free Death in an Ivory Tower (Dotsy Lamb Travel Mysteries) by Maria Hudgins Page B

benefit.
    “About a hundred. That is to say, I started with a hundred but the numbers invariably dwindle as time goes on.” The tip of Keith’s tie had crept onto the edge of the table and was taking aim at his soup bowl.
    I pointed to the problem. “Why do they invariably dwindle?”
    “With that number of adults, even healthy adults, some may die, unfortunately.”
    Mignon’s hand flew to her mouth.
    Keith, possibly realizing the effect of his innocent remark on Mignon, quickly added, “Some may move away, some may simply decide to drop out. You have to delete all their data when they do. As if they’d never been in the study to begin with.”
    “But if they die, isn’t that significant? Isn’t that what the study is all about?” I asked.
    “I didn’t explain myself well,” Keith said. “If someone in the study dies, you do include it, regardless of the reason for the death. If they get hit by a truck, in the data it’s simply recorded as ‘deceased,’ and the rest of their line is left blank.”
    “Oh, dear. I can see how that might skew the results,” I said.
    “Exactly. It does happen. And if it happens more than a few times in a study as small as mine, you run into the old chi-square dilemma.”
    “What’s that?” My own research, thank goodness, didn’t involve statistics, although I had heard of the chi-square test for significance. Other graduate students at UVa bandied such terms about much to the chagrin of the mathematically challenged, like myself.
    “It’s a f-f-formula we use that tells us whether our results are meaningful or totally worthless. If your numbers dwindle too far, it can mean that one more person dropping out can render your whole study worthless even if the results so far are pure gold.”
    “Let me get this straight.” I sat back to let the server remove my soup plate. “The people you’re treating may be getting better, even getting well, but if one gets hit by a truck, the whole study can go down the drain.”
    “Right. Particularly in a study that starts with only fifty test and fifty control subjects.”
    Mignon had hardly touched her soup. Her question came out in a whisper. “Was Bram in your test group or your control group?”
    Keith Bunsen looked at me, then down at the table. “As I told Mrs. Lamb earlier, I don’t know. My assistants have that information.”
    Mignon’s implication was clear. If someone wanted to sabotage Keith’s research, killing one of his test subjects might do the job. Or perhaps she was thinking,
if Keith’s research is going badly, if too many in the
test
group have died, Keith would have a motive for killing a member of the
control
group.
I wondered if Mignon knew Keith lived a only a few yards from our own rooms.
    While the wait staff was pouring coffee, making their way around the tables in pairs, one with a pot of decaf and one with regular, Harold Wetmore rose to introduce the evening’s speaker. “But first, we all extend our most heartfelt sympathy to the family and friends of Bram Fitzwaring, who passed away peacefully last night in his room. Especially to his friend, Mignon Beaulieu, who accompanied him here from their home in Glastonbury and who, like all of us, was looking forward to his lecture this afternoon.”
    I wasn’t sure if Wetmore knew Mignon was in the room or not. Most of the diners in our part of the room turned toward her and nodded solemnly.
    Our speaker was Robin Morris, a director of the Bodleian Library and one of my dinner companions last night. I remembered his remark about Prudence Burcote, his nominee for the Grey Lady of the night before. In light of today’s happenings, everyone seemed to have forgotten about that mysterious event. Morris spoke to us about the history of the Bodleian Library and described how visiting scholars, such as we were, could go about gaining entry to one their reading rooms. The Bodleian was not a lending library, and its mission to protect hundreds of rare