Free Too Many Murders by Colleen McCullough Page B

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.
    “Not really,” she answered, composure unruffled. “John took up four-fifths of the space in our apartment. Most of my living is done here, in this room.”
    A twin of the Dean’s, and no less spacious. He gazed at the rows of books, which seemed to be mostly in German. “I believe you’re a great authority on the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, Dr. Denbigh,” he said.
    She looked surprised, as if policemen townies were not supposed to know that name. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”
    “Under different circumstances it would be a pleasure to have a chat with you, as I’m a Rilke fan, but I’m afraid it’s the death of your husband that concerns me today.” He frowned. “From your manner, Dr. Denbigh, I might be pardoned for thinking that your marriage was a rather distant one?”
    “Yes, it was,” said she. “I see no point in dissimulation. If you talk to any of the faculty attached to Dante, they’ll tell you the same. John and I had a marriage of convenience. To be dean, a man has to be married, and the possession of a scholar for a wife is an advantage. Put plainly, I am frigid. John was prepared to overlook that. His own sexual tastes ran to young girls, though he was always very careful. He had to be! His ambition was to be president of an Ivy League university, and he had all the prerequisites, including an ancestor off the
Mayflower
. My own aspirations didn’t conflict with his in any way.” She let her thick, perfectly painted lids fall over those remarkable eyes. “We got on together extremely well, and I worried for him.”
    “Was there anything different about him yesterday morning?”
    “No, not really. If anything, his mood was somewhat sunnier than usual. I remarked on it to him over breakfast—we ate in the dining hall—and he laughed, said he’d had good news.”
    “Did he tell you what this good news was?”
    The yellow eyes widened. “
John?
Pigs would fly first, Captain. Frankly, I thought he was tormenting me.”
    “How did you feel when you were told what had happened?”
    “Stunned. Yes, I