“You don’t have to teach me my profession,” Melchett snapped. He studied the corpse a moment longer, then asked in a less belligerent tone, “Did you have anything particular in mind?”
“Coniine, cannabinine, sloanine, taxine. I could give you a complete list, I expect, if I sat down and thought awhile. Toxicity in plants is something we agrologists have to concern ourselves with, you know.”
“But how would the poison get into his system? Nobody with a grain of sense would ingest that muck.”
“Not on purpose, certainly.”
Melchett looked startled and began rubbing his chin. “Still, Ben was one of those health food freaks. Sprinkled wheat germ on his corn flakes, that sort of thing.”
“I grant you that, but don’t you think he’d make sure it was in fact wheat germ he sprinkled? Unless someone—er—switched the boxes.”
The doctor quit rubbing his chin. “Shandy,” he said primly, “that strikes me as a somewhat irresponsible statement. In view of your recent peculiar behavior, don’t you think you’d better tone down your remarks?”
“In view of the present circumstances, don’t you think you’d be well advised to request an autopsy?”
“I suppose so,” the doctor sighed. “Damn it, my wife’s nagged me for months about taking her to Florida over the holidays. This is what I get for staying home. Where’s Grimble?”
“He said to tell you he’d be right back. That was about half an hour ago. I’d better go see if he’s—er—finished interrogating the staff.”
“He’s probably interrogating some stenographer in the broom closet, if I know that old goat. Tell him to get the hell out here and call the county coroner’s office. I’m not writing a certificate on this one.”
There was a little stress on “this one” that prompted Shandy to retort, “Then you weren’t entirely satisfied with the way Mrs. Ames died either.”
Dr. Melchett stared. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, which was probably a wise thing to do under the circumstances. Shandy, knowing there was no use in pressing the issue, went to fetch the security chief. He found Grimble engaged in no more lascivious pastime than eating fruitcake.
The man rose with a fair show of alacrity, cramming the last bite into his mouth. “Thanks, folks. See you later.”
“You will let us know what happened to poor Dr. Cadwall, won’t you?” begged Miss Tippett.
“Yeah, and when we can split for lunch,” added the mail boy.
“I think they’d better have some sandwiches brought in,” said Shandy when the two men were out in the corridor. “Dr. Melchett isn’t going to sign a death certificate.”
“Huh?” Grimble sprayed fruitcake crumbs. “Why not?”
“I expect he’ll explain that to you himself. He says you’re to phone the county coroner.”
“Oh, Christ on a crutch!”
Grimble managed to get rid of his mouthful in order to vent his feelings. “Professor, if you talked him into this, I’ll—”
“He didn’t talk me into anything,” snapped the doctor, who had got tired of waiting and come to meet them. “The evidence speaks for itself. Where have you been, man? Get on that telephone and make it fast. In my professional opinion, you people have one sweet mess on your hands here, and I want no part of it.”
Although he still had on his overcoat and galoshes, Professor Shandy began to feel cold. He walked over to one of the big old-fashioned steam radiators that ran the length of the corridor and pressed his hands against the grids. They were hot to the touch, almost too hot for flesh to bear, but they didn’t convey any warmth to his body.
“I’m in shock,” he thought dispassionately. “I ought to get some coffee.”
He didn’t go back to the mail room. Grimble had probably emptied the pot. Miss Tippett would be glad to make him some more, but he didn’t want to stand waiting among that gabbling crew. He wanted to go get Helen Marsh and take her someplace where nobody had ever heard of Balaclava College.
Dr. Melchett was talking to the coroner’s office. Shandy didn’t bother trying to understand what he was saying. It was what the doctor had not said, that little flicker of his eyelid when Jemima Ames was mentioned, that told the most. Something must have struck him wrong the morning she was found, but since Ottermole and Grimble were so determined to call her death an accident, that same caution which was causing him to pass the buck now had prompted him to sign the death certificate without which Harry the Ghoul wouldn’t have dared commence his gruesome rites.
One couldn’t blame him, Shandy supposed. Murder, at least this kind of murder, just didn’t happen in respectable little college towns. Even if a country GP did suspect there was something fishy about a sudden death, he’d think a long, long time before he risked his practice by starting a scandal.
If someone other than Shandy had happened to find Dr. Cadwall dead in his office, the normal reaction would be to call Security, just as he himself had done when he discovered Jemima Ames’s body behind his sofa. Grimble would not have got the police, he’d have sent for Dr. Melchett. It was entirely possible that the pair of them would have managed to convince each other there was no need for further investigation, not because they were either wicked or incompetent but because anything other than natural death would be outside their customary frame of reference.
And also because they knew Thorkjeld Svenson would tear them apart if they raised a stink and couldn’t produce a villain. As the affair now stood, if Miss Baxter’s prediction ever came true, the third body found on campus might well be Peter Shandy’s.
Chapter 15
WAS THERE ANY OUTSIDE possibility that Melchett could have wanted a cover-up for more urgent personal reasons? But doctors didn’t kill people, at least not on purpose. Shocked by this outlandish idea, Shandy studied the man at the telephone more closely than he ever had before. The adjective that came to mind was “respectable.”
Dr. Melchett had been part of the background ever since Shandy came to Balaclava. As official physician-on-call, he showed up at most of the bigger social affairs with his wife, a woman who, as Shirley Wrenne once remarked, had a new dress and an old cliché for every occasion.
The Melchetts’ brand of respectability must cost them a pretty penny. Had the doctor found income not up to outgo, and started padding his bills to the college? If so, Cadwall would surely have found him out; but would that be sufficient motive for murder, and where would Jemima Ames come in?
What, in fact, did she and Ben Cadwall have in common, other than being faculty folk and next-door neighbors? They were both on intimate terms with Hannah, and they’d both had a hobby of finding out other people’s business. Whether or not they ever got together and compared gossip was beside the point, since Hannah would surely pass along to her husband any tidbit Jemima let fall.
Jemima would tell, there was no doubt about that. Shandy had never once been able to visit Tim in her presence without having to listen to some story he’d far rather not hear. He couldn’t imagine her getting hold of any piece of news and not confiding it to her best friend’s ear.
During these past several weeks, Jemima had been closely involved with many of the students. What if she’d got wind that Melchett could be bribed to perform an abortion without going through channels and disturbing Balaclava’s high moral tone, or that he was supplying drugs to undergraduates? Neither she nor Ben would be shy about confronting him with the rumor, or about cooking his goose in short order if he failed to convince them of his innocence. The moral tone at Balaclava being what it was, even a hint of malpractice could finish him with the Svensons, hence with the college, the town, and perhaps with Mrs. Melchett and all else he presumably held dear.
Poisoning a dedicated hypochondriac like Ben should be no hard task for the physician who for years had been hearing his complaints and doling out his placebos. Choosing taxine as the vehicle would be a clever touch indeed, since the stuff was not in the pharmacopoeia but available for the pluckin
g to anybody who knew how to prepare a simple decoction; and Shandy could think of nobody on campus who didn’t.
The fact that Melchett was at present engaged in passing the buck meant nothing one way or the other. No respectable doctor would care to be mixed up in a murder case. Shandy wasn’t even thinking about that. He was thinking that if Melchett had in fact killed both Ben and Jemima, he’d be a fool not to kill Hannah, too.
Maybe he already had. Maybe that was why Mrs. Cadwall wasn’t responding to any of the messages that had been left for her. Maybe she and her husband had shared a lethal breakfast and she was still sitting back in their house on the Crescent with an empty coffee cup in front of her, staring into infinity. Shandy found a chair, pulled it close to the radiator, and sat down, drawing his overcoat tight around him.
Melchett got through talking to the coroner’s office, fetched his natty car coat from the comptroller’s office, and came over to Shandy, satchel in hand.
“No sense in my hanging around here any longer. My wife’s got lunch waiting. You and Grimble can hold the fort until the police get here.”
“Are they sending another unmarked van?”
The doctor didn’t seem to catch the allusion. “Are you feeling all right, Shandy?”
“No. I think I’ve caught a chill.”
“Take some aspirin and go to bed.”
“How can I, if I’m supposed to sit tending a corpse while you weasel out?”
Shandy was talking to the air. Melchett was already out the door. Grimble stared morosely at the departing Oldsmobile.
“The president sure ain’t goin’ to like this.”
“The president will have to lump it,” Shandy snarled.
He was sick of the lot of them. Two people murdered, and all they could think about was filling their guts and keeping their noses clean. He stayed huddled inside his good gray tweed, not responding to any of Grimble’s observations, until a small procession drove up, headed by Ottermole in the village’s one police car, then a state police vehicle and an ambulance.
“Here they are.” Grimble swallowed noisily. “What are you goin’ to tell ’em?”
“The truth, of course. I came to see Dr. Cadwall and found him dead at his desk.”
“Yeah, but what about the key an’—an’ the rest of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus, Professor, watch it, will you? Svenson’s goin’ to be—”
He shut up fast as the door opened and the law arrived. Shandy, realizing that the security chief was having an attack of mental paralysis, stood up.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen.”
Ottermole, who might have been expected to make the introductions, wasn’t saying anything either, so Shandy took them upon himself.
“My name is Shandy. I’m a member of the faculty. This is Mr. Grimble, head of campus security. The—er—deceased, Dr. Cadwall, our comptroller, is in his office, through that door.”
Grimble suddenly found his voice. “Yeah, see, Professor Shandy here was in my office and he says, ‘I’m goin’ over to see the comptroller,’ an’ the next thing I know, he’s on the intercom tellin’ me—”
“Whoa, back up,” said the state policeman. “Ottermole, do you want to take notes, or shall I?”
“You better,” mumbled Balaclava’s chief.
“Right. My name’s Olivetti. Now, Professor Shandy, suppose you do the talking.”
He whipped out a small black notebook and a dashing gold pen just like Cadwall’s. “When did you get here?”
“Well, as Grimble told you, I left the security office about half past eleven.”
“Eleven thirty-two,” Grimble put in. “It’s right on the record.”
“My God! I had no idea you were so thorough.”
“Sure. Everybody gets checked in an’ out, even if they only stop by to use the John.”
Olivetti cleared his throat. “So you came straight here?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to speak to Dr. Cadwall.”
“What about?”
Now was the moment of truth. Shandy was pondering what to say when he felt a small, involuntary tightening of his body muscles. It was the same instinctive drawing-away that had kept him from dousing the embryo Balaclava Buster with an improperly mixed solution of liquid fertilizer which would surely have cremated the infant sprouts.
“A key,” he replied cautiously. “I thought he might have—er—taken one that belonged to me.”
“Happens all the time,” Grimble butted in. “Not that I’m makin’ cracks about absent-minded professors or nothin’—”
“Sure,” said Olivetti. “So you came in and then what? Did you speak to his secretary?”
“She was not at her desk. I subsequently learned that she called in sick this morning. We always have some kind of mysterious epidemic among the administrative staff during the holiday season.”
“Sure. Did you knock, or what?”
“I believe I merely opened his door and poked my head in. That’s the—er—accepted custom around here. One asks, ‘Are you busy?’ or something of the sort, then either enters or goes away.”
“Kind of dangerous, isn’t it?” asked a cheeky youngster in whites who was carrying a folding aluminum stretcher. “What if he was taking a little time out with his secretary?”
“At Balaclava? That would seem a remote contingency. Although,” Shandy added nastily, “no doubt Grimble would know better than I.”
“Could we stick to the point?” asked Olivetti patiently. “How did you find him?”
“Do you mean in what position?”
“I do.”
“Exactly as he is now. I realized at once that he was dead, so I shut the door and called for help.”
“Where from? The secretary’s phone?”
“No, I came back down the hall and used Miss Tibbett’s. In the registrations office, right over there.”
“Why?”
“I’m sure I can’t tell you. Instinct, I suppose.”
“Okay, so then what?”
“I started wondering where everyone had got to. The building appeared empty as a tomb, if you’ll forgive the ill-chosen simile. I went along the corridor until the sound of voices attracted me to the mail room. There I found several staff members having their—er—coffee break.”
“Probably been having it ever since they got in,” said the young stretcher-bearer.
“That was my impression,” Shandy conceded. “They looked—er—comfortably entrenched. All expressed surprise and dismay at my news. Miss Tibbett suggested that I drink some coffee, which I accepted most gratefully, I must say, then they accompanied me en masse back here.”
“Did any of them go into the office?”
“No. Grimble arrived just about at that same moment. He and I went in together. The rest remained outside—er—looking through the door.”
“No doubt,” said Olivetti. “All right, Grimble, you take it from there.”
“Well, I took a look at him an’ decided the first thing to do was call the doctor an’ find out what he died of. Looked to me as if he’d had a heart attack or somethin’. He was just sittin’ there. See for yourself.”
He marched them all into the comptroller’s domain, took a tissue from the secretary’s desk, and used it to protect the doorknob.
“This is what I done before. Bein’ careful about fingerprints, see.”
“Must have wiped them all off, if there were any,” grunted Olivetti.
“Mine would be there,” said Shandy.
“Right. Did you touch anything else?”
“No, I’m quite sure I didn’t. Not on this—er—visit, at any rate,” the professor amended. “Of course I’ve been in Cadwall’s office on various other occasions. Most of us have, for one reason or another. Cadwall paid all the bills, you know, signed the salary checks, made the bank deposits, handled our insurance and tax deductions and so forth, took in t
he proceeds from the Grand Illumination—”
“You mean he was like the business manager?”
“Exactly.”
“Then what does the treasurer do?”
“Very little, in my opinion. He would negotiate large bank loans or head fundraising drives, say, if money were ever needed. But at Balaclava, money never is needed.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. How come?”
“President Svenson runs a taut ship. Read our catalogue. Copies are available at the registration office, and I’m sure Miss Tibbett will be able to explain the fine points if you can—er—coax her back to her desk.”
“I’ll talk to the staff soon as we get squared away here,” said Olivetti. “Okay, guys, let’s take some pictures. What did you say his name was, Professor?”
“Benjamin Cadwall.”
“Address?”
“Balaclava Crescent. We never bother with house numbers. It’s that brown shingled house with the light tan trimming, next to the last on the right as you’re coming up toward College Row.”
“Married?”
“Yes. His wife’s name is Hannah. We’ve been trying to reach her. She’s apparently out somewhere.”
“Shopping, most likely. They always are. Okay, Professor, I guess we don’t need you any more at the moment. Weren’t planning to leave town, by any chance?”
“Oh no. I’ll be around. Grimble will know where to find me.”
Shandy grabbed his hat and sped from the building. It was probably too late to catch Helen at the dining room, but he might as well try.
Chapter 16
LUCK OF A SORT was with him. He met Helen just outside the dining room door. However, she was on her way back to the library.
“I don’t dare go back in with you, Peter. I got a stiff little lecture on punctuality. Dr. Porble expects me to set an example.”
She studied his face. “It’s something bad, isn’t it?”
“Very bad. I went to accuse Ben Cadwall of pinching the key to my house from the security office, and found him dead at his desk.”
Rest You Merry Page 14
