“Well, she was awfully sore, you know, when Mr. Cliffordson handed it straight to Miss Ferris like that, without a suggestion that anyone else might do it better,” said Miss Freely. “And, after all, she would have done it better— tons better. Although not a patch, even then, on Mrs. Boyle’s rendering,” she went on, glancing sidelong at Alceste’s beautiful bare shoulders, whence the strap of her petticoat had slipped as she bent to pick up her shoe. Alceste, flushed and laughing now, said happily:
“Don’t encourage me. Oh, but I loved it!”
The younger mistresses, none of whom knew why she had ever left the stage, said nothing, hoping for revelations. But none came. Instead, Alceste turned to the other occupant of the dressing-room and said:
“Well, Moira? Nearly ready? I expect the others have all gone.”
It was the thankless duty of those of the staff who had been acting as stewards to see the audience off the building, and then to go round to the dressing-rooms and chivvy the children home. Before Moira could make any reply, there came a series of light taps at the dressing-room door, and the Headmaster’s voice outside said:
“Gretta, how long?”
“Half a tic, Uncle,” replied his niece, collecting her Japanese costume preparatory to stowing it away.
“Right. I shall be in my own room when you’re ready. I’ve told some of the girls to wait for Moira.”
He went away, and the conversation died down among the three women as they hastily concluded their dressing and tidying-up. Then Alceste Boyle, ready to go, turned again to the girl in the far corner of the room, and said, a trifle sharply:
“Come along, Moira. Surely you’re ready by now!”
Moira, with a tear-stained face, came up to her, and said abruptly, because she was upset and nervous:
“Mrs. Boyle, I want to speak to you.”
“Say on,” replied Alceste shortly. The tears had irritated her.
“Not here,” said Moira. “Will you come outside a minute? I—I think I know where Miss Ferris is.”
“What?” said Alceste, while Miss Freely and Miss Cliffordson came nearer. “What do you mean, child?”
“She’s dead,” said Moira. “I found out—I found her —in the interval I went for a drink—I didn’t like to spoil the show—I—she… Oh, they’ll hang him! And he can’t die! He can’t!”
“Get out,” said Alceste to the younger mistresses. “Find Mr. Cliffordson at once. See whether it’s true.”
The two went out, and shut the door behind them. When they had gone Alceste turned to the overwrought and frightened girl.
“Listen, Moira,” she said. “Nobody is going to hang. Now don’t be silly any more. I want you to pull yourself together. Stop crying. It’s quite all right. That’s better. Now tell me exactly what you did. Sit down in that chair. Take your time.”
“I was thirsty, and I wanted a drink of water,” said the girl “so I went to the water-lobby with one of the beakers out of the laboratory to get a drink. It was dark, and I tried to switch on the light, but it didn’t come, so I thought if I was careful not to knock the beaker on the tap, I could manage in the dark. I felt carefully, and I touched her. I—she was all wet—I went away. I didn’t know whether to tell anybody or not.”
“You don’t know, then, that it was Miss Ferris,” said Alceste quietly, “and you don’t know whether she was dead. Don’t think about it any more. The others will attend to her. Go along home now. Who’s going with you?”
Moira mentioned the names of one or two of the girls who were in the chorus, and who went past the house where she lived in term-time, with her aunt. Alceste Boyle had just dismissed her when the Headmaster came in. His face was grey. He looked, for the first time in Alceste Boyle’s experience, an old man. He nodded in response to her raised eyebrows.
“I’ve sent Browning for a doctor,” he said, “but there’s no doubt of it, poor woman. I wonder what on earth was the cause!”
“But how terrible!” Alceste said. “There will have to be an inquest, I suppose?”
The words sounded banal and in rather bad taste, she thought, but the shock had been great. The Headmaster nodded.
“Bad for the school,” he said. “Well, you’ll be wanting to get home, I know. Good night. Don’t worry about it, will you? You’d better not see her. We’ve done what is necessary. Don’t worry.”
He went back to the men-principals’ dressing-room, to find Hampstead talking to Smith.
“Do you want us any longer, sir?” Smith asked. He was a dirty-white where he had removed his make-up, and looked ill.
“No. There’s nothing to be done. I shall stay until the doctor has made his examination, of course. Good night. Don’t worry. I can’t think how it happened. You’ll… I needn’t ask you—you won’t discuss it outside the school at present, will you?”
He called Hampstead back as the two masters got to the door.
“Mrs. Boyle has not gone yet,” he said. “You’ll see her home, I expect, as usual, won’t you? Impress upon her not to worry. It’s a terrible affair, but we must take it that the poor woman was either the victim of sudden illness, or else that she had trouble of which none of us knew. Good night, my dear fellow. Don’t linger, or Mrs. Boyle may be gone.”
Hampstead, who had been staring dumbly, went out like a sleep-walker, and in less than ten minutes young Mr. Browning returned with a doctor. Alceste had no intention of going, however, and as soon as she saw Hampstead she said:
“You’d better go, Fred. I must stay and see things through. After all, there ought to be a woman on the scene.”
