Death at the Opera

“A school-mistress,” repeated Celestine, obediently. “Bien, madame.”

“Then send Henri to the vicarage with my compliments and request him to ask the vicar to lend me an arithmetic text-book of a simple kind.”

“Bien, madame.”

“Come back when you have done all this. I have more to say.”

Celestine disappeared, and Mrs. Bradley completed three inches of jumper. Then there was a tap at the door, and the vicar entered. He drew a small clock from the pocket of his waterproof, gazed at it with an expression of puzzled inquiry, apologized, and went out again. In about half an hour he returned without the clock and with an armful of battered-looking books.

“Good morning,” he said. “Er—arithmetic text-books.”

He spread out the selection on the hearthrug. Mrs. Bradley put down her knitting and bent to examine the books. Having made her choice and thanked the vicar, she said:

“On Monday I commence my duties as form mistress and arithmetic teacher at the Hillmaston Co-Educational Day School.”

She chuckled at his first expression of astonishment, but his face gradually cleared.

“Ah! You are going to study the psychology of co-education,” he said. “Very interesting, these modern ideas. I hope you will enjoy yourself.”

“I hope so too,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Go away now, dear child. I must learn some simple arithmetic.”

The vicar took his leave, and when he had gone Celestine reappeared, with the little red enamelled clock from the hall table in her hand and an expression of indignation upon her vivacious countenance.

“The naughty old one!” she exclaimed, displaying the clock. “Figure to yourself, madame, his duplicity!”

“Did he pocket the clock?” inquired Mrs. Bradley.

“But certainly, madame,” replied Celestine. “He puts it into his pocket and goes to promenade himself.”

Mrs. Bradley cackled harshly.

“Bless the man!” she said. “Go to the post office, Celestine, and send this telegram.”

She wrote a few words in her tiny medico-legal caligraphy, and Celestine went away again. When the door was shut, Mrs. Bradley picked up an arithmetic text-book and gravely began to study the theory of long division of money. ii

Form Lower Three Commercial, dazzled optically by Mrs. Bradley’s blue-and-sulphur jumper and uncomfortably conscious that her black eyes were sharp with amused understanding of the peculiarities of the twelve-year-old human mind, decided to reserve judgment on their new form mistress, and spent a quietly strenuous first period in wrestling with a lengthy test on vulgar and decimal fractions.

Mrs. Bradley had arrived on the premises at eight thirty-five, had inspected her colleagues collectively rather than individually, and had asked the Headmaster for a programme of The Mikado production. He had produced it without comment, but had looked inquiringly at her. Mrs. Bradley, smiling in a way that reminded him oddly of the picture of a dragon which used to alarm him when he was a child, made no remark other than a word of thanks for the programme, and had been taken in tow by Miss Freely, who conducted her into the hall for prayers. After prayers, a brief, semi-military ceremony of disciplinary rather than religious significance, the Headmaster had introduced her to her form, which, as it happened, took arithmetic during the first period on Monday mornings.

“Good morning, boys and girls,” he said.

“Good morning, sir. Good morning, madam.”

It was as meaningless and as old-fashioned as a nineteenth century board school greeting. Mrs. Bradley reflected. She bowed in her own precise, nineteenth century way, and smiled her reptilian smile at the children.

“This is your new form mistress. Her name is Bradley. Mrs. Bradley. B-r-a-d-l-e-y,” said the Headmaster. “Who are the class monitors?”

“Kathleen Bell and I, sir,” said a young boy in the front row.

“Very well. Who is responsible for cleaning the blackboard?”

“I am, sir.” Another fresh-faced child rose, looking scared.

“Very good, Collins.”

He walked out. Mrs. Bradley said benignly to the class at large:

“How long does this lesson last?”

Several voices informed her that it lasted until a quarter past ten. One young man was particularly emphatic. Mrs. Bradley considered him for a moment. Then:

“I hope that you are right,” she said, in her deep, rich voice. The form stirred uncomfortably. It was at that point that they decided to reserve judgment. iii

Mrs. Bradley had a free period during the afternoon, and she spent it in consultation with the Headmaster. She obtained from him but little extra information, however, for, beyond reiterating his belief that Calma Ferris had been murdered, and reproducing the arguments he had collected in support of that belief, he could give her no assistance and could offer no suggestions. The only new matter which he could produce was an account of the conversation he had had with Calma Ferris on the morning of the day she met her death.

“She came to me to ask my advice,” he said. “It seemed that she had received a telegram from her aunt, who