Death at the Opera

“So that anybody who knew there was a lump of modelling clay in the art-room could have slipped in and taken enough to stop up that waste-pipe,” she said. “Cheer up, child! Mr. Smith isn’t hanged yet.” She cackled. “This brings me to a particularly important point,” she went on. “How many people were in a position to go into the art- room and/or into the water-lobby that night? Who was allowed behind the scenes—that is to say, apart from those people who were taking part in the opera?”

The Headmaster began to write on a scribbling-pad which was close at hand on the desk.

“I am not going to trust entirely to my own memory,” he said. “Mrs. Boyle was in charge of everything that went on behind the scenes, so in a moment, when I have made my list, we will send for her to confirm it. Now, let me see.” He wrote, after two pauses for consideration, a list of six names and handed it to Mrs. Bradley. She took it, and read aloud, with a questioning note:

“Madame Berotti?”

“An ex-actress, very old and frail now, who comes to all our school entertainments and makes up the principal characters. A delightful person. An artist to her fingertips. She used to produce for us at one time?”

“Mrs. Boyle?”

“Senior English Mistress. The producer,” said the Headmaster. “An ex-actress, too, incidentally. Shakespeare, repertory—all the usual high-brow stuff.”

“Mr. Hampstead?”

“He is our Senior Music Master, and was the conductor of the orchestra. He was behind the scenes before the beginning of the opera and again during the interval.”

“The electrician?”

“The lighting was important, and our home-made footlights have their disadvantages, so we had the electrician in attendance. I don’t know how long he stayed behind, I’m sure. I know one of the lights went wrong—apart, I mean, from the one in the water-lobby where Miss Ferris was found.”

“Who found her?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

“The girl Malley, poor child. She went to get a drink, it seems, found that the switch was out of order, groped in the darkness, and touched Miss Ferris’s body.”

“No wonder she is in a highly nervous state, poor girl,” commented Mrs. Bradley. She no longer wondered at Moira’s hysterical refusal to accompany her to the water-lobby on the previous evening. “The next name on the list is that of Mr. Browning,” she continued.

“Yes. Our Junior English Master. He was acting as prompter. He would have been about behind the scenes before the commencement of the opera and during the interval, unless it proves that he left his post as prompter at any time during the performance. Otherwise he would have been seated in the wings, with the script.”

“I shall have to see these people,” said Mrs. Bradley, and continued to read from the list.

“The curtain operator?”

“Otherwise the schoolkeeper,” said the Headmaster. “Yes. He was in position in the wings at just before the commencement of the performance, but I do not imagine that he stayed there during the whole of the First Act, which, at our rate of playing the opera, lasted for about an hour and twenty minutes. He is certain to have gone away during that time. I don’t know where he went. Probably to the back of the hall to watch the performance. He had been well drilled at three or four rehearsals, and knew exactly when he would be wanted. He takes great interest in everything connected with the running of the school, and is even more enthusiastic and partisan than I am where the boys and girls are concerned. He has been with us since the opening of the school.”

“That is the last name on your list,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Can we see Mrs. Boyle now?”

“Surely.” The Headmaster touched an electric buzzer which brought his secretary from an adjoining room.

“Ask Mrs. Boyle whether she can kindly spare me a moment,” he said. He consulted the large time-table. “She is in Room K.”

In less than four minutes, Alceste Boyle appeared, and Mrs. Bradley and she exchanged glances. Mrs. Bradley saw a tall, well-made woman on the threshold of middle-age, with beautifully dressed dark hair, dark-blue, wide-set eyes under arched eyebrows, a sweet mouth and a broad, noble forehead; it was a gracious and pleasing face, and Mrs. Bradley smiled and nodded as her eyes met those of its owner.

Alceste Boyle saw a woman in the middle sixties, with sharp black eyes like those of a witch, an aristocratic nose, a thin mouth which pursed itself into a queer little birdlike beak as its owner summed her up, and, lying idle for the moment, for Mrs. Bradley had returned his scribbling-tablet to the Headmaster some two minutes before the entrance of Alceste Boyle, a pair of yellow, claw-like hands, the fingers of which were heavily loaded with rings. Alceste’s non-committal cardigan, jumper and dark skirt— a costume which was almost the uniform of the women members of the staff—contrasted oddly with Mrs. Bradley’s outrageous colour scheme of magenta, orange and blue. Notwithstanding all physical and sartorial evidence to the contrary, however, Alceste decided that the queer little old woman was attractive.

“You wanted me, Mr. Cliffordson?” she said.

“Yes. Take a seat, Mrs. Boyle. Look here.” He handed her the list of names. “All those people were behind the scenes on the night of Miss Ferris’s death. Is the list complete, or can you add to it?”

Alceste scanned the list, thought for a moment, and then said:

“I had a Fourth Form girl behind with me. She acted as call-boy and general messenger. I sent her on one or two unimportant errands, I know, and she also helped in the search for Miss Ferris.”

“Who was she?” inquired the Headmaster.

“Maisie Phillips.”

“Oh, I know the girl. Nobody else?”

Alceste shook her head. “Nobody else,” she said. “I was very strict about not allowing unauthorized people