Death at the Opera

“Then there was Miss Camden and the netball match,” Alceste went on. “I don’t suggest Miss Camden killed Miss Ferris. I am sure she didn’t; but she could have done, over the result of that match.”

“What match was that?” Mr. Cliffordson inquired, for the incident of Miss Ferris, Miss Camden and the girl Cartnell had entirely faded from his mind. Mrs. Boyle reminded him of the occurrence.

“Oh, that business—yes! But, my dear Mrs. Boyle, it had no real importance. A most trivial affair?”

“Not for Miss Camden,” said Alceste. “She’s a tortured, warped, ambitious sort of girl, and this is the fourth year she’s tried for the inter-school trophy. We have never got into the semi-final before, and, with the girl Cartnell in the team, she thinks we might have figured in the final, and even won it. Considering there wasn’t a netball team at all in the school when she came, I think she’s worked wonders. It was very hard luck to have a team girl kept in on the day of the match.”

“Well, I don’t believe in competitive sports,” said the Headmaster heavily; “and as long as I am in command here they will be relegated to their proper place. It’s a lot of nonsense, pitting teams of children one against the other, and fosters entirely the wrong spirit. And if it reacts like this upon the staff, well, the least said in its favour the better.”

He was evidently riding a hobby-horse, thought the sharp-eyed listener with the notebook, and made a note of the Headmaster’s prejudice against competitive sports.

“My point is this,” said Mrs. Boyle, after a short pause. “Even if Miss Ferris was inoffensive, yet she did manage to upset one or two people rather seriously. There might be others, of whom we know nothing, and who had far more reason to bear her a grudge than had Miss Camden, Mr. Smith or myself. After all, even inoffensive people have to make some contacts, and it is quite possible that the result may be that fur will fly or sparks set fire to tinder. Don’t you think so?”

Mr. Cliffordson nodded gloomily. Then he said abruptly, because he felt he was exceeding his rights as a Headmaster:

“Who is the man with whom you spend your holidays?”

Alceste Boyle stubbed out the end of her cigarette on an ash-tray and rose to her feet. She smiled. No wonder two men were in love with her, thought Mrs. Bradley sympathetically.

“I told you there would be a question I should not answer,” Alceste said. “You need not worry about him, though. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

As soon as she had gone the Headmaster said morbidly:

“Well, there’s the solution, I suppose. I’m not going to do anything about it. Smith’s not a murderer. He’s a temperamental fellow who flew off the handle in a fit of rage. People shouldn’t go about ruining other people’s work. The man she’s in love with is Hampstead. I’ve known that for years.”

“You think Mr. Smith was the murderer?” asked Mrs. Bradley innocently.

“What else can one think?” demanded Mr. Cliffordson.

“Well, I haven’t seen Mr. Smith yet, except at a distance of about forty-five feet, you know,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Besides, if he is as temperamental as you say, why should he wait from Tuesday until Friday to take vengeance on a Philistine? The whole trouble about temperamental people, of the kind you mean, is that they act swiftly, heedlessly, in the sudden heat and under the sudden compulsion of the moment. I should say that by Friday, Mr. Smith was getting over it. But I had better see the gentleman.”

The Headmaster pressed the buzzer again.

“Please ask for Mr. Smith. The art-room,” he said to his secretary.

The first thing Mrs. Bradley noticed about Mr. Smith was that he was obviously ill-at-ease. He looked from the Headmaster to Mrs. Bradley, and seemed inclined to turn tail and run.

“You sent for me, Headmaster?” he got out, at last.

“Ah, Smith. Yes. Come in, and shut the door, my dear fellow.” Mr. Clififordson, thoroughly embarrassed, was more genial than the occasion warranted, and the wretched Art Master, his tie askew, his lank black hair in an untidy flop over his left eye, looked more hunted and miserable than before. He did not appear to have noticed the Headmaster’s suggestion, so Mrs. Bradley said gently, in her deep, full voice: “Shut the door, dear child.”

Smith started, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes and than obeyed.

“Now sit down over there,” said Mrs. Bradley, pointing to a chair. “Now tell us why you wanted to kill Calma Ferris.”

Smith blinked.

“Did I want to?” he said. Then his face cleared. “Oh, yes, so I did. She walked into my Psyche and shoved her on to the floor. Ruined her, of course. Yes, I was angry. But it was all right. Alceste lent me the money to pay Atkinson. I didn’t care awfully for the Psyche, as a matter of fact. She was commissioned. I hate working on a commissioned figure.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. “So you didn’t kill Miss Ferris?”

“I don’t think so, you know,” replied Smith. “Did Moira Malley say I did? I like that girl. She’s got a sense of perspective. More than you can say about most of these oafish kids here. You’d scarcely believe,” he continued, turning to Mrs. Bradley as though he found hers a sympathetic presence, “how few of these boys and girls can draw. And I can’t teach ’em. I’m a first-rate artist and a rotten teacher. I wouldn’t stick it if it weren’t for Alceste. She thinks I’d starve if I didn’t draw a regular salary, you know, so I stay to please her. Besides”—he blinked rapidly and clawed the air—“I must be near her! I must! I must!”

“Why did you ask Moira Malley not to say anything about the way you cannoned into Miss Ferris and knocked her glasses off and cut her face?” demanded Mrs. Bradley. Smith blinked again.

“Did I say that?” he asked. “I can’t remember. I remember barging into Miss Ferris round a corner… Oh, yes! I know. I was afraid it was my fault she committed suicide. You see, she’d spoilt my Psyche, and I thought perhaps the sight of me, coupled with the fact that she had to go into the water-lobby to bathe her face, might have given her the idea that she should drown herself, and I didn’t want to be asked a lot of questions. It’s just an act of lunacy to ask me questions, because I never remember things five minutes after they have happened.”