“Yes, my boy.” Mr. Cliffordson leaned forward impressively. “Miss Ferris was murdered, Hurstwood.”
There was dead silence. Then the boy said simply:
“Yes, sir. I know.”
Even Mrs. Bradley, although she managed not to betray the fact, was startled by this admission. The Headmaster was frankly astounded.
“You
“Well, sir, the modelling clay.”
“What about it?”
“She—Miss Ferris wouldn’t have done it, sir. Ladies don’t stop up things like that. She would have used the plug. In any case, sir, why shouldn’t she use running water? You—one generally does for a place that’s bleeding, sir, and her face bled quite freely.”
The Headmaster nodded. Mrs. Bradley nodded also.
“Go back to your form, then. That’s all I want to ask you,” said Mr. Cliffordson.
“Yes, sir.” He turned to go. “And, by the way,” said Mr. Cliffordson pleasantly, “my niece is at least seven years your senior, my boy. Remember that when you are twenty-five she will be thirty-two, and don’t make a fool of yourself any longer.”
The boy, who had turned as the Headmaster had gone on speaking, went white. He put his hands to his head and swayed from side to side.
“Quick!” said Mrs. Bradley; but the Headmaster was in time, and got to him before he actually fell.
“Silly fellow,” said Mr. Cliffordson, smiling at him when he had regained his normal colour and was sitting upright and looking rather foolish. “Did you think I didn’t know? There! Don’t worry about it, my boy. We all make fools of ourselves at your age. There’s no harm in it, but don’t take it too seriously.”
But to his embarrassment the lad burst into tears. Mrs. Bradley got up and went out, closing the door behind her. She detached the “engaged” notice from its little brass hook on the wall, and hung it from its little brass hook on the door. Then she went in again and beckoned the Headmaster outside.
“I want to see Miss Camden,” she said.
“It’s her free time, I believe,” the Headmaster answered. “Come with me and we’ll invade the staff-room. But she wasn’t in the cast, you know. A queer girl. Very enthusiastic—about all the wrong things.”
“By the way,” said Mrs. Bradley, “what can there be that is familiar to me in the face of the gentleman in the frame over the table?”
“Oh, I expect you saw it in the newspapers last year,” replied Mr. Cliffordson. “That’s Cutler, the man who was acquitted of drowning his wife. Smith painted him immediately the trial was over, and, a humorous gesture which I confess I still do not fully appreciate, presented the portrait to me.”
chapter six: disclosures
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i
I don’t like it,” said Mr. Cliffordson, shaking his head. “I don’t like it at all. To my mind, there is something extraordinarily fishy about that boy’s story. He is omitting to tell us something of vital importance.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Bradley, pausing at the top of the stairs, “I should not advise you to employ any Third Degree methods in order to coerce him. Murder will out, so let sleeping dogs lie and make hay while the sun shines.”
She ended on an unearthly screech of laughter which caused the overwrought Hurstwood to raise his head and listen intently. The sound was not repeated, so he rose and walked to the window of the Headmaster’s study.
“Meaning?” said Mr. Cliffordson, when they reached the foot of the stairs and were walking across the large hall where the opera had been staged.
“I suggest that we interview the rest of the cast in turn before coming to any definite conclusions,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I wonder whether we might speak to Miss Cliffordson next, instead of Miss Camden? I could see Miss Camden later.”
“You won’t get much out of Gretta,” said Gretta’s uncle, shaking his head.
Mrs. Bradley, who knew quite well that she would get exactly what she wanted out of Gretta, smiled amiably, like a sleepy python, and waited while the Headmaster tapped at one of the form-room doors. In a few moments Miss Cliffordson, looking fresh and pretty in a white blouse, navy skirt and the inevitable cardigan, came out into the hall, and, seeing Mrs. Bradley, walked towards her.
“You wanted to see me?” she said.
“Yes, dear child. Is there an empty room where we can talk without being disturbed?”
“I believe the music-room is empty at present,” replied Miss Cliffordson, leading the way. The only furniture which the music-room contained consisted of six pianos with their stools, so, each occupying a stool, Mrs. Bradley and the Headmaster’s niece sat down.
“Of course, I never for one moment believed that Miss Ferris committed suicide,” remarked Miss Cliffordson, “and when uncle told me that he had invited
