Death at the Opera

knew I was not mistaken.”

“In what?” Mrs. Bradley politely inquired.

“In thinking that poor Miss Ferris was murdered,” replied Miss Cliffordson, lowering her voice. “And, do you know, Miss Freely told me that the other girls won’t stay a second after school hours now it gets dark so early, and that, for her part, she will be thankful to goodness when the Christmas holidays arrive and she can go home. She says the school gives her the creeps since the opera, and that neither for love nor money would she go into that water-lobby after dark. I don’t know that I should care to, either, if it comes to that.”

Mrs. Bradley made noises indicative of agreement and sympathy with this feeling.

“And as for poor Moira Malley,” Miss Cliffordson continued, “I wonder the poor child didn’t go off her head, finding the body in the dark like that! Fancy her not telling anyone about it until after the performance, though!”

“I imagine that she was afraid of ruining the entertainment,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I wonder, though, that she didn’t say something to one of the other girls. Several of her form were in the women’s chorus, weren’t they? ”

“Well, I don’t really suppose she got much chance of speaking to them. She used our dressing-room, you see. The chorus had another for themselves. Of course, there was nothing to prevent her going in there during the interval if she wished.”

“Oh, yes. She was the only pupil to take a principal part, wasn’t she?” said Mrs. Bradley carelessly.

“Well, no,” replied Miss Cliffordson, rising to the delicate cast. “She was the only girl who had a principal part, but it was one of the boys who did so well. A rather talented boy called Hurstwood. Do you know him?”

“A tall, rather slight boy?” said Mrs. Bradley. “Oh, yes; I know him. He has an interesting face.”

“He’s rather clever,” said Miss Cliffordson. “And…” she paused, and then plunged, “he’s being rather difficult.”

“Ah. In love with you?” said Mrs. Bradley. Miss Cliffordson laughed, frankly enough, but with a shade of embarrassment.

“It’s very awkward,” she confessed, “and he’s so horribly sensitive that I don’t like to be quite ruthless, because I’m afraid”—she laughed again, and there was no mistaking her embarrassment this time—“he might do something serious… even make away with himself. Oh, it sounds ridiculous, I know—”

“Not to me,” said Mrs Bradley quietly.

“Well, that’s a comfort, anyhow,” confessed Miss Cliffordson, “because I know you understand these things. But, tell me, please”—she looked Mrs. Bradley full in the face—“you don’t think a boy of that age could have… would have…? I’m so terribly worried!” she ended suddenly. “I lie in bed every night and I seem to see him doing it! It was such an easy way to kill anybody— especially anybody who was sitting down. You offer to help—you lend a handkerchief—you stuff the waste-pipe up with clay and press the tap and talk—any kind of nervous, silly talk, so that no suspicion is excited; then, as the basin fills, you begin to press the woman’s head down…”

“But why should the boy think of doing it!” the little old woman asked calmly.

“Oh, of course, you don’t know that. Why, you see, after the dress-rehearsal, Harry—Hurstwood, you know— became excited and he was quite beyond control. He told me a lot of nonsense about being in love with me, and he insisted upon kissing me—he was quite beside himself and very violent—and Miss Ferris walked herself into the middle of it! That’s all.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. She pursed her mouth into a little beak. “And where is Hurstwood’s handkerchief now?” she demanded suddenly. Miss Cliffordson fumbled and produced it.

“Any proof that it is his?” asked Mrs. Bradley, noting that the handkerchief had been carefully washed and ironed and bore no name, initials or laundry-mark. Miss Cliffordson shook her head.

“I suppose I did the wrong thing,” she said, “but I unpicked the laundry-mark and an initial H from the corner.”

“Good,” said Mrs. Bradley, absently pocketing the handkerchief. “Now, as to actual proof…”

“Oh, but—” Miss Cliffordson began to look distressed.

“But?” prompted Mrs. Bradley.

“Well, I thought… I’ve only told you my suspicions so that you could—I mean, I thought you’d drop the inquiry if you knew who it was—in which way it was trending. You surely…” Her voice was rising. Soon it would be audible through the open ventilators in the two class-rooms opposite, thought Mrs Bradley—“you surely don’t intend to accuse a boy of eighteen of murder!”

“I thought you were his accuser,” said Mrs. Bradley mildly.

“I’ve only told you what I fear. I don’t actually know anything. Harry has never said a word! Not a single word! You mustn’t think he has confessed, or anything, because he certainly has not!”

“Well, don’t encourage him to do so,” said Mrs. Bradley, who had taken a sudden dislike to the Headmaster’s pretty niece. She rose, and smoothed down her violet-and-primrose jumper. “Thank you for your information,” she said, in a precise, old-fashioned voice, and walked out and across the hall and up the Headmaster’s staircase. Miss Cliffordson, a little startled by this sudden departure of her audience, got up and went back to her class. Her uncle, who had taken her place whilst she was conversing with Mrs. Bradley, rose from the chair he was occupying, and raised his eyebrows. Miss Cliffordson shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t think she is much farther on,” she said. “I’ve confessed about that wretched boy—”

“Hurstwood?”

“Yes. It couldn’t have been Hurstwood’s doing, Uncle, could it?”

The Headmaster, who had been sitting pondering the same question, looked gloomy and said it was impossible.

“I feel so horribly responsible,” Miss Cliffordson added, “if it was Hurstwood. Oh, but