“Alceste thought so, but, after all, what could Miss Ferris do? She could tell the Head, but why should she bother? She didn’t dislike us; she wasn’t jealous of Alceste; she didn’t envy us—I can’t see why she should trouble to take any action. I was worried at first, I admit, but, on thinking it over, I don’t believe she would have told.”
“No,” said Mrs. Bradley. “And even if she had, I don’t see that the Headmaster could take official notice of it. There was never any scandal, I suppose?”
“I don’t know of any,” Hampstead answered. “Mind you, we’ve been fools and taken risks at times—when it got unbearable, you know. But I don’t think anybody knew. In public we were always very careful. I even go to see poor Marion occasionally. Why don’t you people dope the poor devils out?” he asked savagely.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Bradley truthfully. The same thought had often occurred to her. “I suppose it is partly because, as doctors, we hope to effect a cure.”
The startled expression on Hampstead’s face caused her to add briskly:
“Don’t worry. Mrs. Hampstead’s case is hopeless.”
“Oh, heavens! I didn’t mean that!” cried the man, genuinely distressed. “God knows, I pity her. But Alceste! I couldn’t give up Alceste! I should die!”
“Somewhere behind that heart-felt statement,” mused Mrs. Bradley, when the Senior Music Master had departed, “is the motive for a murder. But not necessarily for the murder of Calma Ferris,” she was compelled to admit. iii
“And now,” thought Mrs Bradley, “for Miss Camden.” She returned to the hall and passed through it to the gymnasium, where the Physical Training Mistress was taking a class. Mrs. Bradley seated herself on the edge of the platform, which held a piano, and watched the proceedings. Miss Camden, whatever her shortcomings as a human being, was an exceedingly good teacher. Mrs. Bradley noted the enthusiastic response of the girls—a form of fourteen-year-olds—the finish displayed, all the obvious results, in fact, of capable teaching over a long period— and nodded approvingly.
Miss Camden, aware, of course, that a visitor was present, carried on with the lesson cheerfully, and had not the slightest objection to showing off the prowess of the class. When the lesson was over and the form dismissed, she came up to Mrs. Bradley with a smile and said:
“Time off?”
Mrs. Bradley smiled.
“I want to talk to you, dear child. When will it be possible?”
“Can you get it over in ten minutes?” inquired Miss Camden, glancing at the clock on the wall behind the platform. “I have a netball practice before lunch.”
“Get someone else to take it,” said Mrs. Bradley briskly.
The Physical Training Mistress looked at her and smiled sardonically.
“So easy, isn’t it?” she said.
“Isn’t it?” said Mrs. Bradley innocently.
“Since Ferris—” Miss Camden paused. “Since Ferris’s time, there’s nobody will do a hand’s turn for the games except young Freely, and I can’t keep on asking her. There ought to be two of us in a school this size, you see, only the Headmaster won’t be persuaded to take any interest in the physical work. The girls, anyway, are luckier than the boys. The boys haven’t even
Mrs. Bradley could see that the girl was worked to death. She could hear it in the high-pitched, over-loud voice, so different from the “professional” tones in which she had given her lesson. Her eyes were dark-circled and she blinked them rapidly as she talked.
“I’ll have a word with Mr. Cliffordson,” she said.
“I wish you would,” said Miss Camden. There was something about Mrs. Bradley which forced her hearer to the conclusion that if she had a word with the Headmaster something would very likely come of it. “Well, I must be off. I can hear the girls out there, and they are right underneath the Old Man’s window.”
She hurried away, an athletic figure in her beautifully-cut tunic, and disappeared through swing-doors at the farther end of the gymnasium. Mrs. Bradley, baulked of her prey, wandered into the grounds.
It was a pleasant day for December, sharply cold, but filled with thin, pale golden sunshine which lay along the bare twigs, giving them significance and beauty. Fourteen girls, all dressed exactly alike in navy-blue tunics, white sweaters, long black stockings and white rubber-soled shoes, were passing a football up and down the length of the asphalt netball court with an ease, vigour and accuracy born of frequent practice. Miss Camden, a blazer with an impressively-decorated breast-pocket distinguishing her from the players, blew occasional sharp blasts on a whistle. Mrs. Bradley, who did not understand the game, watched with considerable interest until she found herself— hatless, coatless and gloveless—becoming rather cold. She was about to re-enter the building when she saw the boy Hurstwood. He was walking towards her up the long side of the school field, kicking a large fir-cone as he walked. Mrs. Bradley waited for him.
“Ah, child,” she said. Hurstwood, who, as most young people did, had taken a liking to the queer little old lady, grinned at the nominative of address and waited for her to continue. He had himself completely in hand once more, for, upon leaving the Headmaster’s study, he had not returned to his form-room, but had spent the rest of the lesson in walking round the field.
“ Go up to the women’s common-room and bring me” —Mrs. Bradley checked off the items on her yellow fingers —“one coat, dark green, one hat from the same peg, one silk scarf in divers colours—”
“I bet they are!” thought Hurstwood, who had imbibed sufficient sense of colour from Mr. Smith to realize that Mrs. Bradley’s conception of appropriately-blended hues would be gruesome in the extreme.
“—and two gloves—heaven knows where I put those, child, but they fit exactly”—she extended a skinny claw— “this hand.”
