Death at the Opera

various kinds of stitchery, and all the paraphernalia of school needlework.

“Very practical,” said Mrs. Bradley, looking about her with great interest. Miss Camden, who did not know a piece of whipping from a run-and-fell seam, cautiously agreed.

“But there isn’t a lot of time,” she added, looking at her wrist-watch and comparing it with the clock on the west wall of the room. “What do you want with me?”

“I want to know whether you know who murdered Calma Ferris,” said Mrs. Bradley, with such implicit directness that Miss Camden gasped and then flushed brick-red.

“I!” she said. “Oh, no, of course I don’t! Whatever made you ask?”

“You agree, then, that she was murdered?” asked Mrs. Bradley, a little more mildly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why do you agree, dear child?”

Miss Camden considered the question, and then answered slowly:

“Well, you’re here. That proves it. Besides, she wasn’t one to commit suicide.”

“Can we say that confidently about any person on this earth?” Mrs. Bradley inquired.

“Perhaps not. You know I had a row with her just before—just before the opera?” said Miss Camden, taking the plunge.

“I had heard some rumour of it. About a netball match, wasn’t it?” said Mrs. Bradley. “You’re the second person I’ve spoken to who was not behind the scenes at all during the performance, I think,” she added with seeming irrelevance.

“Who is the other?” asked Miss Camden, amused.

“Mr. Hampstead. Miss Ferris was killed at some point during the First Act of The Mikado, and he was conducting the orchestra.”

“And I was in the audience, as you indicated just now. Oh, I say!”—she appeared startled, as though the thought had presented itself to her for the first time—“what a jolly good thing I didn’t accept Mrs. Boyle’s invitation! It was fairly pressing, too!”

“Mrs. Boyle’s invitation?” echoed Mrs. Bradley. “Explain, child.”

“Well, when Miss Ferris couldn’t be found, Mrs. Boyle came out into the auditorium, found me, and asked me to take part. I refused, so she took it herself.”

“You didn’t feel equal to taking the part at a moment’s notice?” asked Mrs. Bradley. Miss Camden blinked more rapidly than ever.

“It wasn’t that,” she said. “The fact was—although it sounds a bit mean, perhaps—I didn’t see why I should get them out of a difficulty. I had been turned down absolutely to give Miss Ferris the part, and—well, I didn’t bear the slightest ill will, but I didn’t see, either, why they should expect to come wailing to me to carry on when they’d got themselves into a mess. Don’t you agree?”

“Within limits, yes,” said Mrs. Bradley, trying to remain strictly truthful, without this having the effect of drying up the flood of Miss Camden’s remarks. It appeared that she was successful, for the Physical Training Mistress went on, with scarcely a pause:

“Of course, I will say for Mrs. Boyle that I couldn’t have done the part any better myself. She was frightfully good. I believe my singing might have improved matters a trifle, but then I’ve been trained, you see, and she hasn’t. Before I took up teaching my idea was to go on the operatic stage, but dad wouldn’t hear of it. He’s a clergyman, you know, and he had a fit when he heard that his only daughter wanted to be an actress. I tried to show him what I could do by staging Carmen in the Village Hall one Christmas, and taking the name-part myself; but”—she laughed, a hard, grating sound—“it just finished him off entirely. So here I am—always in hot water with the Head, who doesn’t care for jerks and games, and always disapproved of at home. I’ve got a brother, but he’s in Holy Orders, chaplain to a bishop and marked for high preferment, and the apple of my parents’ eyes.”

“Poor girl! Poor child!” said Mrs. Bradley, with genuine sorrow in her beautiful voice. The young mistress looked startled.

“Heaven knows why I’ve been telling you all this,” she said blankly. “You’d better forget it, please. What’s the time? I’ve got a hockey practice at twenty past one.”

It was not quite five minutes past one, but Mrs. Bradley did not attempt to detain her as she rose and walked towards the door. When she reached it, however, Mrs. Bradley said suddenly:

“But, child, if the work here is so hard and the Headmaster so unsympathetic, what makes you stay?”

Miss Camden turned, her hand on the door-knob, and swallowed twice.

“I couldn’t get a testimonial at present,” she said. “That’s why.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Mr. Bradley.

“Five years. It’s my first job,” the girl answered.

“Come here,” said Mrs. Bradley. Miss Camden obeyed. “Explain,” said Mrs. Bradley. Miss Camden shook her head.

“You’d better ask the Old Man if you really want to know,” she said. “But it’s got nothing at all to do with this murder, I assure you.”

There was no pretext upon which Mrs. Bradley felt she could detain her further, so she let her get to the door and outside it this time. Then she drew her chair to the nearest trestle-table, sought for her notebook and pencil, and for the next ten minutes she was writing as fast as she could. There was nothing more to be done until afternoon school began, so, putting away notebook and pencil, she went up to the women’s common-room for her coat and gloves, and then sallied out to watch the hockey practice. In a far corner of the school field half a dozen