Death at the Opera

“Sit down, if you can spare the time,” said Mrs. Bradley, winningly. She eyed him with the glance of a predatory beast for its prey, and Kemball, who would ordinarily have replied to such a suggestion with a trenchant reference to his teacherless class, sat down on the edge of the nearest chair and waited to hear what she had to say.

“You took the part of ‘Pish-Tush,’ a Japanese nobleman, in the recent production of the opera, I think?” said Mrs. Bradley formally. She consulted the programme she held as though to indicate that if he had thought of denying the fact she had definite proof of it. Kemball meekly agreed that he had taken the part as stated.

“A small part, but an important one, I believe?” said Mrs. Bradley. “You had a solo, for instance, and some interesting business with one or two of the chief characters?”

Again Kemball assented. He was beginning to thaw, she observed.

“You had some time to spend, however, when you were not actually on the stage,” pursued Mrs. Bradley.

“Yes. Several long waits,” replied the History Master.

“Do you know who murdered Miss Ferris?” said Mrs. Bradley suddenly.

Kemball said blankly: “Who murdered Miss Ferris?”

“Yes.”

“But I understood that all the available evidence pointed to suicide. I have not studied the facts, but—”

“All the available evidence pointed to murder,” said Mrs. Bradley, “if people had been able to use it sensibly.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” said Kemball surprisingly. “I couldn’t imagine that woman committing suicide, somehow.”

“What is your reason for saying so?” inquired Mrs. Bradley. She had neat little lists at the back of her notebook consisting of the names of those who agreed with the suicide theory and of those who rejected it.

“Well, consider her case: no ties, no worries, enough money, no encumbrances, no debts, free to please herself in everything—what more could any human being ask for? A person in that position doesn’t commit suicide. It’s poor devils like—” Mrs. Bradley could have added the word “me” for him with perfect correctness, and, mentally, did so, but Kemball broke off to say: “But you were asking me about her death.”

“Yes. When did you last see her alive? Do you remember?”

“I don’t. You see, I was one of the first people to be made up by Mrs. Berotti, and almost immediately I was called to the telephone.”

“Ah, yes. I see. How long were you at the telephone, do you think?”

“Rather a long time. I used the school ’phone, of course, and first of all I talked to my wife, who had rung me up, and discussed some purely domestic business with her. She’s—er—well, she’s—we’re expecting another child, you know—and I inquired after her and gave her some impression of the audience—all that sort of thing—and scarcely had I rung off when somebody else rang up. I answered the call, as I happened to be there, and found that it was important. The electrician could not come, but was sending along a man, and asked whether he could be met at the school gate, as it was dark and the back entrance is difficult to find. I replied, and went myself to the gate, as the telephone message advised me that the man was already on his way. At about five minutes before the opera was due to commence, the man arrived, and I conducted him round to the back and left him, as I had to be prepared to make my first entrance almost immediately. During my off-stage waits I sat next to Mr. Browning, who was acting as prompter, and read the proofs of my monograph on the Renaissance Popes.”

“What about the interval?”

“I read my proofs during the interval.”

“You did not see Miss Ferris at all, then, during the whole of the performance?”

“Not consciously. In fact, I don’t think I could possibly have seen her, consciously or unconsciously.”

“Could you identify the electrician if you saw him again?”

“Decidedly I could. He was less like a mechanic than anyone I ever saw. I should have taken him for a commercial traveller of a particularly brazen type. He insisted upon addressing me as ‘old boy,’ in a manner that was quite repulsive. The funny thing is that the electrical people sent him without being asked. The Headmaster is under the impression that Pritchard asked for someone to come and see to the footlights, but that is quite a mistake. The man came of his own accord.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Bradley cordially. “I rather fancied that the electrician came into the story somehow. You must please put my name down for a dozen copies of your monograph. The Renaissance Popes,” she concluded, with magnificent mendacity, “form for me one of the most fascinating themes in history.”

“To a psychologist,” replied Mr. Kemball, now completely restored to good-humour, “they must certainly appear interesting. A dozen copies? That is extremely kind of you.”

“Make it fifty, dear child,” said Mrs. Bradley, waving a skinny claw as though she were scattering largesse—as, indeed, thought poor Kemball, reflecting that if he sold a hundred copies of his work he would be doing very well indeed, she was!

The next person to throw light on the dark question of the electrician, thought Mrs. Bradley, would probably be the school caretaker, so she allowed Mr. Kemball five minutes to get back to his form, and then she descended the stairs, crossed the hall, left the school building and knocked at the door of the schoolkeeper’s house.

The house was separated from the school building by a small gravel court-yard and the school bicycle-shed. Mrs. Bradley was admitted to the house by a small woman who was suffering from a severe cold in the head. She informed Mrs. Bradley flatly that the schoolkeeper was having his afternoon rest, and could see no one, but the next moment, having crossed glances with the visitor, she found herself asking Mrs. Bradley to sit down. In another moment the schoolkeeper appeared.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Mrs. Bradley, “but who was the electrician who came to the school on the evening of the opera?”