Death at the Opera

“I’ve come about the murder of Calma Ferris,” said Mrs. Bradley abruptly, after casual remarks had been exchanged.

“Do I know her?” asked Mrs. Berotti, with a little frown of concentration. “Ah, yes, I know her. The little plump one, plain, and very anxious to do well, who dies instead of playing the part. Unprofessional.”

Mrs. Bradley hooted with laughter, and the ex-actress wrinkled her old face into a smile which beautifully blended malice and childlike fun.

“She could not help dying. She was murdered, I tell you,” said Mrs. Bradley firmly.

Mrs. Berotti nodded and her expression changed to one of thoughtfulness.

“Yes. I thought so myself,” she said. “But one could not say so. There was no evidence. Nothing.”

“Were you present at the inquest?” Mrs. Bradley inquired.

“I was present, yes. I was asked whether I had made her up. I replied that yes, I had made her up. Was she drunk? Imagine asking me such a question! I replied, in a manner which abashed them, I hope, that never had I been in the company of a drunken person, man or woman, all my life. Had she troubles? I was firm over this, my friend. I replied that if she had no troubles, we who understand good acting would have had troubles had she been permitted by Providence to come before an audience and play that nice part so badly!—so badly! That dress rehearsal! Never shall I forget it! It was terrible!”

She shook her head, smiled wistfully and added: “I informed them that I, too, should have committed suicide if ever in my life I had played the part of a strong, hard, middle-aged, grasping, tormented woman so slowly, so carefully, so—so—”—she spread her hands wide apart as though to embrace the right word when it came—“so inoffensively, my friend!”

Mrs. Bradley cackled. She had formed a very complete mental picture of Calma Ferris since the beginning of her investigation.

“But the other—the magnificent, large, personable goddess of a woman who played it on the night!” went on Mrs. Berotti ecstatically. “Never have I seen a performance like it! She had lost her temper when she came to me in the interval to be made up. She had made herself up, well but hastily, for the end of the First Act, but she came to me in the interval.

“ ‘For God’s sake keep the woman out of the way, madame, if she does turn up,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to finish now, whatever happens.”

“My work was over when the interval ended. There are but two acts in The Mikado. So I went in front, to a little charming seat right in the middle of the third row kept for me by my good friends, and I saw and heard everything. Imagine it, my dear friend! The poor young plump one, with her unproduced voice, too high, too thin, her careful gestures, her insignificant height—all this by Providence and the grace of God withheld from us; and instead—Alceste Boyle! You did not see it? My good friend, you will go to heaven! God will compensate you because you did not see it.”

Mrs. Bradley would like to have stayed much longer than she did, but she was anxious to get back before school ended for the afternoon. One or two questions bearing on the case she managed to get answered, however, before, at five minutes to four, she took her leave.

“Do you know that Miss Ferris had met with a slight accident near the beginning of the First Act?” was the first of these.

“One of the schoolgirls told me, but I was very busy,” replied Mrs. Berotti, “and I understood that somebody was helping her, and so I did not go to see. That the make-up should be put on correctly was my first concern.”

“You had already done Miss Ferris when she cut herself?”

“I had. I had made her up beautifully. I am an artist, me! She told me she had to go on in Act One. ‘ But not until almost the end,’ I said. But she persisted, so I did her. ‘You’ll be hot and uncomfortable,’ I said. She did not mind that, she assured me. I think she was afraid that she and Mr. Smith, the ‘Mikado’—he was fine, that one!— would be left alone together in the make-up room. They had quarrelled, I understand. So I did her. The poor little one! So inoffensive! Such an offence herself against my beloved art!”

There seemed to be nothing else that Mrs. Berotti could tell. She again eulogized the performance given by Alceste Boyle, informed Mrs. Bradley that the professional stage had lost a treasure when Alceste left it, and, when Mrs. Bradley very reluctantly announced that she must go, rose and escorted her to the door. She expressed delight that Mrs. Bradley had visited her, and begged her to come again.

Mrs. Bradley walked back to the school as quickly as she could, and arrived inside the building at six minutes past four. The school closed at half-past, but the staff had been requested by Mr. Cliffordson to remain on the building until five o’clock, in case any of them were wanted. Mrs. Bradley had opposed this move, but Mr. Cliffordson insisted that since the whole staff knew the reason for her presence, they could scarcely, in fairness to themselves, refuse to submit to questioning.

During what was left of the afternoon, therefore, Mrs. Bradley sat in the staff-room talking to Alceste Boyle.

“First,” she said, “I want to know at what point in the proceedings you missed Calma Ferris.”

Alceste, blue marking-pencil in hand, thought for a moment, and then said:

“A quarter of an hour before her first entrance. Do you know the script of The Mikado?”

“Intimately,” replied Mrs. Bradley. “It has been my bed-book ever since I came down here.”

“Then you remember that the first entrance of ‘Katisha’ comes almost at the end of the First Act,” Alceste continued. “Well, it is my rule that people are to be ready a quarter of an hour before the time their cue comes. It means a certain amount of hanging about off-stage, but it’s worth it. I had a Fourth-former acting as call-boy, and she had orders to report to me immediately if people did not respond to their call. She found me, therefore, as soon as Miss Ferris did not appear, and I sent her to the women-principals’ dressing-room, and round and about, but no Miss Ferris was to be found. It was approximately half-past eight. I then went to the women-principals’ dressing- room myself, sat down and waited for the girl to find Miss Ferris. She couldn’t find her, so I went myself to search for her in case she had been taken ill in one of the classrooms or had locked herself in anywhere and could not get