Death at the Opera

Mrs. Bradley took his arm and they walked along the deserted beach towards the town. Wells waited a little while, and then concluded his sentence.

“—Won’t that blighter be looking at us now out of the window?”

“It doesn’t matter if he is,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “For one thing, you are my son, in whose favour my life is at the present moment insured for ten thousand pounds; and for another, he is at this moment in rapt contemplation of the bath I told you of. It hangs upon the wall and is to him the means of wish-fulfilment. Sand!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Sand!” She waved a skinny, black-gloved claw. “Sand, dear child. How easy to dig the grave. How impossible to locate the grave! Sand!” Wells quickened his stride.

“I heard in the town that he tried to rent one of the bungalows in that colony on the other side of Bognor,” he said, “but that they would not have him because of the trial. Rather a shame, really, as he was acquitted.” Mrs. Bradley’s only reply was to the effect that she was going home for Christmas.

“I shall write to Mr. Helm,” she added, “and when the Christmas vacation is over I shall return to the school for a bit. There are still one or two things that need clearing up from that end. As to Mr. Helm, I cannot foretell with any certainty what his reaction to my absence will be.” She chuckled ghoulishly and then demanded: “How long had you intended staying in the neighbourhood, dear child?”

Wells was not quite sure. He would let her know, he said, and they parted at the gate of Miss Lincallow’s neat front garden. Miss Lincallow, who avowed, possibly with truth, that, knowing Mrs. Bradley’s life was in danger from “that awful man,” whom, it was plain, she was now prepared to hold responsible for her niece’s death, had remained at the first-floor sitting-room window during the whole of Mrs. Bradley’s absence from the house, said that she was thankful, “oh, thankful indeed,” to see her safe home again.

Mrs. Bradley, who had not announced her intention of breaking her drive in order to call upon Helm, made no remark except to demand tea. After tea, the loquacious Miss Sooley sought her out.

“And did you really go inside?” she asked, with a shiver of delicious horror. “Do you know, when I think that we had that man here, in this house, all those weeks in the summer, and never knew, I could scream!”

“Never knew what?” asked Mrs. Bradley, wilfully dense.

“Never knew that he was a murderer,” said the obliging Miss Sooley in low tones. Her eyes grew round and hard and bright, and her mouth became a little pink rosette. Her nose twitched with excitement. “And you went inside his house with him! Just fancy you being so daring, little as you are, too!”

“And old. And frail,” said Mrs. Bradley. She gave vent to a deep chuckle, and smoothed the sleeve of a juniper which covered muscles of iron. Miss Sooley clicked her tongue and then said archly, and with the simpering smile of a sentimental old maid:

“But there! I suppose he must have his attractions, although I could never see them.”

“How do you mean?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

“Well,” said Miss Sooley, settling down with gusto to a scandalous story, “say Miss Lincallow whatever she chooses about poor Miss Ferris, but it wasn’t only Miss Ferris that couldn’t behave herself as a lady should in a house that contains gentlemen.”

“Really?” said Mrs. Bradley, afraid of saying anything which might cause the conversation to veer into a less promising channel. Miss Sooley, however, was fairly in mid-stream, and under full sail at that. She folded her hands—they ought to have been mittened, Mrs. Bradley decided—nodded her head, swallowed, drew in a deep breath and continued:

“Yes, indeed. Do you know, I really believe the only reason she warned Miss Ferris against him was because she wanted him herself. And her sixty, if she’s a day! Did you ever! When we knew him and Miss Ferris had been in the same room on the night the burglars came Miss Lincallow was that furious! And then her spreading that tale about Miss Ferris falling! ‘She wasn’t the kind to fall,’ I said. ‘Not without she was properly married. Too much good sense and nice feeling,’ I said. But would she listen to me? Not a word!

“ ‘Be that as it may, Ellen,’ she said to me, ‘and I’m not contradicting you, the fact remains that young women do fall, and there’s nobody can prevent it,’ she said. Of course, I’m not one to discuss such things, Mrs. Bradley. I don’t see the necessity for one thing, although there are quite respectable people—yes, even in a town like this— who talk of nothing else. How they get to hear as much as they do passes my comprehension. But this I do say: I know a good girl when I see one, and I’m sure Miss Ferris wouldn’t think of placing herself in an unfortunate position, and the inquest proved it, and very pleased I was, I can tell you.”

“Yes. So was I,” Mrs. Bradley hastily interpolated. “So you think Miss Lincallow was jealous of her niece?”

It was a bold plunge, but time was passing. Miss Lincallow might come in upon them at any moment, and Mrs. Bradley was interested in seeing whether her overnight suspicions were correct. It appeared that they were.

“Jealous?” said Miss Sooley. “I should say she was. And kept it all in, mind you. That’s what’s so funny to me. Nobody could be nicer to Miss Ferris’s face. Quite took the poor girl in, I can tell you. But behind her back, to me, it was a very different tale. Murderer or no murderer, she took a big fancy to him, there’s no doubt about that. And if you want to keep the peace with her, I shouldn’t visit him again if I were you. No offence, of course, Mrs. Bradley. Just a friendly warning. Here she comes.”

In spite of the friendly warning, Mrs. Bradley decided to visit Helm again before she returned to her own home and, later, to the school, but before she did so another interview took place, this time between herself and Miss Lincallow. That lady took her aside after the evening meal, saying abruptly:

“Come into my little sitting-room.” Mrs. Bradley meekly followed her.

“What has Ellen Sooley been telling you about me?” demanded Calma Ferris’s aunt when they were seated, the one upon a horsehair sofa, the other in an uncomfortable arm-chair. Mrs. Bradley grinned.

“She told me how you sat out in the car whilst she and the chauffeur went into the school-hall to hear the opera,” she said, cautiously feeling her way.

“So I did. And very cold it was. That fool of a Willis lost his way. I got so cold that I couldn’t stand it, so I got out of the car and went to the door and asked the doorkeeper to find them and bring them out. Let me warn you. Take no notice of Ellen Sooley. She’s a liar from her hair-slide to her boots, and the only things she can cook are the accounts. I’m sorry I ever took her into partnership, for she does nothing but get under my feet and make eyes at all the men who stay here. That Helm! I can’t understand the attraction from either point