Death at the Opera

The schoolkeeper was not on duty, and Mrs. Bradley produced a snapshot of Helm and requested him to examine it.

“Do you recognize this man?” she asked. The caretaker scrutinized it closely, but was compelled to acknowledge that he did not, “without it’s the gent whose picture ’angs in the ’eadmaster’s room.” Mrs. Bradley was determined not to give him a clue to the identity of the original, but took the photograph straight away to Mr. Kemball. Mr. Kemball was superintending the distribution of school stock to his form, and was in a bad temper. He had found Christmas a time of great expense; he was in possession of a brand-new daughter whom he neither liked nor wanted; her birth had cost him dear; he had had to pay a term’s school fees for his other children; he had had to pay his income tax; he had received thirty-one letters all pointing out the same small error in his Monograph on the Renaissance Popes, the monograph of which Mrs. Bradley had purchased fifty copies; he had three new girls in his form and did not want them; and he was quite certain, he told Mrs. Bradley bitterly, that the Headmaster thought his teaching methods old-fashioned and his class-management weak.

He could not identify the man in the photograph, unless by any chance it was the original of the portrait in the Headmaster’s room.

Mrs. Bradley thanked him, sighed heavily, and went in search of the Headmaster.

“Ah!” said Mr. Cliffordson when he saw her. “Any news?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Bradley. “You’ve read your newspaper lately?”

“Yes,” replied the Headmaster. Mrs. Bradley handed him Noel Wells’s letter.

“Does it surprise you to hear that the Cutler who is suspected of the Lamkin murder and the Helm with whom Miss Ferris became acquainted at her aunt’s boarding-house are one and the same?”

The Headmaster, having perused the letter, handed it back, and then shook Mrs. Bradley’s skinny claw. He looked ten years younger.

“You think that this monster was responsible for Miss Ferris’s death? That is the best news I’ve heard for weeks,” he said. “But why should he have wanted to kill poor Miss Ferris, I wonder?”

“That,” said Mrs. Bradley solemnly, “I’m afraid we shall never know.” She thought of the photograph of Helm which was in her handbag. It seemed impossible that the elusive electrician who had visited the school and robbed the schoolkeeper could have been Helm. He must have been a common thief, with neither interest in nor knowledge of the existence of the inoffensive Calma. But her object, that of persuading the Headmaster to let the inquiry drop, was apparently gained. Mr. Cliffordson, after clearing his throat and moving the inkstand and a couple of pens from one side of the desk to the other, said suddenly:

“I wish I could tell you what it means to me to know for certain that none of the staff, nor the boys and girls here, were involved in that dreadful affair. I shan’t carry the inquiry any further. It would be impossible to prove the crime against this wretched fellow, and so I would sooner let the whole matter drop. After all, poor woman, it can’t make any difference now, and perhaps it is kinder, from every point of view, to let things remain as they are.”

Mrs. Bradley agreed. Negligently she took the photograph of Helm from her handbag, tore it across and dropped the pieces on to the pleasant little fire which was burning in the Headmaster’s grate. It seemed unreasonable to inform him that to the best of her knowledge Helm had been nowhere near the school on the night when Calma Ferris was murdered.

She herself, however, was determined to solve the problem to her own satisfaction. Before she had gone to Bognor Regis she had felt fairly certain of the identity of the murderer, but to psychological she was anxious to add tangible proof. To this end she suggested to Mr. Cliffordson that she should stay on at the school and give a series of talks on matters of public interest. The Headmaster, who thought that he saw in this a desire on Mrs. Bradley’s part to make a study of a co-educational system, gladly assented, and a list of subjects for the talks was drawn up there and then. Mrs. Bradley, whose interests were varied, suggested a lecture on Roman sports and pastimes as the first of the series, and this drew from Mr. Cliffordson the reference to Miss Camden which she had hoped to evoke.

“That girl looks ill. I saw her for about two minutes this morning. You know more about these things than I do, but, you know, I believe she works too hard. Your suggestion regarding a lecture on sports made me think of her,” be said.

“Miss Camden?” said Mrs. Bradley. “I think she does work far too hard. But you can’t prevent that. She’s of the type that always works because it can’t bear to sit still and think. She ought to be in a girls’ school.”

“Why?” said Mr. Cliffordson, who, like most headmasters and headmistresses, held, unconsciously but tenaciously, the opinion that the assistant masters and mistresses in his school were easily the most fortunately placed teachers in the whole of the profession.

“She would be allowed full scope for her activities. She might even,” added Mrs. Bradley, eyeing the Headmaster with semi-humorous gravity, “receive a little encouragement and a little praise for what she accomplished. Even the devil likes to receive his due, you know, dear child.”

The Headmaster rubbed his chin.

“I don’t agree with all these compulsory games and sports,” he said. “She ought to have some help, though. I’ll see about it, I think. Now, look here, how would you like to start? I owe you something for finding such a— ahem! —convenient murderer for us.”

“I should like to sit in the staff-room, if I may, and make out a few headings and sub-headings,” said Mrs. Bradley. “It is very good of you.”

The Headmaster opened the door for her. The staff-room was deserted. Mrs. Bradley, consciously thankful that she had not to give out stock, examine health-certificates, make polite, insincere inquiries about the holidays, keep sports’ accounts, answer questions, read and initial the Headmaster’s beginning-of-term notices, collect subscriptions, inspect lockers, allot cloak-room pegs, supervise the writing of labels, grumble about unmarked shoes, tunics, school hats and caps, blazers and hockey sticks, settled herself with a sigh of relief in the most comfortable chair she could find, took out her notebook and pencil and wrote on a clean page:

“1. Moira Malley.

“2. Hurstwood.

“3. Mr. Smith, Art Master.