Death at the Opera

“4. Miss Camden, Games Mistress.”

Having made this neat list, she studied it with knitted brows. Then she pursed her lips into a little beak and recited solemnly:

“ ‘ How odd

Of God

To choose

The Jews.’ ”

At this moment Alceste came into the staff-room. She did not see Mrs. Bradley at first. Here eyes were downcast and she walked slowly and heavily, as though she were labouring under the burden of years.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, when she noticed Mrs. Bradley. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Mrs. Bradley smiled.

“Are you busy, dear child?” she said. Alceste lifted her right shoulder, and her mouth twisted oddly.

“Not since last Saturday fortnight,” she said. Enlightenment came to Mrs. Bradley.

“Not—?” she said. Mrs. Boyle nodded.

“She died the day before you went to Bognor,” she said. “The funeral was last Saturday fortnight. Fred hasn’t…” She fought with herself for a moment, and then continued steadily: “Fred hasn’t been near me since. I can’t… you know what it was like. We were… I mean…”

She floundered. Mrs. Bradley came to the rescue.

“The man thinks the conventions ought to be observed, child,” she said soothingly. “Men are queer people. Don’t worry. Leave him alone for a bit.”

But to herself she said: “Ho, ho! What have we here?”

“By the way,” said Alceste, changing the subject, “I ought to let Mr. Cliffordson know that Moira Malley has not turned up this morning. I don’t know whether he has received any message about her, but I haven’t heard anything. I do hope the poor child isn’t ill, because there’s the Scholarship examination in about six weeks’ time, and, according to her place in form last term, she isn’t nearly ready for it.”

“Is Hurstwood back?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

“Hurstwood? Oh, yes; he’s here. That boy ought to do well, but I wanted Moira to do well also. If I have a weak spot, it is for the girls,” confessed Alceste. “But I can’t understand Moira. She was doing no work at all during the last part of the term. Just sat there staring into space. I used to get rather angry with her.”

“She found Miss Ferris’s body,” Mrs. Bradley reminded her. Alceste nodded, and sat down.

“Oh, yes, I know. And I make all due allowance for shock and so on. But a girl of that age shouldn’t brood like this. After all, she didn’t actually see her dead. She only just touched her. I don’t mean to be callous, but I do think she might have got over it a little sooner than she did. Of course I blame Donald for the girl’s state of mind. It was very wrong of him. I don’t think he’ll ask one of the girls to sit to him again without mentioning it first to me!”

“I am glad you remonstrated with him,” said Mrs. Bradley. “He and the girl would see the thing from two very different points of view.”

“I can’t think why she ever thought of doing it, the little idiot!” said Alceste. “But I wish I knew why she hasn’t come back to school. It’s very foolish, but since Miss Ferris’s death I’m nervous about unexplained absences. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Is it, child?” said Mrs. Bradley. Without a pause she added abruptly: “What was the cause of Mrs. Hampstead’s death?”

“She fell into the ornamental lake and was drowned,” replied Alceste. “Didn’t you see the announcement in the papers? She had been drinking again.”

“Curious,” said Mrs. Bradley meditatively, but the word conveyed a different meaning from the one which Alceste attached to it.

“You mean it is curious that she should have been able to obtain the drink?” said Alceste, flushing.

“No, not that. The thing I find curious is this— epidemic of drowning,” replied Mrs. Bradley quietly. “Yes, I mean it,” she added, without giving Alceste time to interpolate any remark whatever. “It is strange. First, Calma Ferris. Secondly, or rather, thirdly, that wretched girl at Lamkin, near Bognor. Thirdly, or rather secondly, Mrs. Hampstead. It’s a nightmare.” She had risen while she was speaking. Alceste rose too, and they confronted each other.

“What are you saying?” demanded Mrs. Boyle hotly. “What are you saying? You don’t mean… you can’t believe…”

“I am remarking,” replied Mrs. Bradley, her rich, deep, quiet tones in marked contrast to Alceste’s stormy voice, “on certain curious facts which are not necessarily interdependent. Sit down, dear child. Let us discuss the matter quietly.” Suddenly Alceste began to laugh.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I—yes, do let’s talk. Are you any nearer a solution of our mystery?”

Mrs. Bradley sighed.

“I have allowed Mr. Cliffordson to believe that I think a man named Helm drowned Miss Ferris,” she said. She told Mrs. Boyle the story of the infamous Cutler, ending with the attempt on the life of Noel Wells.

“It sounds only too likely that he killed Miss Ferris, then,” Alceste said.

“Unfortunately for the maintenance of any such convenient theory,” Mrs. Bradley pointed out, “it is not yet at all certain that Helm was within miles of the school that night. The only evidence that Helm knew Miss Ferris’s school address rests on the word of a woman whom I believe to be thoroughly untruthful. In addition to that, no stranger