Death at the Opera

Mrs. Bradley shook her head.

“Moira Malley wasn’t thinking about clay,” she said. “I’ll tell you something else. I don’t believe that child committed the murder, but I believe she suspects Mr. Smith, and that is what is upsetting her.”

“Who do you think tampered with the electric-light switch?” inquired Alceste.

“I believe it was Hurstwood. And I believe he did it because he suspects Miss Cliffordson. Aren’t they funny children? I certainly think it was he who disconnected that switch. Incidentally, Miss Cliffordson thinks that the method employed—that basin full of water—was an easy way to kill anybody.”

Alceste shuddered.

“I don’t,” she said. She shuddered again, and her lips twitched. Mrs. Bradley watched her closely for a moment, and then she said:

“Ah, well. It’s all very interesting and mysterious. I don’t know that I’ve ever had a similar case.”

“There is one comfort,” said Alceste slowly, after a pause, “no foul play can be suspected with regard to the death of Mrs. Hampstead. I can assure you that that was an accident. They didn’t think the pond was deep enough to be dangerous, but she tripped and went on her head. It stunned her, and so she was drowned.”

“I know,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I have written to the doctor who was called upon to examine the body. I know all about it. I did nothing but remark upon the coincidence. There seems to be an epidemic of drowning lately. You know,” she added, “I wish I could imagine any reason, other than the fact of her guilt, which caused Miss Camden to refrain from confiding to me that she had been called out of the audience to attend to Miss Ferris’s injury that night.”

Alceste shrugged.

“Send for her and ask her,” she said. “There’s never any drill on the first day of term, so she’s sure to be free. I’ll go and find her, if you like.”

Without waiting for an answer, off she went, and returned in about five minutes’ time with a very reluctant physical Training Mistress.

“Enjoyed your holiday?” asked Mrs. Boyle. Miss Camden glowered at her own black walking-shoes and said that she had not.

“Oh? Well, you’re not going to enjoy yourself now,” Alceste continued. “Mrs. Bradley is annoyed with you.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Bradley in her most soothing tones. “I am not anything but puzzled. Tell me, child, why did you hide the fact that you were called out of the audience to attend to Miss Ferris when she hurt herself on the night of the opera?”

“But I wasn’t!” said Miss Camden, flushing and looking extremely frightened.

“Well, I’m bothered!” said Alceste, before Mrs. Bradley could speak. “Here, wait a minute.”

She was out of the room and half-way down the staff-room stairs before Miss Camden had a word to say. Then she ejaculated:

“What lies have they been telling about me?”

“I don’t know, my dear,” said Mrs. Bradley. She looked at the frightened girl shrewdly and added: “I was told that you are the person sent for whenever anybody is injured, and that, knowing this, one of the children went to fetch you when Miss Ferris cut her eye.”

Miss Camden said nothing more until Alceste Boyle returned with the Fourth Form girl who had acted as call- boy and messenger on the night of the opera.

“Now, Maisie,” said Mrs. Boyle, “did you ask Miss Camden to attend to Miss Ferris’s eye, or didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Boyle,” the child answered unhesitatingly. “And Miss Camden came.”

“You must be mad, Maisie!” cried Miss Camden. “You never came near me the whole evening!”

“Please, Miss Camden, I did,” the girl reiterated. “It was dark, and Miss Galloway guided me to where you were sitting, and I began asking you, and you said: ‘Don’t bellow, you little idiot. All right. I’ll come.’ And you followed me out into the corridor and then you said: ‘Where is she?’ and I showed you where she was sitting on a chair in the water-lobby, and you said: ‘All right. Cut along. I’ll see to it.’ So I went.”

“Oh, yes. I remember,” said Miss Camden savagely.

“That’s all, Maisie,” said Alceste Boyle, and the girl disappeared. When she had gone Miss Camden rose to her feet. She was like a cornered animal turning on its pursuers.

“Now take me away and hang me! Go on! Send for the police!” she screamed. She wrenched at the front of her dress and pulled out a whistle attached to a length of silk cord. “Here you are! Here, take it!” she yelled hysterically. She tore and tugged at the whistle to detach it. Alceste Boyle stepped up to her and coolly unfastened the clip which held the whistle on to the cord.

“And now stop being ridiculous, my poor child,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Nobody is going to send for the police. Here, sit down. That’s better. Now, then. Did you murder Calma Ferris?” she went on in a conversational tone. The girl, quietened by the attitude of the two older women, shook her head defiantly.

“What is the use of my saying anything?” she demanded. “You both know that I’m a thief and a liar. Why shouldn’t I be a murderer as well?”

Mrs. Bradley shrugged her thin shoulders. “It would be a most unusual combination of criminal characteristics if you were,” she said, “and very interesting. So interesting that I should not dream of sending for the police. Tell us all you know, and let me see what I can make of it.”

“There isn’t anything more,” Miss Camden said. “I was with her less than five minutes. I was afraid to tell you before. I made certain you would think I’d murdered her. Maisie came for me, as she said, and I went along with her to the water-lobby. But, upon my honour, Miss Ferris left the lobby with me, and the light was as usual, and the—the water ran away. Please believe me! Please believe me!”

Mrs. Bradley cackled suddenly, as though she had seen a joke.