read the entries relating to the murder of Calma Ferris from beginning to end. Two of them stood out as particularly important. The first read:
“Smith, Donald, Senior Art Master.
“Motive for murdering Calma Ferris:
“Calma Ferris had damaged irretrievably a small clay figure of Psyche, the property and creation of Smith.
“N.B.—Smith apparently expected to receive two hundred and fifty pounds for the completed plaster figure. That seems a good deal of money for a work by an unknown (?) artist. I deduce the fact from the remark Alceste Boyle volunteered when I was talking to her on the occasion of our first meeting, i.e., she said, without being asked, ‘Smith isn’t the man’ (who was her lover). ‘Oh, and I lent him two hundred and fifty pounds for the loss of the little Psyche.’
“See Page Fifteen,” Mrs. Bradley had appended.
Page Fifteen, when she turned it up, informed her that Donald Smith had said, when she was questioning him:
“Yes, I was angry.” (About the statuette.) “But it was all right. Alceste lent me the money to pay Atkinson.”
Mrs. Bradley clicked her tongue. Then she sent for Mr. Smith.
“I have to warn you, child,” she said, when he came in, “that anything you say may be used in evidence.”
Smith lowered himself carefully into a chair, propped his left elbow on the back of it, leaned his head on his hand and said nonchalantly:
“I see.”
“First,” said Mrs. Bradley, “can you tell me how much I ought to pay for a plaster statuette sixteen inches high? It is a nice little thing by a living but unknown artist.”
“Dunno,” said Smith simply. “Anything the artist liked to ask, if you really wanted it, I suppose.
“To the extent and limit of about thirty pounds, yes,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“Oh? Well, I should make him the offer. Has it been exhibited yet?”
“No. It was done to order, but something went wrong. The artist told a friend of mine that he hoped to get two hundred pounds or more for it.”
“Humorist,” said Mr. Smith concisely.
“You think so? But I understood that you allowed Mrs. Boyle to think that that was the value of your Psyche which was damaged by Miss Ferris.”
Smith brushed a hand across his brow.
“Did I? I can’t remember,” he said. “I must have been tight, mustn’t I? But my Psyche was bigger than that.”
“You know, Donald,” said Mrs. Bradley, “you provoke my unwilling but sincere admiration over the whole of this business. I suppose it was you whom Cutler came to see on the night of the opera?”
Smith blinked at her. He seemed about to go to sleep. Suddenly he said:
“You can’t touch me, you know. I’ve taken legal advice. If I say to a bloke that it would be worth two hundred and fifty pounds to me to know that a certain woman was dead, and suddenly, several weeks afterwards, she dies, and the bloke claims the money and
“You certainly are,” said Mrs. Bradley, grinning hungrily. She began to turn over the leaves of her notebook, and, in doing so, came upon the following entry:
“Sooley, Miss, partner to Miss Lincallow, the aunt of the dead schoolmistress. This woman may be under the influence of Helm. I suspect that he is after her savings.”
Mrs. Bradley skipped a couple of hundred words relating to Miss Sooley’s psychological peculiarities, and then read:
“This woman gave Helm the address of Hillmaston School. But did she? She actually said that Helm informed her he was going to Hillmaston School to see his nephew. Miss Sooley then appears to have exclaimed: ‘Why, that’s where Miss Lincallow’s niece is a teacher! You know—the one that was staying here and got so friendly with you over the burglars.’ ”
“I suppose Cutler saw you here by appointment on the night of the opera?” said Mrs. Bradley.
Smith shook his head.
“Can’t remember,” he said. “Who is Cutler?”
“The man to whom you offered the two hundred and fifty pounds if he would drown Mrs. Hampstead,” said Mrs. Bradley pleasantly.
“Oh, is he? Well, what would you have had me do? There were those two charming people, Hampstead and Alceste, and there was that poor demented creature in a mental home which is surrounded by a hedge that a child of three could have broken through. I knew she was an inebriate. The thing was how to get her doped sufficiently. Mind, I had nothing whatever to do with the proceedings, but I think the gin did it. Cutler had no trouble. In she went, dead to the world, and he held her head down with a forked twig, or so he said. Very neat. I can’t think why they let these poor creatures out without an attendant. It gives murderers like Cutler such a lot to think about.”
“How did you come to think of engaging Cutler for the delicate task?” inquired Mrs. Bradley, geniality itself.
“I advertised,” said Smith, grinning. “You know the sort of thing: ‘Acquitted man wanted to earn two hundred
