Death at the Opera

pounds. Only ex-murderers need apply.’

“The papers thought it was a code or a silly joke. Anyway, they inserted it in the Personal column, and it brought home the bacon in the form of Corporal Nym, otherwise Cutler.”

“Suppose the police had made it their business to investigate the details that led to the insertion of such an advertisement in the newspapers?” said Mrs. Bradley.

“I should have said it was a joke. The police will believe anything of a public schoolboy,” replied Smith. “I should have said it was for a bet. Besides, I chose the right papers. No low-brow rags. All the important dailies every morning, for a fortnight, printed that brightly-worded paragraph, and no questions asked.”

“But what happened when you did not pay the man?” inquired Mrs. Bradley. “He was the electrician who came here on the night of the opera, of course?”

“Yes. He was disguised a bit. Not enough to see through, but just enough to prevent a casual observer from recognizing him. Very clever. Alone I did it. He kicked up a fuss, I believe. I don’t quite remember. Anyway, I told him I’d fix the murder of Calma Ferris on him if he gave any trouble. He was on the premises, you see, and he admitted that he knew her.”

“You admit, then, that Miss Ferris was murdered?” said Mrs. Bradley.

“I admitted it at the time, if you remember,” said Smith, still speaking in the same sleepy, non-committal tone. “But I didn’t murder her, if that’s what you’re still getting at. I admit I was responsible for Mrs. Hampstead’s death, but I’m not a bit perturbed about that. How came you to know that she had been murdered, though?”

“I deduced it from the fact that Mr. Hampstead is no longer desirous of marrying Mrs. Boyle,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I assume that he is troubled by the kind of scruples which would scarcely affect you, for instance.”

“Oh, I know Hampstead suspects foul play. He said as much to me,” admitted Smith, with cool effrontery. “But that feeling will wear off. He and Alceste are made for one another, and why should an insane creature stand in their way? Luckily, some purblind idiot of a doctor wrote a certificate all right, and the coroner made a quick job of the inquest. The only thing on my conscience is that I didn’t get this idea of finishing her off ten years ago.”

“And what about that girl at Lamkin?” said Mrs. Bradley.

“She meddled with Cutler’s correspondence. Must have been a fairly quick-witted baggage to piece out enough to hang blackmail on, mustn’t she? Of course, Cutler’s yellow. She’d got him cold. So he finished her. That’s all about that.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Yes. Thank you, child.”

Smith rose. Mrs. Bradley, absorbed in her notes, did not even watch him as he went leisurely out at the door and shut it behind him. Suddenly he opened it again.

“And still the mystery of Calma Ferris remains unsolved,” he said. Then he went away. Mrs. Bradley pursed her thin lips into a little beak and nodded her head very slowly like a yellow Chinese mandarin. Then she took up a volume of modern poetry and began to read.

Members of the staff came in at intervals, deposited or collected their belongings, and went out again. Mrs. Bradley, absorbed in her reading, took no notice of anybody. At last she put down the little book.

“He had the opportunity and some sort of motive,” she said to herself. “He is responsible for the death of Mrs. Hampstead and, indirectly, for the death of Susie Cozens. But I don’t believe for one instant that he had anything whatever to do with the death of Calma Ferris, because, first, he wanted the time for that interview with Cutler, to whom he had to give the most detailed, exact and reiterated instructions, for the murder of Mrs. Hampstead; and because, secondly, the motive would not be his motive.

“He’s a perverted philanthropist, a kind of a-moral public benefactor. In short, he’s God. Most artists are! It’s the effect of the creative instinct on undisciplined intelligences. There was no reason, from his point of view, for killing Calma Ferris. It would not benefit anybody. The destruction of his statuette angered him at the moment, but the anger passed. Besides, the point is that he wouldn’t kill for a purely personal reason like that. And if it wasn’t Mr. Smith it must have been”—she took out her notebook and scowled at the three names—“Miss Camden, Moira Malley or Hurstwood. I don’t believe it! I’ve cleared the two children—or they’ve cleared themselves. And I’ve decided that Miss Camden would have given herself away if she’d done it. Well, if the people with motives didn’t do it, the people with opportunity did. That’s clear. But, oh! how tiresome of them!”

chapter xvi: solution

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Mrs. Bradley went to the lodgings where Calma Ferris had once lived, and spent an hour and a half in writing a detailed account of the case, as she saw it, against Cutler, in connection with the murder of Susie Cozens. She sent the statement to the Chief Constable of the County, who passed it on to Inspector Breardon.

The charge of murdering Susie Cozens was preferred, and the charge of attempted murder of Noel Wells was dropped. At the trial, an under-housemaid was called who was prepared to back up Mrs. Cozens’s statement that Cutler had called at the Manor House that evening and had asked to see Susie. As it was shown that, unless he had met Susie earlier in the day, he could not possibly have known that she would be at the squire’s house that afternoon, the jury found him guilty of the murder, and his subsequent appeal failed.

Having despatched the letter, Mrs. Bradley took out the small cards and played three varieties of Patience; then she took out a scribbling-block and began to write on it every characteristic of Calma Ferris which had impressed itself upon her mind.

“She was inoffensive.

“She had financed the production of The Mikado.

“She had damaged Mr. Smith’s Psyche.

“She had annoyed Miss Camden by keeping a girl in instead of allowing her to play in the school netball