Death at the Opera

chapter xiv: hero

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i

The Reverend Noel Wells was accustomed to think of himself as, if not exactly a coward, at least lacking in that species of virility and insensitiveness which compels human beings to run foolish, unnecessary risks merely for the sake of fame or fortune. He was, however, the troubled possessor of an extremely delicate conscience which compelled him to feats of chivalry against his will and often against his better judgment. His conscience troubled him sorely over the question of Mrs. Bradley and the strange man, Helm.

The most curious thing about Helm was the fact that immediately people learned that he was in reality the renowned Cutler, acquitted of drowning his wife, one and all immediately and irrevocably decided that he was indeed a murderer, and that he had only escaped hanging by some subtle twist of the laws of evidence. Against every instinct for fair play and in direct contravention of everything he had practised for years with respect to refraining from kicking a man when he is down, Noel Wells was similarly affected by the fellow. He felt as certain that Cutler had murdered his wife for the sake of collecting the insurance money as though he had seen him in the act. The man’s behaviour with regard to Mrs. Bradley had done nothing to alter his opinion, and the young curate felt that his friend was running ridiculously heavy risks in visiting the nian and in arousing his cupidity as she had done.

Wells realized that her reason for tempting Helm to make a murderous attack upon her was, in itself, sound enough. She had explained to the curate her difficulties with regard to the death of Calma Ferris, and he knew that she was determined to demonstrate to the Headmaster that nobody connected with the school had been responsible for the crime. Although she had not actually said so, Wells, who was not altogether the fool people sometimes took him for, knew well enough that she had guessed the identity of Calma Ferris’s assailant, that it was not Helm who was responsible for the murder, and that Mrs. Bradley was determined to keep secret the name of the guilty person.

Noel Wells’s obstinate, masculine mind refused to accept the reasonable suggestion that Mrs. Bradley was well able to take care of herself, and his sense of chivalry urged him to put himself in her place, provoke a murderous assault from Helm, send a full description of the attack—if he was in a condition to write it!—to Mrs. Bradley, and so prevent her from risking her own life. That he would be risking his own did, of course, occur to him, but he brushed the thought aside.

He went to the garage and took young Tom into his confidence. Young Tom told his father. His father told Police Constable Alfred Reardon, who was engaged to young Tom’s sister, and the plot was laid.

One grey but rainless afternoon, about ten days after Christmas, when Mrs. Bradley, comfortably at home in the Stone House, Wandles Parva, was reading an exceedingly affectionate letter from Helm—the third that had been sent on to her from Miss Lincallow’s boarding-house to the school, and from the school to her home—three young men set out from Bognor Regis to walk the three miles out to Helm’s railway-carriage bungalow. The grey waves, sullen after a gale which had raged for two days and a night, thundered heavily on the grey sand and seethed on to the grey pebbles. The low sky was grey. The road was deserted.

About half a mile from the bungalow the curate, his neat clerical dress exchanged (as usual on his visits to Helm in the character of Mrs. Bradley’s epileptic son) for grey flannel trousers, a dark crimson pullover, a tweed jacket and a dark grey overcoat, walked on the damp sand at the margin of the water, climbing the breakwaters as he came to them and occasionally stopping to skim stones on the waves. The young policeman, off duty, walked, with the decided footsteps of the Force, along the pavement which bordered the sea-road, and young Tom, who had brought an ancient motor-cycle with him, bestrode it and rode solemnly and noisily up and down the road until his engine stopped, just about fifty yards from Helm’s bungalow, and the motor-cyclist, seating himself on his own trench coat on the pavement, began to take off pieces of the antediluvian contraption and strew them about the gutter.

The curate gained the bungalow and knocked at the door. For a moment he fancied that nobody was at home, but slippered feet padded to the door and opened it. Wells experienced an uncomfortable qualm. He was certain in his own mind that this smiling, florid man had committed murder for the basest of all possible motives, that of pecuniary gain, and here was he himself, a man recently married, happy, content, secure in every worldly sense, putting his head into the jaws of death for the chivalrous but idiotic reason that, if he did not risk his life, an old woman with the outward appearance of a macaw, the mind of a psycho-analyst and the morals, so far as he knew, of a tiger-shark, would risk hers.

“Ah, it’s you,” said Mr. Helm. “Come in, my dear boy. Come in. And how is She?”

The little narrow place was very dark inside. All the blinds were drawn. Wells’s nebulous fears for his own bodily safety changed, for an instant, to panic terror. Every instinct shrieked to him to fly. Twenty years of subduing instinct to reason stood him in good stead, however, and, with a gulp which was histrionically inspired, he said in a quavering voice:

“Well, of course, you know, that’s what I’ve come to talk about.” ii

The first morning of the Easter Term was not the best time to choose for a visit to the Headmaster, as Mrs. Bradley fully realized, but on the previous evening she had received so extraordinary a letter from Noel Wells that no time, she felt, must be lost in relieving Mr. Cliffordson’s mind on the subject of Miss Ferris’s murder.

“Dear Mrs. Bradley,” the letter began—she re-read it in the train—“by the time you get this I trust I shall be with Daphne again. I beg your forgiveness, of course, if I have overstepped the mark, but you knew, I think, how alarmed I have been over your visits to that murderous devil in the railway-carriage hut, so I thought I would take the bull by the horns, and provoke him to make an assault on me.

“To this end I visited him, and, in the course of conversation, I allowed him to infer that the interest in the ten thousand pounds’ life insurance you told him of would come to him if anything happened to me after your death. He must be a fool, because he bit it, and, when I was certain he’d taken the bait, I commented on the benefits derived from bathing in sea-water, and left him. I behaved throughout the interview as much like a mentally-defective person as possible—not a very difficult task, according to my wife, of course!—and then I left him severely alone until I received a letter from him asking after you. I wrote that you had met with an accident and were not expected to live. Later in the day I went to see him, and informed him that you had not the slightest chance of recovery. He managed to lead the conversation on to the subject of the insurance money, and I reassured him as to the clause in your ‘will.’ The next time I saw him I affected grief and told him that you were dead.

“In next to no time I was being invited to indulge in the luxury of a sea-water bath. You can imagine with what pleasure I watched the evil fellow carrying about a hundred pailfuls of water up to the house. It was a bitterly cold, dark evening. In between his journeys I conversed with him about you and your virtues, and while he was on the job of carrying the water, I conversed with young Tom from the garage, and the policeman who is going to marry Tom’s sister.

“It all worked out very nicely. I had the bath, and Helm had got a very pretty and scientific grip on my feet, and my head was right under, when the other two, I suppose, burst in on us. I may say that on my previous visits I had been similarly escorted, so, you see, I took no risks worth mentioning. All the same, when they had overpowered him, I had to be spread out on the floor and artificially respirated; but it was not long before I felt, if not quite myself, near enough so to be glad that the whole thing had gone off so satisfactorily. Incidentally, I have received inside information that the police now have little doubt that in some way Cutler is responsible for the death of that poor girl in Lamkin, the village not far from here, but, unfortunately, nothing can be proved. They won’t charge Cutler with the crime because there is no evidence at present that he did murder the unfortunate girl Susie Cozens, but he will be charged with attempting to finish off

“Your affectionate friend,

“Noel Wells.”

“P.S.—They are still at work on the Lamkin case, of course. The difficulty seems to be that they cannot trace any connection between Cutler and the girl. However, young Tom’s future brother-in-law informs me that no pains are to be spared, even if Scotland Yard has to be called in, so I shall watch my morning newspaper for developments.”

Mrs. Bradley folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. She laid it on the table. Then she rang the bell for Celestine.

“Madame?”

“You have heard of the legendary Sir Galahad, child?” asked Mrs. Bradley. Celestine permitted herself to smile beatifically.

“Parfaitement, madame. ‘Sans peur et sans reproche’— n’est-ce pas?”

“Marvellous,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I have the privilege of informing you that there exists such a person in the flesh.”

“In the flesh, madame?”

“Not in any unpleasing degree,” said Mrs. Bradley. “He is young, thin, deprecating, chivalrous. Incidentally, he has risked his life for mine.”

“Ah, c’est Monsieur le curé,” cried Celestine, clasping her hands. “Oh, but be is the tiger of bravery, that one! Always I have understood that!” iii

When Mrs. Bradley reached the school, she sought the schoolkeeper’s house before she went to interview Mr. Cliffordson.

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.

“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 was seen on or about the school premises on the night of the murder except a man—the electrician, you know—who cannot be proved to have been Helm. He may have been Helm—an unreasonable belief assails me that he was Helm—but it can’t be proved.”

“How do you mean?” Alceste inquired.

“Well, I showed a recognizable newspaper photograph of Helm to the schoolkeeper and to Mr. Kemball, both of whom saw and spoke to the bogus electrician, and neither can identify the man in the photograph. As a matter of fact, I never really felt that Helm had murdered Miss Ferris. His speciality is murder in a bath-tub. He would have gone to Miss Ferris’s lodging to murder her, or else he would have met her here and persuaded her to return with him.”

“Does Mr. Cliffordson believe that Helm killed Miss Ferris?” Alceste inquired.

“I don’t know, child. He pretends to accept my suggestion that Helm was the murderer because he wants the inquiry dropped. I don’t think he believes that Helm is guilty.”

Alceste looked uncomfortable.

“I suppose, then, that you know who did it, and that it was—one of us,” she said. Mrs. Bradley took out her notebook and showed Alceste the four names she had written down. The Senior English Mistress looked distressed.

“But surely—Moira Malley! She couldn’t have done such a thing. You don’t know the child as I do. It is quite, quite impossible to suspect her of an awful crime like murder!” she said. Mrs. Bradley nodded.

“I agree! I agree! But consider the facts: The girl had opportunity. She had motive—”

“Miss Ferris may have known about the sittings, you mean? She may have warned the girl she was going to report her. Oh, but that’s nonsense. Moira knows Mr. Cliffordson well enough to realize that Donald would be blamed, not she.”

“Don’t you see,” said Mrs. Bradley, “that that may have been the motive?”

Alceste went white.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “These poor, idiotie children! There’s that ridiculous boy Hurstwood making a fool of himself over Gretta Cliffordson, who isn’t worth a second thought by anybody. I see you’ve got him down.”

“Motive and opportunity,” said Mrs. Bradley solemnly. “The same words, in all their sinister significance”—she cackled harshly—“apply equally in the case of the other suspects, Miss Camden and Mr. Smith.”

“Of course, Camden—I can imagine that,” said Alceste slowly. “Overworked, strung-up, extravagant with money and energy and bad temper—an explosive sort of person altogether. And Miss Ferris had certainly got the wrong side of her.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley, smoothing a crease out of the sleeve of her raspberry-coloured jumper. “And Mr. Smith is an artist, and therefore—according to the ideas of the ordinary citizen, who regards art as expensive, and not even as a luxury at that!—a person who does not hold human life sacred. I know, too, that Miss Ferris damaged the Psyche and generally behaved in a Philistian manner. But what of it?”

She turned upon Alceste Boyle and said firmly:

“When I went away from here last term I was convinced—absolutely convinced—that Miss Camden was the murderer of Miss Ferris. Then I found out about Moira Malley and the sittings, and I became uncertain. So I also reconsidered the case of the boy Hurstwood, and it seemed to me that there was more than a possibility that he was guilty. Mr. Smith—I will be frank with you—I don’t suspect at all of the murder of Calma Ferris.”

She ran a pencil through his name in confirmation of what she was saying.

“But there’s something wrong,” she said vigorously. “There’s something behind all this which I don’t yet understand. If it was one of these three, and I can prove it to my own satisfaction, the matter will rest there. I shall take it no further. But—” She pursed her thin lips into a little beak and shook her head.

“But I can’t believe it was one of those three,” said Alceste. “At least—” she hesitated, and then added:

“I believe any one of them could have committed the murder, but not for any of the given reasons.”

“My difficulty entirely,” confessed Mrs. Bradley. “And yet,” she said, as though she were thinking aloud rather than addressing Mrs. Boyle, “I don’t know. What might appear to me, or to you, as a God-given and sufficient reason to eliminate a fellow-creature might seem airy, casual and of no importance to anyone else. On the other hand, you see, although it would not occur to me to murder anybody for the sake of gain, to a man like Helm it appears to be the obvious, natural thing to do. This motive business is very difficult. Nobody can say without fear of contradiction that any motive for murder is too trivial. My difficulty is that, if I read these three people aright, their spirits may have been willing, but I’m certain their wills would have been too weak, when it came to the point, to hold Calma Ferris’s head down in that basin of water until she died. There is only one person who was behind the scenes that night who is capable of visualizing and performing such an action, and on that person I cannot pin the faintest shadow of a motive. Opportunity in plenty, but motive—none whatever!”

“And who is that?” inquired Alceste, interested but unbelieving.

“Suppose I said that it was the Headmaster?” replied “Mrs. Bradley, with one of her unnerving hoots of laughter. Alceste laughed too.

“Simply and briefly, I shouldn’t believe you,” she said. “If he committed the murder, why should he call you in to investigate the matter, when the coroner and his people had already most obligingly called it suicide? Besides, I thought he had no opportunity.”

“True, child, true,” said Mrs. Bradley, sighing. “The one thing above all others which is clear in my mind is that somebody very closely connected with the opera committed the murder. The time so carefully chosen, for instance, and—”

“The clay in the waste-pipe,” said Mrs. Boyle. “I have been puzzled over that. Who, besides Donald Smith, would have been thinking about clay from the art-room? Yes, you’d like to say Moira Malley—”

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.

“I do believe you, dear child,” she said. “I perceive that if you had been Calma Ferris’s murderer you would have given the game away long ago.”