Death at the Opera

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Yes,” replied Mrs. Bradley, a vision of Miss Cliffordson’s challenging prettiness coming into her mind.

  “I believe Gretta is handling the thing sensibly, mind you,” the Headmaster added. “But these affairs are always painful for the boy and embarrassing to us. Co-education has its drawbacks for the co-educationists, you see.”

  Mrs. Bradley nodded.

  “The other members of the cast are not under suspicion for the moment,” she said, “therefore perhaps it might be a good plan to have the boy next.” Mr. Cliffordson pressed the buzzer and consulted the time-table.

  “Ask Mr. Poole, in Room C, whether he will be kind enough to excuse Hurstwood for a few minutes,” he said to his secretary. A little later a discreet tap at the door announced Hurstwood’s arrival. The Headmaster invited him in, and he stood on the threshold, tall, fair, slightly, embarrassed, a likeable boy, with thin hands and a broad low forehead.

  “Shut the door, Hurstwood,” said Mr. Cliffordson. “You remember the night of The Mikado?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You weren’t the person who collided with Miss Ferris and broke her glasses, were you?” asked Mrs. Bradley, before the Headmaster could speak again. Hurstwood raised his eyebrows.

  “I? No,” replied. “I—knew she had broken them, though, because I lent her my handkerchief to bathe a little cut she had on her face.”

  “When was this?” asked Mrs. Bradley. The boy considered the question and then answered:

  “Very near the beginning of the opera, because I was just ready to take my cue, so I pulled out my handkerchief—I had stuck it in my sash—and shoved—er—pushed it into her hand, and in about ten seconds my cue came and I went on.”

  “H’m!” said the Headmaster.

  “Sir?” The boy’s face was flushed, and he had thrust his jaw slightly forward.

  “What did you do when you came off the stage the first time?” inquired Mr. Cliffordson, this time managing to forestall Mrs. Bradley.

  “I went into the dressing-room and had a look at my make-up, sir. They I went round to the other side of the stage to see whether Miss Ferris had finished with my handkerchief, because it was the only one I had, sir, and I was suffering from a slight cold.”

  “But you must have realized it would be wet, if Miss Ferris had been bathing her face with it?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, but things soon dry on the radiators. I thought I would spread it out on one so that I would soon be able to use it if I required it.”

  “Go on,” said Mrs. Bradley, as the boy paused.

  “I went into the lobby,” said Hurstwood. “At least,” he added, correcting himself, “I should have gone into it, but everything was quiet round there, and when I pressed the switch the light wouldn’t act, so I thought nobody could possibly be in there, and I went back to the dressing-room and found Mr. Smith and the electrician. We talked a bit, and then I had to go on again.”

  “You know where Miss Ferris’s body was found, Hurstwood?” said Mr. Cliffordson.

  “Oh, yes, sir. It almost seems as though she might have been—”

  The Headmaster shook his head.

  “Not when you went to the lobby the first time,” he said. “We’ve proved that.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Yes, my boy.” Mr. Cliffordson leaned forward impressively. “Miss Ferris was murdered, Hurstwood.”

  There was dead silence. Then the boy said simply:

  “Yes, sir. I know.”

  Even Mrs. Bradley, although she managed not to betray the fact, was startled by this admission. The Headmaster was frankly astounded.

  “You what?” he shouted. Hurstwood remained silent. “What do you mean, boy?” demanded Mr. Cliffordson. Hurstwood cleared his throat.

  “Well, sir, the modelling clay.”

  “What about it?”

  “She—Miss Ferris wouldn’t have done it, sir. Ladies don’t stop up things like that. She would have used the plug. In any case, sir, why shouldn’t she use running water? You—one generally does for a place that’s bleeding, sir, and her face bled quite freely.”

  The Headmaster nodded. Mrs. Bradley nodded also.

  “Go back to your form, then. That’s all I want to ask you,” said Mr. Cliffordson.

  “Yes, sir.” He turned to go. “And, by the way,” said Mr. Cliffordson pleasantly, “my niece is at least seven years your senior, my boy. Remember that when you are twenty-five she will be thirty-two, and don’t make a fool of yourself any longer.”

  The boy, who had turned as the Headmaster had gone on speaking, went white. He put his hands to his head and swayed from side to side.

  “Quick!” said Mrs. Bradley; but the Headmaster was in time, and got to him before he actually fell.

  “Silly fellow,” said Mr. Cliffordson, smiling at him when he had regained his normal colour and was sitting upright and looking rather foolish. “Did you think I didn’t know? There! Don’t worry about it, my boy. We all make fools of ourselves at your age. There’s no harm in it, but don’t take it too seriously.”

  But to his embarrassment the lad burst into tears. Mrs. Bradley got up and went out, closing the door behind her. She detached the “engaged” notice from its little brass hook on the wall, and hung it from its little brass hook on the door. Then she went in again and beckoned the Headmaster outside.

  “I want to see Miss Camden,” she said.

  “It’s her free time, I believe,” the Headmaster answered. “Come with me and we’ll invade the staff-room. But she wasn’t in the cast, you know. A queer girl. Very enthusiastic—about all the wrong things.”

  “By the way,” said Mrs. Bradley, “what can there be that is familiar to me in the face of the gentleman in the frame over the table?”

  “Oh, I expect you saw it in the newspapers last year,” replied Mr. Cliffordson. “That’s Cutler, the man who was acquitted of drowning his wife. Smith painted him immediately the trial was over, and, a humorous gesture which I confess I still do not fully appreciate, presented the portrait to me.”

  CHAPTER VI

  DISCLOSURES

  I

  “I DON’T like it,” said Mr. Cliffordson, shaking his head. “I don’t like it at all. To my mind, there is something extraordinarily fishy about that boy’s story. He is omitting to tell us something of vital importance.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Bradley, pausing at the top of the stairs, “I should not advise you to employ any Third Degree methods in order to coerce him. Murder will out, so let sleeping dogs lie and make hay while the sun shines.”

  She ended on an unearthly screech of laughter which caused the overwrought Hurstwood to raise his head and listen intently. The sound was not repeated, so he rose and walked to the window of the Headmaster’s study.

  “Meaning?” said Mr. Cliffordson, when they reached the foot of the stairs and were walking across the large hall where the opera had been staged.

  “I suggest that we interview the rest of the cast in turn before coming to any definite conclusions,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I wonder whether we might speak to Miss Cliffordson next, instead of Miss Camden? I could see Miss Camden later.”

  “You won’t get much out of Gretta,” said Gretta’s uncle, shaking his head.

  Mrs. Bradley, who knew quite well that she would get exactly what she wanted out of Gretta, smiled amiably, like a sleepy python, and waited while the Headmaster tapped at one of the form-room doors. In a few moments Miss Cliffordson, looking fresh and pretty in a white blouse, navy skirt and the inevitable cardigan, came out into the hall, and, seeing Mrs. Bradley, walked towards her.

  “You wanted to see me?” she said.

  “Yes, dear child. Is there an empty room where we can talk without being disturbed?”

  “I believe the music-room is empty at present,” replied Miss Cliffordson, leading the way. The only furniture which the music-room contained consisted of six pianos with their stools, so, each occupying a stool, Mrs. Bradley and the H
eadmaster’s niece sat down.

  “Of course, I never for one moment believed that Miss Ferris committed suicide,” remarked Miss Cliffordson, “and when uncle told me that he had invited you to come down and look into the affair, I knew I was not mistaken.”

  “In what?” Mrs. Bradley politely inquired.

  “In thinking that poor Miss Ferris was murdered,” replied Miss Cliffordson, lowering her voice. “And, do you know, Miss Freely told me that the other girls won’t stay a second after school hours now it gets dark so early, and that, for her part, she will be thankful to goodness when the Christmas holidays arrive and she can go home. She says the school gives her the creeps since the opera, and that neither for love nor money would she go into that water-lobby after dark. I don’t know that I should care to, either, if it comes to that.”

  Mrs. Bradley made noises indicative of agreement and sympathy with this feeling.

  “And as for poor Moira Malley,” Miss Cliffordson continued, “I wonder the poor child didn’t go off her head, finding the body in the dark like that! Fancy her not telling anyone about it until after the performance, though!”

  “I imagine that she was afraid of ruining the entertainment,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I wonder, though, that she didn’t say something to one of the other girls. Several of her form were in the women’s chorus, weren’t they?”

  “Well, I don’t really suppose she got much chance of speaking to them. She used our dressing-room, you see. The chorus had another for themselves. Of course, there was nothing to prevent her going in there during the interval if she wished.”

  “Oh, yes. She was the only pupil to take a principal part, wasn’t she?” said Mrs. Bradley carelessly.

  “Well, no,” replied Miss Cliffordson, rising to the delicate cast. “She was the only girl who had a principal part, but it was one of the boys who did so well. A rather talented boy called Hurstwood. Do you know him?”

  “A tall, rather slight boy?” said Mrs. Bradley. “Oh, yes; I know him. He has an interesting face.”

  “He’s rather clever,” said Miss Cliffordson. “And . . .” she paused, and then plunged, “he’s being rather difficult.”

  “Ah. In love with you?” said Mrs. Bradley. Miss Cliffordson laughed, frankly enough, but with a shade of embarrassment.

  “It’s very awkward,” she confessed, “and he’s so horribly sensitive that I don’t like to be quite ruthless, because I’m afraid”—she laughed again, and there was no mistaking her embarrassment this time—“he might do something serious . . . even make away with himself. Oh, it sounds ridiculous, I know—”

  “Not to me,” said Mrs. Bradley quietly.

  “Well, that’s a comfort, anyhow,” confessed Miss Cliffordson, “because I know you understand these things. But, tell me, please”—she looked Mrs. Bradley full in the face—“you don’t think a boy of that age could have . . . would have . . .? I’m so terribly worried!” she ended suddenly. “I lie in bed every night and I seem to see him doing it! It was such an easy way to kill anybody—especially anybody who was sitting down. You offer to help—you lend a handkerchief—you stuff the waste-pipe up with clay and press the tap and talk—any kind of nervous, silly talk, so that no suspicion is excited; then, as the basin fills, you begin to press the woman’s head down . . .”

  “But why should the boy think of doing it!” the little old woman asked calmly.

  “Oh, of course, you don’t know that. Why, you see, after the dress-rehearsal, Harry—Hurstwood, you know—became excited and he was quite beyond control. He told me a lot of nonsense about being in love with me, and he insisted upon kissing me—he was quite beside himself and very violent—and Miss Ferris walked herself into the middle of it! That’s all.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. She pursed her mouth into a little beak. “And where is Hurstwood’s handkerchief now?” she demanded suddenly. Miss Cliffordson fumbled and produced it.

  “Any proof that it is his?” asked Mrs. Bradley, noting that the handkerchief had been carefully washed and ironed and bore no name, initials or laundry-mark. Miss Cliffordson shook her head.

  “I suppose I did the wrong thing,” she said, “but I unpicked the laundry-mark and an initial H from the corner.”

  “Good,” said Mrs. Bradley, absently pocketing the handkerchief. “Now, as to actual proof . . .”

  “Oh, but—” Miss Cliffordson began to look distressed.

  “But?” prompted Mrs. Bradley.

  “Well, I thought . . . I’ve only told you my suspicions so that you could—I mean, I thought you’d drop the inquiry if you knew who it was—in which way it was trending. You surely . . .” Her voice was rising. Soon it would be audible through the open ventilators in the two class-rooms opposite, thought Mrs. Bradley—“you surely don’t intend to accuse a boy of eighteen of murder!”

  “I thought you were his accuser,” said Mrs. Bradley mildly.

  “I’ve only told you what I fear. I don’t actually know anything. Harry has never said a word! Not a single word! You mustn’t think he has confessed, or anything, because he certainly has not!”

  “Well, don’t encourage him to do so,” said Mrs. Bradley, who had taken a sudden dislike to the Headmaster’s pretty niece. She rose, and smoothed down her violet-and-primrose jumper. “Thank you for your information,” she said, in a precise, old-fashioned voice, and walked out and across the hall and up the Headmaster’s staircase. Miss Cliffordson, a little startled by this sudden departure of her audience, got up and went back to her class. Her uncle, who had taken her place whilst she was conversing with Mrs. Bradley, rose from the chair he was occupying, and raised his eyebrows. Miss Cliffordson shrugged her shoulders.

  “I don’t think she is much farther on,” she said. “I’ve confessed about that wretched boy—”

  “Hurstwood?”

  “Yes. It couldn’t have been Hurstwood’s doing, Uncle, could it?”

  The Headmaster, who had been sitting pondering the same question, looked gloomy and said it was impossible.

  “I feel so horribly responsible,” Miss Cliffordson added, “if it was Hurstwood. Oh, but it couldn’t have been! Only an utterly depraved boy would have thought of such a thing. And Harry isn’t depraved.”

  “No,” said the Headmaster. “He is merely highly-strung, temperamental, morbidly imaginative and sensitive. Where’s Mrs. Bradley now?”

  “I don’t know, Uncle.”

  “I’ll go and have a talk with her. If it was Hurstwood, the ‘suicide’ verdict will have to stand. One of the staff would have been bad enough, but a boy at the school, trained by us— And it would be impossible to keep you out of it, Gretta, you know.”

  He walked off, looking extremely perturbed, and found Mrs. Bradley occupying a chair at the small table in his room and writing busily and indecipherably in her notebook. Beyond cackling in a terrifying manner, she would commit herself to nothing. Hurstwood had not been in the room when she returned to it after her talk with Miss Cliffordson, she said, in response to a question from the Headmaster, and in response to a second question she agreed that the said talk had been enlightening.

  “But not sufficiently enlightening to please me entirely,” she added. “I must have a talk with Mr. Hampstead. May I see him privately in here?”

  “You mean you do not wish me to be present?” asked Mr. Cliffordson.

  “I want to talk to him about his private affairs,” replied Mrs. Bradley. The Headmaster pressed the buzzer, sent for the Senior Music Master, and then went out of the room.

  II

  Frederick Hampstead spoke first.

  “I’ve just seen Mrs. Boyle,” he said.

  “Ah!” Mrs. Bradley nodded pleasantly. “Sit down, Mr. Hampstead. Why are you wasting your time teaching in a school?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Hampstead, blankly.

  “Come, child, don’t hedge,” said Mrs. Bradley, grinning. “In the words of the last of the prophets, ‘He who can, does; he who
cannot, teaches.’ What about that Second Symphony?”

  Hampstead laughed.

  “Are you a witch?” he asked. “I haven’t even told Alceste about the Second Symphony? How did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” confessed Mrs. Bradley. “I deduced. Do you know Maxwell Maxwell?”

  “Only by his photographs in musical journals,” said Hampstead, ruefully.

  “Send him your work. I’ll give you a letter of introduction. Now, what about this wretched murder?”

  “Do you think that, too?” Hampstead looked genuinely amazed. “Do you know, such a thing would never have occurred to me unless I had heard other people talking about it.”

  “Why not?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

  “Well, what had the woman to live for? No home, no intimates, no lover, no brains—nothing to work for; nothing to look forward to; no special interests. . . . I should have thought she was the very type to commit suicide, you know.”

  “This is very illuminating,” said Mrs. Bradley, dryly, writing it all down. “Nevertheless, I may tell you that Miss Ferris was murdered, and that she was murdered before the interval. So I can cross you off my list of suspected persons, can’t I?”

  “But what about the police? Oughtn’t they to be told?” said Hampstead doubtfully.

  “It’s a nice point,” Mrs. Bradley admitted. “At the moment, you see, we can offer them nothing but the evidence on which the coroner’s jury brought in a unanimous verdict of suicide.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Hampstead. “Well, why not leave it at that? I mean, the poor woman is dead. It can’t matter now whether it was suicide or murder, can it?”

  “There speaks the unregenerate musician,” said Mrs. Bradley, laughing. “The Church would tell you that it made a great deal of difference—to the woman herself, if to nobody else.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I’m a Catholic, you know,” he added; “but by tradition rather than conviction, I’m afraid.”

  “Forgive an old woman’s impertinent curiosity,” said Mrs. Bradley briskly, “but I suppose Mrs. Boyle is not free to marry you?”