Death at the Opera (23 page)

But why, Mrs. Bradley asked herself, should he have gone to the school rather than found out the address of her lodgings, if he really intended to seek her out and kill her? She fancied that the most likely explanation was that he had considered it improbable that even Miss Sooley would supply him with Miss Ferris's private address, whereas the school address could not be so readily and plausibly withheld. But then, if Miss Sooley's evidence could be trusted, he had known the address of the school without having asked her for it. That was a most puzzling point. She began to talk about the dead woman.

“Of course, I never knew her,” she said.

“I did,” responded Helm. It was a piece of information he could not very well refuse to give, owing to the fact that he knew Mrs. Bradley was living with Miss Ferris's aunt, who would certainly have explained that he, too, had been a boarder there, and had met the niece.

“Oh, yes, of course! The burglars!” said Mrs. Bradley, shuddering realistically in her assumed character of silly old lady.

“Burglars my boot!” said Helm, succinctly. Mrs. Bradley conquered a genuine start of surprise, and said anxiously:

“Was it her imagination, then, poor girl?”

“It wasn't burglars, anyhow,” said Helm. “Not a thing was taken.”

“Oh, but I understood from Miss Ferris's aunt that the men became alarmed and fled before they actually entered the house,” Mrs. Bradley said. Mr. Helm made a noise expressive of deep contempt, and suggested that perhaps she would like some tea. Mrs. Bradley, rightly suspicious of the victuals offered by (in her opinion) an unconvicted murderer, refused charmingly and said that she would not take up any more of Mr. Helm's valuable time. She thanked him for his kindness in procuring details of the school, apologized for having mistaken the meaning of the friend who (she thought) had told her he was the German Master there, and took her leave.

Mr. Helm watched her from the window as she walked down the pebbled path to the gate. There was an unpleasant smirk upon his face. The fact had emerged during conversation that Mrs. Bradley's life was insured for ten thousand pounds. It was insured in her son's interest. Mr. Helm's smirk widened into a cheerful grin. He walked up to the galvanized iron bath and played the devil's tattoo upon it with his knuckles.

Mrs. Bradley also wore a cheerful grin. Sheltering behind a breakwater, and with the collar of his dark grey waterproof turned up against the bitter December wind, was Noel Wells.

“Here I am, dear child,” said Mrs. Bradley. She cackled harshly and pinched his elbow. Wells looked gloomy. Tom, on the road, drove slowly away.

“I don't like it, you know,” said Wells. “It's playing with fire. And I'm not sure it's honest. In any case, what good am I to you, stuck out here on the beach? He could murder you and bury the body on the other side of the bungalow, and I should be none the wiser.”

Mrs. Bradley took an orange out of her capacious skirt pocket.

“When you see an orange come hurtling through the bungalow window on this side, dear child,” she said, “come at once to my assistance.”

“But you may not always have an orange to throw,” objected Wells. “And what if it's dark?”

“You'll hear the crash of glass, dear child.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. But suppose you haven't an orange?”

“I shall throw the soap out, dear child.”

“The soap?”

“The soap.”

“But what I mean is—”

Mrs. Bradley took his arm and they walked along the deserted beach towards the town. Wells waited a little while, and then concluded his sentence.

“—Won't that blighter be looking at us
now
out of the window?”

“It doesn't matter if he is,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “For one thing, you are my son, in whose favour my life is at the present moment insured for ten thousand pounds; and for another, he is at this moment in rapt contemplation of the bath I told you of. It hangs upon the wall and is to him the means of wish-fulfilment. Sand!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Sand!” She waved a skinny, black-gloved claw. “Sand, dear child. How easy to dig the grave. How impossible to locate the grave! Sand!”

Wells quickened his stride.

“I heard in the town that he tried to rent one of the bungalows in that colony on the other side of Bognor,” he said, “but that they would not have him because of the trial. Rather a shame, really, as he was acquitted.”

Mrs. Bradley's only reply was to the effect that she was going home for Christmas.

“I shall write to Mr. Helm,” she added, “and when the Christmas vacation is over I shall return to the school for a bit. There are still one or two things that need clearing up from that end. As to Mr. Helm, I cannot foretell with any certainty what his reaction to my absence will be.” She chuckled ghoulishly and then demanded: “How long had you intended staying in the neighbourhood, dear child?”

Wells was not quite sure. He would let her know, he said, and they parted at the gate of Miss Lincallow's neat front garden. Miss Lincallow, who avowed, possibly with truth, that, knowing Mrs. Bradley's life was in danger from “that awful man,” whom, it was plain, she was now prepared to hold responsible for her niece's death, had remained at the first-floor sitting-room window during the whole of Mrs. Bradley's absence from the house, said that she was thankful, “oh, thankful
indeed
,” to see her safe home again.

Mrs. Bradley, who had not announced her intention of breaking her drive in order to call upon Helm, made no remark except to demand tea. After tea, the loquacious Miss Sooley sought her out.

“And did you really go
inside
?” she asked, with a shiver of delicious horror. “Do you know, when I think that we had that man here, in this house, all those weeks in the summer, and
never knew
, I could scream!”

“Never knew what?” asked Mrs. Bradley, wilfully dense.

“Never knew that he was a murderer,” said the obliging Miss Sooley in low tones. Her eyes grew round and hard and bright, and her mouth became a little pink rosette. Her nose twitched with excitement. “And you went inside his house with him! Just fancy you being so daring, little as you are, too!”

“And old. And frail,” said Mrs. Bradley. She gave vent to a deep chuckle, and smoothed the sleeve of a jumper which covered muscles of iron. Miss Sooley clicked her tongue and then said archly, and with the simpering smile of a sentimental old maid:

“But there! I suppose he must have his attractions, although
I
could never see them.”

“How do you mean?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

“Well,” said Miss Sooley, settling down with gusto to a scandalous story, “say Miss Lincallow whatever she chooses about poor Miss Ferris, but it wasn't only Miss Ferris that couldn't behave herself as a lady should in a house that contains gentlemen.”

“Really?” said Mrs. Bradley, afraid of saying anything which might cause the conversation to veer into a less promising channel. Miss Sooley, however, was fairly in mid-stream, and under full sail at that. She folded her hands—they ought to have been mittened, Mrs. Bradley decided—nodded her head, swallowed, drew in a deep breath and continued:

“Yes, indeed. Do you know, I really believe the only reason she warned Miss Ferris against him was because she wanted him herself. And her sixty, if she's a day! Did you ever! When we knew him and Miss Ferris had been in the same room on the night the burglars came Miss Lincallow was that furious! And then her spreading that tale about Miss Ferris falling! ‘She wasn't the kind to fall,' I said. ‘Not without she was properly married. Too much good sense and nice feeling,' I said. But would she listen to me? Not a word!

“‘Be that as it may, Ellen,' she said to me, ‘and I'm not contradicting you, the fact remains that young women
do
fall, and there's nobody can prevent it,' she said. Of course, I'm not one to discuss such things, Mrs. Bradley. I don't see the necessity for one thing, although there are quite respectable people—yes, even in a town like this—who talk of nothing else. How they get to hear as much as they do passes my comprehension. But this I do say: I know a good girl when I see one, and I'm
sure
Miss Ferris wouldn't think of placing herself in an unfortunate position, and the inquest
proved
it, and very pleased I was, I can tell you.”

“Yes. So was I,” Mrs. Bradley hastily interpolated. “So you think Miss Lincallow was jealous of her niece?”

It was a bold plunge, but time was passing. Miss Lincallow might come in upon them at any moment, and Mrs. Bradley was interested in seeing whether her overnight suspicions were correct. It appeared that they were.

“Jealous?” said Miss Sooley. “I should say she was. And kept it all in, mind you. That's what's so funny to me. Nobody could be nicer to Miss Ferris's face. Quite took the poor girl in, I can tell you. But behind her back, to me, it was a very different tale. Murderer or no murderer, she took a big fancy to him, there's no doubt about that. And if you want to keep the peace with her, I shouldn't visit him again if I were you. No offence, of course, Mrs. Bradley. Just a friendly warning. Here she comes.”

In spite of the friendly warning, Mrs. Bradley decided to visit Helm again before she returned to her own home and, later, to the school, but before she did so another interview took place, this time between herself and Miss Lincallow. That lady took her aside after the evening meal, saying abruptly:

“Come into my little sitting-room.” Mrs. Bradley meekly followed her.

“What has Ellen Sooley been telling you about me?” demanded Calma Ferris's aunt when they were seated, the one upon a horsehair sofa, the other in an uncomfortable arm-chair. Mrs. Bradley grinned.

“She told me how you sat out in the car whilst she and the chauffeur went into the school-hall to hear the opera,” she said, cautiously feeling her way.

“So I did. And very cold it was. That fool of a Willis lost his way. I got so cold that I couldn't stand it, so I got out of the car and went to the door and asked the doorkeeper to find them and bring them out. Let me warn you. Take no notice of Ellen Sooley. She's a liar from her hair-slide to her boots, and the only things she can cook are the accounts. I'm sorry I ever took her into partnership, for she does nothing but get under my feet and make eyes at all the men who stay here. That
Helm
! I can't understand the attraction from either point of view, but she was all over him until Calma came along. Then somehow he got to know that Calma was my heir, and that did it, I suppose, for I can't conceive of any man being attracted to Calma for her looks, can you?”

“I never met her,” said Mrs. Bradley gently. The situation was becoming complicated. She resolved to try whether Helm could not straighten it out.

On the following day, therefore, having rung up Noel Wells and requested him to be at his post of vantage behind the breakwater, she walked along the sands until she came upon Helm's bungalow. Helm was on the seaward side of his garden, if garden it could be called, engaged in planning a rockery. Mrs. Bradley was so delighted that she stood at his elbow and watched the proceedings for six minutes by her watch before he turned and caught sight of her. An unpleasant change came over his face. His eyes glinted dangerously like those of a treacherous dog, and his canines showed white, like fangs, at the corners of his mouth as his top lip drew back in a snarl which he quickly changed into a smile.

“Ah, digging a grave, I see,” said Mrs. Bradley, in the bright and fatuous manner which she had adopted for his undoing. Helm looked startled.

“A grave, dear lady?” he said, gazing at the heap of large pebbles, small boulders, and pieces of quartz and granite which lay at his feet and which he was busily arranging.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley, who was enjoying herself to the full. “All murderers make a rockery over the grave of the victim. Didn't you know? The police know it, too. Don't you read the Sunday papers, dear child! The first task undertaken by the police in any case of suspected murder is to dig up the rockery and take up the crazy paving in the sunk-garden. After that they explore the cellars, and, if all else fails, they go through the left luggage at the nearest railway station.”

Helm managed a sickly smile.

“You came to ask for more information about the school, of course,” he said. “Come inside, will you?”

“On no account,” said Mrs. Bradley, cackling gleefully. “You terrify me! Yes, terrify me!” She so emphasized the middle word each time that it certainly sounded blood-curdling in the extreme. She gripped his arm between her powerful thumb and skinny first finger, so that he winced with pain and tried to draw away, but she held him fast, wagged the forefinger of the other hand in his shrinking face and, dropping her voice, said in sepulchral tones: “And
do
you know what they are saying about you in Bognor?”

“Yes,” said Helm. Mrs. Bradley looked shocked, a histrionic effort which did her great credit, since some twenty-eight years previously she had given up being shocked at the many foibles of humanity.

“You
do
?” she said in tones which blended horror with incredulity. Helm nodded. He was recovering. Mrs. Bradley released his arm.

“And is it
true
?” she asked, in breathless accents. Helm managed a shaking laugh. Against his will, and, as he supposed, against his instinctive
flair
for picking out a fool, the little old woman was beginning to get on his nerves.

“It's true that I was tried for my life,” he admitted. “But it's a shame and a scandal that people should gossip about me.”