Death at the Opera (24 page)

“And you really are the notorious
Cutler
?” said Mrs. Bradley. “How absolutely
divinely
thrilling! How I should
love
to have been at the trial!”

She did it well; so well that Helm's relief showed plainly in his face. His crafty eyes resumed their expression of frank good-nature and his wolf-teeth disappeared. She
was
a fool, after all. He need never have been alarmed. He must be losing his nerve. She was easy. Ten thousand pounds!

“Dear lady,” he said, “what an extraordinary desire in one so gently nurtured and so extremely well-endowed with all the feminine graces!”

Mrs. Bradley, who could throw a knife into the centre of any given target at a range of thirty feet, and could break a man's wrist with a twist of her claw-like fingers smiled amiably. Noel Wells, peering cautiously over the breakwater, saw her and Helm engaged in apparently amicable conversation, and dropped back out of sight again.

“I've really come to ask your advice about my son,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and now I know that you are quite a man of the world, I shall follow out your suggestions with the greater confidence. He has become entangled with a female against my wishes.”

“Disinherit him,” said Helm immediately. He had all the blind vanity and egoism of the man to whom murder is neither an art nor a necessity. It was going to be too easy, he decided. Once get this nincompoop of a son disinherited—why it was as easy as walking on the sands at low tide! He began to smile joyfully. Mrs. Bradley smiled too; hers was the thin, cruel smile of the tiger. Had Helm been one iota less full of self-conceit and villainy, he must have seen the small sharp teeth behind those thin, stretched, smiling lips.

“Disinherit him?” she said. “Well, I could
threaten
him with that, anyway, couldn't I?”

“I should give him a real scare, if I were you,” said Helm. “He gets your life assurance when you die, I take it?”

“Oh, you dreadful man! Don't talk like that, so casually, of dying!” said Mrs. Bradley, giving him a playful push. “I'm not going to die for
years
! A fortune-teller told me so.”

“No, no! But to scare him into doing as you wish, why not pretend to make that life assurance payable to someone else?”

“Yes, but to whom?” said Mrs. Bradley, as though she were inclined to favour the absurd suggestion.

“That's not for me to say,” said Helm, apprehensive of going too far, and scaring the quarry. Having brought matters to this promising point, it would be a thousand pities to be too precipitate, he thought. Besides, he wasn't in a hurry. He had other plans which were on the point of maturing. It would not hurt to let the old girl hang up for a bit, while he carried out his other schemes. Besides, the son was a bit of an obstacle. He did not want some great goop of a boy asking a lot of silly questions, and perhaps becoming violent. Mr. Helm,
né
Cutler, detested violence. Drowning an unsuspecting woman in a bath was one thing, but standing up to an angry young man was quite another.

“I should like to meet your son,” he said.

“I will bring him with me if I come again,” said Mrs. Bradley, feeling certain that the Reverend Noel Wells's tall, slightly-stooping figure, vacuously cheerful expression and clerical collar would work wonders in restoring Mr. Helm's fast-ebbing nerve. “And I'll think over what you say. You won't introduce the subject in my son's presence, will you? He is epileptic, and it would be most embarrassing for the poor boy to have a seizure in front of a perfect stranger.
Good
afternoon, then Mr. Helm. Or do your friends call you
Cutler? Such
a good name for a murderer, isn't it? Oh, I forgot, though! You aren't really a murderer, are you? Not
yet
! Oh, isn't it all
thrilling
! Do you know, I believe I'll make out my assurance policy in
your
favour, and give my naughty boy a fright.”

She was gone before the flabbergasted Helm could make any reply. His state of mind was comic.
Was
she a fool? He decided, finally, that, yes, she was. He gazed earnestly at his half-finished rockery when she had gone. Disconsolately he kicked the nearest piece of stone. It had cost pounds for the materials to be transported to the bungalow. What had that funny old girl said about it? He was not sure that he wanted to remember. He walked into the tiny bungalow and drummed on the large, galvanized-iron bath. Ten thousand pounds! The first thing the police do in a case of suspected murder is to dig up the rockery! How the devil had she guessed? . . . What was there to guess, anyway? She knew nothing of Susie. Nobody knew anything of Susie . . . yet!

But his peace of mind had been disturbed. He put on his hat and locked up the railway-carriage bungalow and went to the cinema.

II

Noel Wells escorted Mrs. Bradley to her lodgings and left her with Miss Lincallow.

“And have you been to see that man again!” Miss Lincallow exclaimed. “How
can
you bring yourself to associate with him?”

“Tell me,” said Mrs. Bradley, making no attempt to answer the question, “did your niece keep a diary?”

“She did, poor girl,” replied Miss Lincallow, “and you shall see it, for there's nothing in it of any consequence.”

She went away to get it. Mrs. Bradley, a little surprised at having achieved her object so easily, was soon in her own sitting-room, the diary in her hand. She skimmed through the entries for the first half of the year, her eyes sharp to discover any references to other members of the school staff, and especially to those who might have been implicated in the murder, but apart from memoranda with regard to playing tennis with Miss Freely, going to tea with Mrs. Boyle once, and with the Headmaster twice, refereeing a match for Miss Camden and going on a school outing with some of the children and Alceste Boyle, there was no reference to any one of them.

The various entries for June and up to the date of the school entertainment, Mrs. Bradley read more slowly, but her trouble was wasted. From beginning to end of the diary there was not a scrap of information which served to throw any light upon any of the circumstances of the diarist's death. The references to Helm, for instance, were six in number, and referred to the burglar alarm, which appeared to have been genuine, various encounters with the man, together with a summary of the conversations which had ensued and which appeared each time to have taken a particularly formal turn, guided thereto by Calma herself, Mrs. Bradley supposed, and Miss Ferris's opinion that he was clever. On the other hand, it was possible to imagine that, like many diarists, Miss Ferris refrained from committing to paper any details which might be embarrassing if they were made public.

There were references to the various
contretemps
which preceded the night of the opera—the quarrel about the netball match, for instance, and the damaging of Mr. Smith's Psyche; the discovery that Hurstwood was in love with Miss Cliffordson, and that she had allowed him to kiss her; but, of all the obvious omissions, the most noticeable, Mrs. Bradley decided, was that of the fact that Moira Malley had sat to Mr. Smith as a model for the Psyche. Calma may have decided not to include this fact of the sittings, but if she had not known that Moira had given them, the girl was automatically cleared from all suspicion of having committed the crime.

Mrs. Bradley went to the telephone and put through a trunk call. It was not yet four o'clock, so that afternoon school would not be over. It happened to be the last full day of the term. The school was due to break up on the following noon. Alceste Boyle answered the telephone.

“Find out whether Miss Ferris knew that Moira Malley sat to Mr. Smith for his Psyche, will you, my dear?” said Mrs. Bradley.

“Certainly I will. I suppose that I had better ask Donald,” said Alceste. “Hold on a minute.”

The seconds ticked away. Then Alceste's voice came through again.

“I couldn't get it any other way, so I had to ask the poor child. She doesn't think anybody knew. She hopes nobody knew. I'm sending her home to Ireland for Christmas. Hurstwood is top of the Sixth, but poor little Moira is seventeenth out of a form of twenty. What do you think we can do about it? She
must
get her scholarship, or she can't possibly go to college.”

“What is she worrying about?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

“Finding the body like that, I think. Horrible for her.”

Mrs. Bradley had just rung off when tea was announced, and she was finishing her second cup when Miss Lincallow came in.

“I'm ever so sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Bradley,” she said, “but there is a young man in Holy Orders on the front step. He won't come in, but he says he must speak to you immediately with your hat and coat on.”

Noel Wells certainly had the appearance of excitement which Miss Lincallow's style of narrative had led Mrs. Bradley to expect.

“My dear boy, what is the matter?” she asked, as they ran down the steps and on to the pavement.

“I don't know,” said Wells, “but I don't like it. He brought a woman home with him at half-past three, and since then he's been carrying pailfuls of sea-water up to his beastly bungalow.”

“Round this alley into the office of my friend's garage,” said Mrs. Bradley. Once inside, she raised her melodious voice and called: “Tom! Tom, dear child!”

Young Tom came running. He was bareheaded and in his mechanic's overalls.

“The car, quickly, Tom!” said Mrs. Bradley.

Tom was young. He grinned and jerked his thumb.

“Out there, ma'am. Shan't be a tick,” he said.

“Come, child,” said Mrs. Bradley to Noel Wells. She caught his hand and, running, took him round to the front entrance of the garage. Out came the car, young Tom at the wheel.

“That railway-carriage bungalow!” said Mrs. Bradley. “Never mind the police!”

“Good Lord!” said Tom, impressed. Luckily they did not meet a single policeman on the way. The car pulled up outside the gate of Helm's residence, and all three ran up the pebbled path. It was Mrs. Bradley who thundered on the door. It was Tom who gripped a spanner purposefully in his right hand.

Helm opened the door. He was wearing a dressing-gown. His unstockinged feet were encased in carpet slippers.

“Go back to the car, Tom,” said Mrs. Bradley over her shoulder. Tom obeyed.

“So sorry, dear lady,” said Helm, with a nervous titter. “Just going to have a bath. No idea anyone would think of calling. A nice hot sea-water bath for my rheumatism. So good. So comforting.”

“I've brought my son,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But we certainly must not disturb you now. Come, Noel, dear.”

Wells lolled his tongue like an idiot and hoped he was not overdoing it. He was tall enough to see over Helm's shoulder. The bungalow appeared to be empty. The steaming bath of water was in the centre of the floor. As though obeying Mrs. Bradley, he turned and walked uncertainly down the garden path.

“Dear lady, the loss is mine.” Helm was saying.

“Go in, go in! You'll catch your death of cold,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Have your nice bath. I'll come another day.”

She gave him a little push and pulled the door to. It slammed. Noel Wells was round on the bedroom side of the house, peering in at the window, his long nose touching the glass.

“‘Sister Ann, Sister Ann, do you see anyone coming?'” said Mrs. Bradley behind him.

“I'm sure she's here,” said Wells. “I wish we could warn her.”

Mrs. Bradley did not hear him. She was round at the living-room window, watching Helm. He was an interesting study. He was positively dancing with rage. His hands clawed the air. Three times he kicked the bath with his slippered foot.

“Come, child,” said Mrs. Bradley to Noel Wells, as she came up behind him. Wells shook his head.

“I'm staying here until that woman comes out,” he said, “and then I'm going to tell her who Helm is. He can't see us. It's nearly dark out here.”

“You'll wait too long, dear child,” said Mrs. Bradley gently. “While Helm was opening the door to us I saw her leave the bungalow by way of the bedroom window. She's half-way to Bognor by now.”

“But she must have been undressed,” protested Wells.

“She wasn't. She was wearing a knitted suit and a waterproof, and she is fairly young,” said Mrs. Bradley gravely. “Get into the car as quickly as you can, and we'll follow her. Right away, Tom!”

The woman, whoever she was, had disappeared, however, for they overtook nobody answering to the given description. Mrs. Bradley clicked her tongue. The foolish girl, whoever she was, might at least have been given a friendly warning, if they could have found her.

CHAPTER XII

W
HEN
Susan Cozens was found drowned at the “Swinging Sign” inn, a week after Mrs. Bradley had gone back to her home for Christmas, it was Looney Thomas who voiced the general opinion. He said he was not surprised. It was common belief that the inn was haunted. None of the local people would have dreamed of leasing it. They would not have expected customers, if they
had
leased it, and to have purchased outright, as these intrepid but foolhardy Londoners had done, seemed little short of lunacy on the one hand, or of trafficking with the powers of evil on the other, to the superstitious people of the village.

Nevertheless, there seemed little of the moon's madness, and still less of the cloven hoof, about Malachi Spratt and his wife. He was a decent, clean, cheerful man of forty when he bought the “Swinging Sign” on the London Road, not five miles out of Bognor Regis, and his wife Dora was a slow-moving, strong, big, industrious creature, quietly-spoken, self-contained, civil and obliging. The people found her generous, too, and, in their ills and their troubles, sympathetic and comforting beyond the ordinary. She had married beneath her, it was said; but she and her husband were an excellent match—he so lithe and quick—it was rumoured that he had held a wrestling championship somewhere, sometime; but wrestling was not a local sport, so nobody was sufficiently intrigued by the rumour to find out the time, district and kind of wrestling involved—she with her apparent languor behind whose slow grace burned fires of energy.