Death at the Opera (7 page)

It was not only behind the scenes that Calma Ferris's absence was causing comment. Her landlady, and Frederick Hampstead, the conductor, together with those members of the staff who were on duty as stewards, and those members of the school who were seated in a solid and appreciative phalanx at the back of the hall, wondered audibly, during the interval, why Miss Ferris was out of the cast. Various conjectures were rife, from the landlady's “Taken bad with the excitement, poor thing,” to the school's almost unanimous “Old Boiler blew up because the Ferret was so rotten at rehearsal, so Ferret's gone off in a bate and left Boiler stranded,” which went to prove, if proof were needed, that children are not the infallible judges of character which sentimental persons would have us believe they are.

The Second Act was a great success. Hurstwood, who had begun very badly in Act One, had gradually regained his self-confidence, and towards the end of the Act was singing and acting almost hysterically, as though carried along by over-mastering excitement. During the Second Act he controlled this excitement sufficiently to give a very good performance. Alceste Boyle was magnificent, and Mr. Smith, as the “Mikado,” assisted her in bringing the house down. In fact, in spite of the comparatively lifeless show put up by Moira Malley, and the fact that she was in tears at the fall of the curtain, the production of
The Mikado
was the most outstandingly successful production the school Musical, Operatic and Dramatic Society had ever staged.

“Thank heaven that's over!” observed Miss Freely, wiping off make-up in the women-principals' dressing-room. “Nothing will ever induce me to take part in a school performance again.”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Miss Cliffordson, ravishingly pretty in a pale pink
négligé
, as she sat on a school chair and put on her stockings. “You were very good, you know.”

It was so palpably a baited hook that Miss Freely perversely decided not to rise to it. She was good-nature itself, but Miss Cliffordson was rather too certain that Miss Cliffordson was the prettiest, the best-dressed, the most interesting, the most temperamental and the most talented member of the staff.

“Donald Smith was better than usual, don't you think?” she said.

“Oh, I always think Smith rises to the occasion,” replied Miss Cliffordson. “He's lazy, like all real artists, and he won't rehearse, but on the night he always comes up to scratch.”

At this point Madame Berotti, who had been gently removing the more outrageous portions of Alceste's hideous make-up, patted her victim on the shoulder and said good night.

“
She's
pleased, anyway,” remarked Miss Freely, looking after the slender, upright figure of the old ex-actress who carried her eighty years so gallantly. “She thought you were marvellous, Mrs. Boyle. And so you were,” she added. “Absolutely great! I don't know how you do it.”

Alceste, who was tired, said ungraciously: “I wish I knew why Miss Ferris did it! I can't imagine what's the matter with her. It isn't like her to have left us all in the lurch like that.”

“Must have been taken ill,” said Miss Cliffordson. “I expect she looked for you and couldn't find you. But I think it was too mean of Miss Camden not to take the part when she was asked. Knows every word of it, too, because she did it for the Hillmaston Players last season.”

“Well, she was awfully sore, you know, when Mr. Cliffordson handed it straight to Miss Ferris like that, without a suggestion that anyone else might do it better,” said Miss Freely. “And, after all, she would have done it better—tons better. Although not a patch, even then, on Mrs. Boyle's rendering,” she went on, glancing sidelong at Alceste's beautiful bare shoulders, whence the strap of her petticoat had slipped as she bent to pick up her shoe. Alceste, flushed and laughing now, said happily:

“Don't encourage me. Oh, but I loved it!”

The younger mistresses, none of whom knew why she had ever left the stage, said nothing, hoping for revelations. But none came. Instead, Alceste turned to the other occupant of the dressing-room and said:

“Well, Moira? Nearly ready? I expect the others have all gone.”

It was the thankless duty of those of the staff who had been acting as stewards to see the audience off the building, and then to go round to the dressing-rooms and chivvy the children home. Before Moira could make any reply, there came a series of light taps at the dressing-room door, and the Headmaster's voice outside said:

“Gretta, how long?”

“Haif a tick, Uncle,” replied his niece, collecting her Japanese costume preparatory to stowing it away.

“Right. I shall be in my own room when you're ready. I've told some of the girls to wait for Moira.”

He went away, and the conversation died down among the three women as they hastily concluded their dressing and tidying-up. Then Alceste Boyle, ready to go, turned again to the girl in the far corner of the room, and said, a trifle sharply:

“Come along, Moira. Surely you're ready by now!”

Moira, with a tear-stained face, came up to her, and said abruptly, because she was upset and nervous:

“Mrs. Boyle, I want to speak to you.”

“Say on,” replied Alceste shortly. The tears had irritated her.

“Not here,” said Moira. “Will you come outside a minute? I—I think I know where Miss Ferris is.”

“What?” said Alceste, while Miss Freely and Miss Cliffordson came nearer. “What do you mean, child?”

“She's dead,” said Moira. “I found out—I found her—in the interval I went for a drink—I didn't like to spoil the show—I—she . . . Oh, they'll hang him! And he can't die! He can't!”

“Get out,” said Alceste to the younger mistresses. “Find Mr. Cliffordson at once. See whether it's true.”

The two went out, and shut the door behind them. When they had gone Alceste turned to the overwrought and frightened girl.

“Listen, Moira,” she said. “Nobody is going to hang. Now don't be silly any more. I want you to pull yourself together. Stop crying. It's quite all right. That's better. Now tell me exactly what you did. Sit down in that chair. Take your time.”

“I was thirsty, and I wanted a drink of water,” said the girl, “so I went to the water-lobby with one of the beakers out of the laboratory to get a drink. It was dark, and I tried to switch on the light, but it didn't come, so I thought if I was careful not to knock the beaker on the tap, I could manage in the dark. I felt carefully, and I touched her. I—she was all wet—I went away. I didn't know whether to tell anybody or not.”

“You don't know, then, that it was Miss Ferris,” said Alceste quietly, “and you don't know whether she was dead. Don't think about it any more. The others will attend to her. Go along home now. Who's going with you?”

Moira mentioned the names of one or two of the girls who were in the chorus, and who went past the house where she lived in term-time, with her aunt. Alceste Boyle had just dismissed her when the Headmaster came in. His face was grey. He looked, for the first time in Alceste Boyle's experience, an old man. He nodded in response to her raised eyebrows.

“I've sent Browning for a doctor,” he said, “but there's no doubt of it, poor woman. I wonder what on earth was the cause!”

“But how terrible!” Alceste said. “There will have to be an inquest, I suppose?”

The words sounded banal and in rather bad taste, she thought, but the shock had been great. The Headmaster nodded.

“Bad for the school,” he said. “Well, you'll be wanting to get home, I know. Good night. Don't worry about it, will you? You'd better not see her. We've done what is necessary. Don't worry.”

He went back to the men-principals' dressing-room, to find Hampstead talking to Smith.

“Do you want us any longer, sir?” Smith asked. He was a dirty-white where he had removed his make-up, and looked ill.

“No. There's nothing to be done. I shall stay until the doctor has made his examination, of course. Good night. Don't worry. I can't think how it happened. You'll . . . I needn't ask you—ybzou won't discuss it outside the school at present, will you?”

He called Hampstead back as the two masters got to the door.

“Mrs. Boyle has not gone yet,” he said. “You'll see her home, I expect, as usual, won't you? Impress upon her not to worry. It's a terrible affair, but we must take it that the poor woman was either the victim of sudden illness, or else that she had trouble of which none of us knew. Good night, my dear fellow. Don't linger, or Mrs. Boyle may be gone.”

Hampstead, who had been staring dumbly, went out like a sleep-walker, and in less than ten minutes young Mr. Browning returned with a doctor. Alceste had no intention of going, however, and as soon as she saw Hampstead she said:

“You'd better go, Fred. I must stay and see things through. After all, there ought to be a woman on the scene.”

“The Head quite expects that you will go home,” Hampstead replied. “In fact, he told me to take you. This is a frightful business, Alceste. I've seen her. . . .” He paused and fidgeted with the hat he was holding. “Do you think it could be suicide? She was sitting on a chair in the water-lobby, on this side of the building, and her head was in a bowl of water.”

Alceste said:

“I don't believe she would have committed suicide. I know my own sex thoroughly, and Miss Ferris wasn't the type. Probably religious, too. I should think she must have fainted. The child said Miss Ferris was ‘dabbing her face.' I never for one moment. . . . But it's queer. Has the doctor arrived yet, do you think?”

“I don't know. Shall I go and see?”

“No. I'll go. Poor woman. It will be a nuisance for the school. It's certain to get into the papers. I don't believe, after all, we'd better go. We shall probably be in the way.”

Together they went to the class-room which had been used as the men-principals' dressing-room. It was empty, except for the Headmaster. The body had been taken into the laboratory, he told them, and the doctor had made a preliminary examination, sufficient to be certain that the cause of death was drowning.

“There will have to be an inquest, of course,” said Mr. Cliffordson. “The doctor is going to give orders for the body to be removed. What an awful business it is! One doesn't want to be unfeeling, but I do wish it had happened anywhere but in school. I can't think what possessed her, can you? Or could it have been an accident? The light has gone wrong in there, too. We had to get candles from the stock cupboard. I must communicate at once with her relatives, I suppose. Oh, well, don't worry. As long as it isn't one of the children, it isn't as bad as it might be. Good night to you both. Don't worry. Poor woman. Oh dear, oh dear!”

II

The verdict which concluded the inquest upon Calma Ferris was “Suicide while of unsound mind”: this in the face of all that the dead woman's acquaintances could say on the subject of her apparent freedom from worry and ill-health. The Headmaster, still looking old and worn, called a staff meeting at ten o'clock on the following morning. The staff, nervously silent, guessing the subject of the meeting, came in in ones and twos, and seated themselves. When they were all present Mr. Cliffordson addressed them. His tones were dry and formal.

“I have been in consultation with the governing body of the school,” he said, “and it seemed to all of us that for the sake of the boys and girls it would be wiser to appoint immediately a successor to Miss Ferris. I have been fortunate enough to secure the services of an able and distinguished lady whose qualifications happen to be a. good deal higher than those required for the post, but who is anxious to obtain a first-hand impression of a co-educational day-school of an advanced modern type. She will accordingly be appointed for the remainder of this term, while the governors and I are deciding upon a candidate for permanent appointment. I should be glad if you would all take pains to welcome the lady. She is elderly, and probably . . .”—he smiled, and for a moment looked himself again, the lines washed from his forehead, and his eyes candid and kind—“has pronounced views which some of you may find irritating. However, I think you'll like her. Her name”—he consulted a paper before him on the big desk—“is Bradley. Mrs. Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley. She will commence her duties on Monday at nine.”

There was a stunned silence. Then Mr. Browning said blankly:

“But—you don't mean—not
the
Mrs. Bradley, Headmaster?”

“Why not?” said Mr. Cliffordson coldly. The staff, taking its cue, rose and filed out, but the Headmaster motioned Browning to remain. When the others had gone and the door was shut, Mr. Cliffordson said:

“Mrs. Bradley is coming here to make a study of the school. She is writing a psychological treatise on adolescence, and wishes to make first-hand observations in boys', girls', and mixed schools. You understand?”

“I understand,” said young Mr. Browning, meeting the Headmaster's eye, “that you think Miss Ferris was murdered, and, in view of the fact that the verdict of the coroner's jury was one of suicide, I don't consider you are being fair to us, Headmaster, in getting Mrs. Bradley here like this. I wish to tender my resignation.”

“And I refuse to accept it,” said Mr. Cliffordson firmly. He changed his tone.

“My dear boy,” he said, “pause and consider. I do believe Miss Ferris was murdered, but I don't want the school turned upside down. Mrs. Bradley will decide, quietly, whether I am justified in my conclusions, and then, if I am, some action must be taken. That is all. Last night I was convinced that poor Miss Ferris had drowned herself. Later, I discovered that the waste-pipe was completely stopped up with clay. That struck me as curious. I must beg of you not to communicate these tidings to your colleagues. I hope that I am wrong. Things are quite bad enough. But there are facts which cannot be ignored, and I must face them.”