Smith started, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes and than obeyed.
“Now sit down over there,” said Mrs. Bradley, pointing to a chair. “Now tell us why you wanted to kill Calma Ferris.”
Smith blinked.
“Did I want to?” he said. Then his face cleared. “Oh, yes, so I did. She walked into my Psyche and shoved her on to the floor. Ruined her, of course. Yes, I was angry. But it was all right. Alceste lent me the money to pay Atkinson. I didn’t care awfully for the Psyche, as a matter of fact. She was commissioned. I hate working on a commissioned figure.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. “So you didn’t kill Miss Ferris?”
“I don’t think so, you know,” replied Smith. “Did Moira Malley say I did? I like that girl. She’s got a sense of perspective. More than you can say about most of these oafish kids here. You’d scarcely believe,” he continued, turning to Mrs. Bradley as though he found hers a sympathetic presence, “how few of these boys and girls can draw. And I can’t teach ’em. I’m a first-rate artist and a rotten teacher. I wouldn’t stick it if it weren’t for Alceste. She thinks I’d starve if I didn’t draw a regular salary, you know, so I stay to please her. Besides”—he blinked rapidly and clawed the air—“I must be near her! I must! I must!”
“Why did you ask Moira Malley not to say anything about the way you cannoned into Miss Ferris and knocked her glasses off and cut her face?” demanded Mrs. Bradley. Smith blinked again.
“Did I say that?” he asked. “I can’t remember. I remember barging into Miss Ferris round a corner… Oh, yes! I know. I was afraid it was my fault she committed suicide. You see, she’d spoilt my Psyche, and I thought perhaps the sight of me, coupled with the fact that she had to go into the water-lobby to bathe her face, might have given her the idea that she should drown herself, and I didn’t want to be asked a lot of questions. It’s just an act of lunacy to ask me questions, because I never remember things five minutes after they have happened.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Go on, child.”
“I’ve nothing more to say,” said Smith. He glanced up at the portrait of a florid, self-satisfied man-looking over the table.
“You took the name-part in the opera, I think?” said Mrs. Bradley. She produced a programme from her skirt pocket and flourished it at him.
“The name-part? Oh, yes, I was the ‘ Mikado,’ ” answered Smith.
“Yes. You had not to make your first entrance until the beginning of Act Two,” said Mrs. Bradley.
Smith nodded.
“And during the interval Miss Ferris was found dead.”
“But was she dead?” asked the Art Master.
“Oh, yes,” said the Headmaster quickly, before Mrs. Bradley could speak. “You remember the medical evidence at the inquest?”
Smith shook his head.
“Oh, well, it was definitely established that Miss Ferris had met her death at least two hours before the doctor examined the body. That means that she died before the interval, you see.”
“I didn’t know that doctors cared to commit themselves to the extent of giving an exact time of death,” protested Smith. He held up his thin long hand before either of the others could speak. There was a slight flush on his high cheekbones, but his voice did not change as he continued: “Please don’t mistake me. I do know what you’re driving at. You think Miss Ferris was murdered. So do I. And you think”—he turned and addressed Mrs. Bradley —“that as I had the whole of the First Act with nothing to do, I filled up the time by revenging myself on Miss Ferris for damaging that clay figure of mine. You weren’t joking a few moments ago when you asked me why I wanted to kill Miss Ferris. You meant that you thought I had killed her. Well, I didn’t.”
He smiled very nervously. Mrs. Bradley could see that his hands were trembling.
“Very well, Mr. Smith,” said Mrs. Bradley soothingly.
“May I go, Headmaster?” asked he. Mr. Cliffordson was about to answer when Smith continued: “By the way, perhaps you would advise me. Really, I know very little about the law and crime… Ought I to get into touch with a solicitor about all this? Ought I to tell him my version of the story and get him to watch proceedings, or anything?”
Mrs. Bradley grinned mirthlessly and waved a skinny claw.
“One moment, Mr. Smith. I understood you to say that you agreed with us in our belief that Miss Ferris was murdered?”
“I do believe it,” said Smith.
“Can you give us any reason for your opinion?”
“Only that I’m certain she did not commit suicide,” said the Art Master. “I think one is sensitive to that aspect in people. The only person on this staff at all likely to commit suicide, except for myself, is Miss Camden, the Physical Training Mistress.”
“Then it is merely surmise on your part that Miss Ferris was murdered?” asked the Headmaster. He sounded disappointed. Mr. Smith shrugged. He appeared less nervous.
“It’s the electric light going wrong,” he said slowly. “Something more than coincidence, don’t you think, that the electric light should go wrong in the place that houses a dead woman?”
“Indeed, yes,” said Mrs. Bradley. She wrote swiftly for a moment, and then intimated that the interview was at an end by saying:
“And consult a solicitor if it will relieve your mind, dear child, but if your conscience is clear and your mind at rest, I shouldn’t think you will need to consult anybody.”
“Well,” said Smith, with a wry smile. “I hope the wrong man won’t get hanged.”
“Stranger things than that have happened,” said Mrs. Bradley, as the door closed behind the Senior Art Master. “I suppose you didn’t see the electrician?” she asked suddenly. The Headmaster shook his head.
“I can give you his address,” he said. “ ‘The light that failed,’ of course?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Bradley succinctly. She drew her chair closer to the small table at which she was seated. “It comes to this,” she said. “If we think that Miss Ferris was murdered, the murder could only have been committed by some person or persons”—she cackled—“who had business in that part of the building during the performance. I spent a good deal of time yesterday evening in reading the script of The Mikado, and, granted that the actual drowning could have been done in two minutes, we have the following interesting data:
“1. The ‘Mikado,’ Mr. Smith, had the whole of the First Act in which to commit the murder.
“2. The curtain operator, who happened to be the schoolkeeper, had almost as long.
“3. The electrician had at least as long as the curtain operator.
“4. Madame Berotti, the make-up woman, was in a similar position.
“5. ‘Pish-Tush,’ Mr. Kemball, had the smallest male part, and so might have had plenty of time during his offstage periods.
“6. Mrs. Boyle, the producer, is at present a dark horse.
“7. ‘Ko-Ko,’ Mr. Poole, had until his first entrance, but once he had made his first appearance he was on the stage a great deal, and may or may not have had the opportunity for murder. I should be inclined to count him out if it could be proved that Calma Ferris was alive when he first came on the stage, because there were no stage waits, I imagine?”
“None at all. All the actors were ready on every occasion,” replied Mr. Cliffordson.
“Good. That simplifies things,” remarked Mrs. Bradley.
“Does it? I am glad to hear you use the word ‘simplifies’! I never knew a more complicated business,” said Mr. Cliffordson.