“ ‘Pooh-Bah’ (yourself, Mr. Cliffordson) had little opportunity to commit the murder. He was on the stage a great deal during the whole of the act, with, on the whole, too short an interval between any two of his stage entrances for him to have been able to risk leaving the wings in order to kill Miss Ferris. I think we might almost count you out, you know.”
She gave vent to her harsh cackle.
“Thank you,” said the Headmaster.
“Not at all. ‘Nanki-Poo,’ Mr. Francis Henry Hurstwood, Sixth Form boy, had as much opportunity, perhaps, as anybody else to commit the murder, for he had a lengthy interval after his exit just before the first entrance of ‘Ko-Ko.’ Mind you, that delayed first entrance of ‘Ko-Ko ’ may be important. If that little man had any motive for killing Miss Ferris—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Headmaster, a trifle impatiently, “but what about this boy? You don’t really imagine he could have had any hand in the affair, surely?”
“Meaning,” said Mrs. Bradley shrewdly, “that you do! Come, out with it, dear child. What about the poor boy?”
“I—don’t—know,” said Mr. Cliffordson. “In fact, I wish you’d have a talk with the lad. Mind, I don’t really imagine for one moment that he did have anything to do with Miss Ferris’s death, but he is highly strung and rather . unbalanced and emotional. For instance, I happen to know —although neither of them suspects that I do know it!— that the unfortunate lad cherishes a hopeless passion for my niece, Miss Cliffordson, the Junior Music Mistress. You’ve met her, of course?”
“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. Coeducation 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 timetable.
“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,” he 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. Then 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 six: disclosures
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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.”