“Round at the ‘Pig and Whistle,’ all along of that same chap, too, and all. ‘ ’Ere, mate, you pop round and ’ave a drink,’ ’e says, same as I might say to anybody. ‘I’ll keep an eye on that there curtain,’ ’e says. ‘You won’t need to do that,’ I says, ‘because they don’t finish for near another hour and a quarter,’ I says. And off I went, getting back in half an hour from then, with the opera still going strong, you might say, but no sign of the bloke, me watch, me wallet, me waterproof, me spanner, me wrench, me pair o’ pliers, or me screwdriver.”
“An interesting, but not unusual sequence of events,” said Mrs. Bradley briskly. “Describe the electrician.”
“Tallish, plumpish, fatty kind of self-satisfied face, little mouth, no moustache, reddish bristly ’air, fat ’ands with ’airs on the backs, short fingers, aged about forty-three or four, grey suit, black boots, no overcoat, suède gloves, no tools with ’im when he come; London voice— not cockney but not a gentleman’s voice neither—big ears with no lobes to ’em. That’s all I can recollect of ’im.”
“You are a remarkably observant man,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“Well,” said the schoolkeeper, pleased at the compliment, “my boy’s a Scout, and he learned me to play the Scouts’ games. Consequently I find meself taking notice whether I want to or not. He’s a King’s Scout, my boy is.”
“Splendid,” said Mrs. Bradley heartily. “You remember the switch in the water-lobby, don’t you? The one which was out of order on the night of Miss Ferris’s death?”
“The one them boys tampered with, ma’am?”
“The same. I suppose it wasn’t the electrician who tampered with it?”
“I could believe anything of that bloke,” said the school-keeper, “except that ’e knowed enough about electricity even to put a switch out of order. You recollect one of the lights fused? ’E couldn’t do nothing whatever with it. I ’ad to get Mr. Pritchard ’imself to ’elp me, me being tied up with that there blessed curtain.”
“When did Mr. Pritchard see to it?”
“See to it, ma’am? About ’arf-way through the First Act, I think.”
“One more question before you return to your well-earned rest,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Apart from the electrician, was any other stranger behind the scenes on the evening of the opera?”
“Barring the Eye-talian lady what puts the grease-paint on for ’em, nobody, ma’am.”
“Thank you very much,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I presume that the stolen articles were taken from this house?”
“That’s right, ma’am. I ’adn’t locked up, you see, the ’ouse being right inside the school grounds, and my wife at the back of the ’all to see the show, and my boy with ’er. But the watch and the wallet, ’e must ’ave picked me pocket for ’em, as ’e stood talking to me, ma’am, and that’s a fact.”
“I see. It was only the waterproof coat that he took from the house?”
“That’s right. Saved up me coupons for months to get it, and that’s what happens. Thanking you very kindly, ma’am. Much obliged, I’m sure, though I wasn’t meaning to make an ’ard-luck tale of it.”
It occurred to Mrs. Bradley that if she could get Mr. Browning to corroborate Mr. Kemball’s story and Mr. Kemball to assert, independently, that Mr. Browning had not moved from the prompter’s stool at all during the First Act of the opera, during which the murder had been committed, she would be in a position to eliminate both of them from the list of persons who had had opportunity for the murder.
A further point at issue was the alibi of Miss Camden, who, by reason of having been a member of the audience, was in the same solid position as Browning and Kemball if it could be proved that she had not left her seat in the auditorium until the interval. If, on the other hand, it could be shown that she had left the auditorium at any point during the First Act, she would immediately be in the same position as the other persons who had had both motive and opportunity for the crime.
She waited until afternoon recess to tackle Browning and Kemball. Appealed to separately, each was prepared to swear that the other had been in the wings on the prompt side during the whole of the First Act, except for the times that Kemball was on the stage. Alceste Boyle, appealed to next, was prepared to state that Mr. Browning had not risen from his stool during the whole of the First Act, and Mrs. Bradley, with a sigh of relief, felt that she could safely disregard Browning and Kermball during the rest of the investigation.
chapter eight: theories
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Coules Street, Hillmaston, whither she journeyed at three-fifteen to interview Mrs. Berotti, the ex-actress who had put on the make-up for the principal players, proved to be a short, neat, select cul-de-sac in the best residential quarter of the small town. A maid opened the door, and, in response to Mrs. Bradley’s inquiry, said that her mistress was resting, but took Mrs. Bradley’s card and asked her in.
In a few moments she returned and asked Mrs. Bradley to follow her. In a small, comfortable, warm room at the back of the house, Mrs. Berotti was lying on a chesterfield drawn up near the fire. She greeted Mrs. Bradley charmingly and told the maid to bring tea. She was a very old lady, nearer eighty than seventy Mrs. Bradley imagined, but her dark eyes were alive with zest and amusement, and she made gestures as she talked.
“I’ve come about the murder of Calma Ferris,” said Mrs. Bradley abruptly, after casual remarks had been exchanged.
“Do I know her?” asked Mrs. Berotti, with a little frown of concentration. “Ah, yes, I know her. The little plump one, plain, and very anxious to do well, who dies instead of playing the part. Unprofessional.”
Mrs. Bradley hooted with laughter, and the ex-actress wrinkled her old face into a smile which beautifully blended malice and childlike fun.
“She could not help dying. She was murdered, I tell you,” said Mrs. Bradley firmly.
Mrs. Berotti nodded and her expression changed to one of thoughtfulness.
“Yes. I thought so myself,” she said. “But one could not say so. There was no evidence. Nothing.”
“Were you present at the inquest?” Mrs. Bradley inquired.
“I was present, yes. I was asked whether I had made her up. I replied that yes, I had made her up. Was she drunk? Imagine asking me such a question! I replied, in a manner which abashed them, I hope, that never had I been in the company of a drunken person, man or woman, all my life. Had she troubles? I was firm over this, my friend. I replied that if she had no troubles, we who understand good acting would have had troubles had she been permitted by Providence to come before an audience and play that nice part so badly!—so badly! That dress rehearsal! Never shall I forget it! It was terrible!”
She shook her head, smiled wistfully and added: “I informed them that I, too, should have committed suicide if ever in my life I had played the part of a strong, hard, middle-aged, grasping, tormented woman so slowly, so carefully, so—so—”—she spread her hands wide apart as though to embrace the right word when it came—“so inoffensively, my friend!”
Mrs. Bradley cackled. She had formed a very complete mental picture of Calma Ferris since the beginning of her investigation.
“But the other—the magnificent, large, personable goddess of a woman who played it on the night!” went on Mrs. Berotti ecstatically. “Never have I seen a performance like it! She had lost her temper when she came to me in the interval to be made up. She had made herself up, well but hastily, for the end of the First Act, but she came to me in the interval.
“ ‘For God’s sake keep the woman out of the way, madame, if she does turn up,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to finish now, whatever happens.”