Free Death at the Opera by Gladys Mitchell Page A

heard of one large semi-public school—it was residential, certainly, but I can’t see that that makes any difference—where the Science Master cut his throat, and they lost seventy per cent of their pupils almost immediately,” said the Senior Geography Master, a mild, bald-headed man in his early forties.
    â€œLook here, do let’s drop the subject,” urged young Browning, fearful lest the Headmaster should suppose he had not kept his promise to refrain from suggesting that murder had been committed at the school. “Who’s reffing senior football? Because it is now just turned one-ten.”
    â€œI’m taking netball,” said Miss Camden crossly. Since the loss of the semi-final for the Schools Trophy, netball was a sore point with her. “And you’ll have to ref. junior,” she added, turning to Miss Freely. That amiable young lady went at once to get her whistle, and Miss Camden and Mr. Hampstead followed her down the stairs.
    â€œLook here,” said Miss Camden to Mr. Hampstead, when they reached the school hall and were walking across it to the door which led out on to the school grounds, “who is this Mrs. Bradley? Everybody seems to have heard of her but me. Put me wise. I do hate to be out of things.”
    â€œShe’s a psycho-analyst,” replied Hampstead. He hesitated for a moment, and then went on: “I expect she has been invited to investigate the death of Miss Ferris.”
    â€œOh, lor! Is that her job—investigating deaths?” asked Miss Camden.
    Hampstead hesitated again.
    â€œWell, unnatural death,” he said.
    â€œOh, suicide you mean?” Miss Camden sounded relieved.
    â€œNo. Murder,” replied Hampstead. He did not hesitate at all this time. His companion said in a frightened voice:
    â€œMurder? But nobody thinks . . . I mean, there can’t be . . . Well, but I mean, she wasn’t murdered, was she? She committed suicide. They said so.”
    Hampstead laughed, a short, hard sound.
    â€œTrust a coroner’s jury to make fools of themselves,” he said. “But, whether Miss Ferris was murdered or not, the Headmaster thinks she was.”
    â€œWhy, has he said anything?” Miss Camden asked, betraying an eagerness of which she was not aware. Hampstead shook his head.
    â€œI don’t think so. Not to me, at any rate. But this Mrs. Bradley business—I don’t like it. It looks—what’s the word they use in novels?—sinister. That’s it. It looks decidedly sinister to me.”
    This conversation was but a sample of any conversation that day on the subject of Calma Ferris’s death. Those of the staff—and they were very few—who did not know Mrs. Bradley by reputation were soon enlightened by the others; and by the time school was dismissed at the end of the afternoon, not only the whole staff but also most of the Sixth Form knew the reason for Mrs. Bradley’s coming to the school.
    Miss Cliffordson sought out her uncle, and tackled him boldly. Mr. Cliffordson, looking worried, a sufficiently unusual state of affairs to cause his niece a certain amount of anxiety, nodded in response to her remarks.
    â€œI wanted to keep the reason of Mrs. Bradley’s appointment a secret,” he said, “but murder will out, it seems.”
    â€œWell, if it was really murder, I suppose it is only right that it should come out,” replied his niece. “But I think you might have left things to the coroner, Uncle. It won’t do the school much good to have members of the staff murdered, you know. Even suicide is not as bad as that. You’ll get all the nervous mothers taking Little Willie away before the murderer murders him, if you’re not very careful.”
    â€œAnd if I am very careful, too!” said Mr. Cliffordson, ruefully. “Oh, I’ve thought matters over, my dear, and, if my conscience would allow it, I