Death at the Opera Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also by Gladys Mitchell

  Dedication

  Contents

  Death at the Opera

  I. Dispersal

  II. Rehearsal

  III. Death

  IV. Facts

  V. Interrogation

  VI. Disclosures

  VII. Eliminations

  VIII. Theories

  IX. Evidence

  X. Aunt

  XI. Admirer

  XII. Sweetheart

  XIII. Fog

  XIV. Hero

  XV. Deduction

  XVI. Solution

  Appendix: Mrs. Bradley’s Conclusions

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781407064369

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  Published by Vintage 2010

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  Copyright © the Executors of the Estate of Gladys Mitchell 1934

  Gladys Mitchell has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 1934 by Grayson & Grayson

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  ISBN 9780099546849

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  About the Author

  Gladys Maude Winifred Mitchell – or ‘The Great Gladys’ as Philip Larkin described her – was born in 1901, in Cowley in Oxfordshire. She graduated in history from University College London and in 1921 began her long career as a teacher. She studied the works of Sigmund Freud and attributed her interest in witchcraft to the influence of her friend, the detective novelist Helen Simpson.

  Her first novel, Speedy Death, was published in 1929 and introduced readers to Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley, the heroine of a further sixty-six crime novels. She wrote at least one novel a year throughout her career and was an early member of the Detection Club along with G. K. Chesterton, Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers. In 1961 she retired from teaching and, from her home in Dorset, continued to write, receiving the Crime Writers’ Association Silver Dagger Award in 1976. Gladys Mitchell died in 1983.

  ALSO BY GLADYS MITCHELL

  Speedy Death

  The Mystery of a Butcher’s Shop

  The Longer Bodies

  The Saltmarsh Murders

  The Devil at Saxon Wall

  Dead Men’s Morris

  Come Away, Death

  St Peter’s Finger

  Printer’s Error

  Brazen Tongue

  Hangman’s Curfew

  When Last I Died

  Laurels Are Poison

  The Worsted Viper

  Sunset Over Soho

  My Father Sleeps

  The Rising of the Moon

  Here Comes a Chopper

  Death and the Maiden

  The Dancing Druids

  Tom Brown’s Body

  Groaning Spinney

  The Devil’s Elbow

  The Echoing Strangers

  Merlin’s Furlong

  Faintley Speaking

  Watson’s Choice

  Twelve Horses and the Hangman’s Noose

  The Twenty-third Man Spotted Hemlock

  The Man Who Grew Tomatoes Say It With Flowers

  The Nodding Canaries

  My Bones Will Keep

  Adders on the Heath

  Death of the Delft Blue

  Pageant of Murder

  The Croaking Raven

  Skeleton Island

  Three Quick and Five Dead

  Dance to Your Daddy Gory Dew

  Lament for Leto

  A Hearse on May-Day

  The Murder of Busy Lizzie

  Winking at the Brim

  A Javelin for Jonah

  Convent on Styx

  Late, Late in the Evening

  Noonday and Night

  Fault in the Structure

  Wraiths and Changelings

  Mingled with Venom

  The Mudflats of the Dead

  Nest of Vipers

  Uncoffin’d Clay

  The Whispering Knights

  Lovers, Make Moan

  The Death-Cap Dancers

  The Death of a Burrowing Mole

  Here Lies Gloria Mundy

  Cold, Lone and Still

  The Greenstone Griffins

  The Crozier Pharaohs

  No Winding-Sheet

  To Florence H. Brace

  CONTENTS

  I. DISPERSAL

  II. REHEARSAL

  III. DEATH

  IV. FACTS

  V. INTERROGATION

  VI. DISCLOSURES

  VII. ELIMINATIONS

  VIII. THEORIES

  IX. EVIDENCE

  X. AUNT

  XI. ADMIRER

  XII. SWEETHEART

  XIII. FOG

  XIV. HERO

  XV. DEDUCTION

  XVI. SOLUTION

  APPENDIX

  MRS. BRADLEY’S CONCLUSIONS

  CHAPTER I

  DISPERSAL

  I

  THE Headmaster shook his head and smiled ruefully.

  “There is nothing for it but Shakespeare,” he said.

  “Dull,” suggested the Senior Science Master, grimacing Puck-like, at the Senior English Mistress, who had played at the Old Vic.

  “Quite,” the Headmaster agreed meekly, and waited for further suggestions.

  “The parents won’t come,” said the Junior Music Mistress, sadly. She liked lots and lots of the parents to come. She waylaid them in corridors and places where parents get lost and, guiding them to the main hall, booked orders for their offspring to take Extra Music. The fees for Extra Music were heavy, and the Junior Music Mistress received twenty per cent of them. “I’m sure they’ll think Shakespeare too boring.”

  The Senior History Master did not agree. The parents would come, whatever the Musical, Operatic and Dramatic Society produced, he thought. The parents would come to see the children act and to hear them sing. The parents did not care whether it was Shakespeare or a revue. At least, that was his opinion, and it was based on a twenty years’ experience of paren
ts and their peculiar psychology.

  At this point the Senior Mathematics Master wanted to know whether they could not produce a revue. Surely, with so much talent on the staff . . . ?

  The Headmaster replied cordially that if the staff thought they could collaborate in the production of a revue, he should be delighted to assist them by any means in his power. A brisk discussion followed, but the idea was dropped. As the Junior English Master put it: “It sounded something like work.”

  “What about another comic opera?” suggested the Arithmetic Mistress. “I am sure everybody enjoyed The Gondoliers.”

  “I think that was the Head’s point, wasn’t it, sir?” said the Junior English Master, blending carefully the deference due to the Headmaster with a certain amount of youthful contempt for the Arithmetic Mistress. “We can’t afford to tackle another opera this year.”

  “We lost thirty pounds, one shilling and ninepence on The Gondoliers,” said the Headmaster; “and that in spite of the fact that we had a full house.”

  “I would put up the money,” said the Arithmetic Mistress. She spoke breathlessly, out of nervousness. All eyes were upon her. She was shabbily dressed, heavy-faced and almost inarticulate except in the class-room. She taught the lower forms only.

  The school was an expensive experiment in co-education. It was a private concern, and the Headmaster, who had spent a fortune on it, was chairman of the board of directors. None of the staff held shares, and it was against the terms of their engagement for them to do so. They were well paid, and were expected to be something more than merely efficient teachers, for the social side of school life was catered for as carefully and thoroughly as the educational.

  Games for the girls and boys were of secondary importance to hobbies. Corporal punishment was never resorted to. There was no prefect system. English was the most important subject. In short, it was a freak school. The staff came to weep, and remained—wondering at themselves as they did so—to rejoice. All the senior members of the staff, both men and women, were married, although the Headmaster was a bachelor.

  There were the usual friendships and enmities, but nearly everyone united in tolerating the Arithmetic Mistress, for she was the mildest and most inoffensive of persons: self-effacing, meek, quietly contented with her lot. All looked at her in surprise, and some in alarm, however, as she made the offer to finance the production of a comic opera. The Head broke the pause.

  “But, really, you know, Miss Ferris—” he said. The Arithmetic Mistress interrupted him.

  “I know how much it would cost,” she said. “I could afford it, Mr. Cliffordson. I should like it to be a little present to the school. I have been”—she gulped, and her dull eyes filled suddenly—“I have been so happy here.”

  There was an awkward pause, then the Headmaster cleared his throat and pronounced his benediction on the scheme.

  “In that case—a present to the school—very kind indeed of you. Well, now, what about parts? We ought to decide them before the holidays, I think, and then we can get on with the rehearsals next term. Any suggestions? Let me see—what are the parts?”

  “Hadn’t we better settle what opera we are going to do?” inquired the Junior Music Mistress demurely. She was very young and very pretty, and happened to be the Headmaster’s niece.

  “Which opera? Oh, that’s settled. We must do The Mikado, mustn’t we?” said the Headmaster. “I’ve wanted to do it for years.”

  There was applause.

  “Yourself the ‘Pooh-Bah,’ sir, of course,” said the Junior English Master.

  “I think I should like to attempt it,” replied the Headmaster. He patted his waistcoat affectionately, imagining a Japanese silk sash.

  “Miss Cliffordson will do ‘Yum-Yum,’ I take it,” the Junior English Master continued. He was a self-assertive (and as yet unpublished) novelist, and habitually rushed in where angels feared to tread.

  “I should think so. Oh, yes,” the Headmaster agreed, smiling at his niece. “And the funny little chap—the Lord High Executioner—what’s-his-name? Oh, you know—”

  “‘Ko-Ko,’” said the Junior English Master. He irritated the Headmaster, but was blissfully unconscious of the fact.

  “My boy, you will have to produce this opera,” said the Headmaster, the more kindly since he felt that his irritation was not altogether justifiable. “‘Ko-Ko,’ certainly. Mr. Poole’s part, I think.”

  The Mathematics Master, a spry, black-haired, good-humoured little man, laughed and began to hum under his breath.

  “Who else is there?” asked the Headmaster.

  “Well, there’s the ‘Mikado’ himself, sir,” said the Art Master. “You know—the name-part. The only part I ever remember in Gilbert and Sullivan, as a matter of fact. Sings a jolly good song or something, doesn’t he?”

  “Ah, your part, Smith. Your part, without a doubt,” said the Headmaster. The Art Master grinned. “And isn’t there a redoubtable lady related to him? I seem to remember—Of course, it’s years since I saw the thing done. . . .”

  “‘Katisha,’” said several voices.

  “Ah!” The Headmaster looked at the large semi-circle, and came to a sudden decision.

  “Do you sing, Miss Ferris?” he inquired of the Arithmetic Mistress. The Arithmetic Mistress blushed and fumbled with her handkerchief. She had never been in the limelight since she had first come before the board of governors at her interview, when she was engaged to teach arithmetic to the lower forms. She had been longing for years to be offered a part in one of the school productions. Now that she was actually being offered one, her nerve failed her.

  “It isn’t a long part,” said the Junior Music Mistress, who, now that her own part was settled, was perfectly willing to help settle the other women’s parts, and had some reasons of her own for wishing to spite the Physical Training Mistress, who was the obvious choice for the part of ‘Katisha.’ “It doesn’t really start until the Second Act.”

  “‘Katisha’ makes an important appearance, and a very effective entrance, towards the end of the First Act, Miss Cliffordson,” contradicted the Junior Science Master, who was in love with the Physical Training Mistress, although she was four years his senior and called him to his face a precocious little boy.

  “Yes, but the bulk of the part is in Act Two,” the Junior Music Mistress insisted. “And I do think,” she continued, taking full advantage of her position as niece of the Headmaster, “that we owe Miss Ferris the refusal of the part. After all, if she is financing us . . .”

  There was polite applause. Miss Ferris, astonished at herself, accepted the part. She glanced stealthily at the Physical Training Mistress. That lady, part of whose training had consisted in learning to smile most sweetly when she was most bitterly defeated, smiled sweetly and frankly at her. Miss Ferris, taking the smile at its face value, smiled in return.

  “Then there are the other little Maids, sir,” said the Junior English Master abruptly. One of his most unlovable qualities, from the Headmaster’s point of view, was his businesslike abruptness.

  “Little Maids? Ah, yes. Well, what about Miss Freely for one?” said the Headmaster, smiling at the youngest member of the staff.

  The Junior Geography Mistress was really as pretty as Miss Cliffordson, and was far more popular with the girls and with the women members of the staff. She said simply:

  “Ah! Good. Bags I ‘Pitti-Sing,’ please.”

  Everybody laughed, and the Headmaster wrote it down. Miss Ferris, who happened to be sitting next to her, whispered: “Good! How nice!”

  “What about the youngsters?” said the Senior History Master. He was the father of a family and felt it incumbent upon himself to pretend to a paternal sentimentality which in reality he was far from feeling.

  “I do think we might have a boy for ‘Nanki-Poo,’” said Miss Cliffordson. “What about Hurstwood? He was in The Gondoliers, and did awfully well.”

  “Hurstwood for ‘Nanki-Poo’? A very good idea,”
said the Headmaster, writing it down. “And what about Moira Malley for the third little Maid?”

  “You mean ‘Peep-Bo,’ sir?” said the Junior English Master, with unnecessary helpfulness. The Headmaster restrained himself visibly.

  “Certainly. ‘Peep-Bo,’ yes. And now, does that settle it?” he said.

  “Except for the rather small part of ‘Pish-Tush,’” said the Junior English Master, who wanted the part for himself and was about to say so when the Headmaster forestalled him with:

  “Ah, yes. What about you, Mr. Kemball?”

  The Senior History Master bowed.

  “Charmed, Headmaster. And the youngsters, I presume, will form the chorus of Japanese nobles and girls?”

  “Yes, oh, yes. They’ll enjoy that. There’s a lot of chorus work. Good for them, and not too much responsibility.”

  “We must have Tony Sen Ho Wen for the headman’s boy,” said Miss Cliffordson, referring to a little Chinese lad who had lately come to live in the district, and who was the pet of all the women.

  “I doubt whether Wen would consent to take part in a Japanese play,” said the Senior English Mistress, smiling. “I think Peter Cecil would be better.”

  “Talking of Cecil, did I tell you . . .” began the Junior Geography Mistress, her face alight with amusement.

  “Shop!” bawled everybody, including the Headmaster. The Geography Mistress produced a shilling from her handbag and placed it meekly on a corner of the Headmaster’s big desk. Discipline was almost non-existent for the children, but was strict for the staff.

  II

  Miss Ferris—Calma to her friends and intimates, if she had had any—spent the next day in checking arithmetic stock, reasoning gently with a form of twelve-yearp-olds, who considered that the last few days of the summer term offered almost unlimited opportunities for ragging and that it would be a sin to refrain from taking advantage of the fact, and in reconsidering her summer holiday plans, for it was with the money she had been saving towards the cost of a holiday that she proposed to finance the school production of The Mikado.

  “Somewhere cheap,” her brain repeated over and over again. “Somewhere cheap.” It was not until she lay in bed in her lodgings that night, her blunt nose just above the turned-down edge of the sheet, her dull eyes fixed on the blind which covered the window, that she decided where to go. She had an aunt who kept a boarding-house in Bognor Regis. Bognor was a nice place; a healthy place; the sands were good; one could find pleasant walks; the buses went everywhere from Bognor; there were the Downs. . . . Sussex. . . . Sussex was so nice. Sussex was literary, too. One would be able to return to school, and explain, if one were asked, that one had been “doing” the Sheila Kaye Smith country, or the Belloc country, or the “Puck of Pook’s Hill” country. Rather nice, that. She began imaginary conversations at school. She could see the whole staff, half-envious, half-admiring, as she cast new light on vexed questions of this, and cleared up disputed points in connection with that.