CHAPTER XX
It was not late even now, for the inquest had begun very punctually,but Mrs. Bunting felt that no power on earth should force her to goto Ealing. She felt quite tired out and as if she could think ofnothing.
Pacing along very slowly, as if she were an old, old woman, shebegan listlessly turning her steps towards home. Somehow she feltthat it would do her more good to stay out in the air than take thetrain. Also she would thus put off the moment--the moment to whichshe looked forward with dread and dislike--when she would have toinvent a circumstantial story as to what she had said to the doctor,and what the doctor had said to her.
Like most men and women of his class, Bunting took a great interestin other people's ailments, the more interest that he was himself soremarkably healthy. He would feel quite injured if Ellen didn'ttell him everything that had happened; everything, that is, that thedoctor had told her.
As she walked swiftly along, at every corner, or so it seemed to her,and outside every public-house, stood eager boys selling the latestedition of the afternoon papers to equally eager buyers. "AvengerInquest?" they shouted exultantly. "All the latest evidence!" Atone place, where there were a row of contents-bills pinned to thepavement by stones, she stopped and looked down. "Opening of theAvenger Inquest. What is he really like? Full description." On yetanother ran the ironic query: "Avenger Inquest. Do you know him?"
And as that facetious question stared up at her in huge print, Mrs.Bunting turned sick--so sick and faint that she did what she hadnever done before in her life--she pushed her way into apublic-house, and, putting two pennies down on the counter, askedfor, and received, a glass of cold water.
As she walked along the now gas-lit streets, she found her minddwelling persistently--not on the inquest at which she had beenpresent, not even on The Avenger, but on his victims.
Shudderingly, she visualised the two cold bodies lying in themortuary. She seemed also to see that third body, which, thoughcold, must yet be warmer than the other two, for at this timeyesterday The Avenger's last victim had been alive, poor soul--alive and, according to a companion of hers whom the papers hadalready interviewed, particularly merry and bright.
Hitherto Mrs. Bunting had been spared in any real sense a vision ofThe Avenger's victims. Now they haunted her, and she wonderedwearily if this fresh horror was to be added to the terrible fearwhich encompassed her night and day.
As she came within sight of home, her spirit suddenly lightened.The narrow, drab-coloured little house, flanked each side by othersexactly like it in every single particular, save that their frontyards were not so well kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would,keep any secret closely hidden.
For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger's victims receded from hermind. She thought of them no more. All her thoughts wereconcentrated on Bunting--Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered whathad happened during her absence--whether the lodger had rung hisbell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and Bunting withhim?
She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with apleasant feeling of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting musthave been watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains,for before she could either knock or ring he had opened the door.
"I was getting quite anxious about you," he exclaimed. "Come in,Ellen, quick! You must be fair perished a day like now--and youout so little as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor allright?" He looked at her with affectionate anxiety.
And then there came a sudden, happy thought to Mrs. Bunting. "No,"she said slowly, "Doctor Evans wasn't in. I waited, and waited, andwaited, but he never came in at all. 'Twas my own fault," she addedquickly. Even at such a moment as this she told herself that thoughshe had, in a sort of way, a kind of right to lie to her husband,she had no sight to slander the doctor who had been so kind to heryears ago. "I ought to have sent him a card yesterday night," shesaid. "Of course, I was a fool to go all that way, just on chanceof finding a doctor in. It stands to reason they've got to go outto people at all times of day."
"I hope they gave you a cup of tea?" he said.
And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if thedoctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting,would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explainedshe'd known him a long time.
She compromised. "I was offered some," she said, in a weak, tiredvoice. "But there, Bunting, I didn't feel as if I wanted it. I'dbe very grateful for a cup now--if you'd just make it for me overthe ring."
"'Course I will," he said eagerly. "You just come in and sit down,my dear. Don't trouble to take your things off now--wait tillyou've had tea."
And she obeyed him. "Where's Daisy?" she asked suddenly. "I thoughtthe girl would be back by the time I got home."
"She ain't coming home to-day"--there was an odd, sly, smiling lookon Bunting's face.
"Did she send a telegram?" asked Mrs. Bunting.
"No. Young Chandler's just come in and told me. He's been overthere and,--would you believe it, Ellen?--he's managed to makefriends with Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain't it? Hewent over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know,and then Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some moneyto go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to go with them thisevening--she and Daisy--to the pantomime. Did you ever hear o'such a thing?"
"Very nice for them, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bunting absently. Butshe was pleased--pleased to have her mind taken off herself. "Thenwhen is that girl coming home?" she asked patiently.
"Well, it appears that Chandler's got to-morrow morning off too--this evening and to-morrow morning. He'll be on duty all night,but he proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for earlydinner. Will that suit you, Ellen?"
"Yes. That'll be all right," she said. "I don't grudge the girlher bit of pleasure. One's only young once. By the way, did thelodger ring while I was out?"
Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching tosee the kettle boil. "No," he said. "Come to think of it, it'srather a funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr.Sleuth a thought. You see, Chandler came in and was telling me allabout Margaret, laughing-like, and then something else happenedwhile you was out, Ellen."
"Something else happened?" she said in a startled voice. Gettingup from her chair she came towards her husband: "What happened?Who came?"
"Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night to wait at ayoung lady's birthday party. In Hanover Terrace it is. A waiter--one of them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing--fell outjust at the last minute and so they had to send for me."
His honest face shone with triumph. The man who had taken over hisold friend's business in Baker Street had hitherto behaved verybadly to Bunting, and that though Bunting had been on the books forever so long, and had always given every satisfaction. But this newman had never employed him--no, not once.
"I hope you didn't make yourself too cheap?" said his wife jealously.
"No, that I didn't! I hum'd and haw'd a lot; and I could see thefellow was quite worried--in fact, at the end he offered mehalf-a-crown more. So I graciously consented!"
Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a longtime.
"You won't mind being alone, here? I don't count the lodger--he'sno good--" Bunting looked at her anxiously. He was only promptedto ask the question because lately Ellen had been so queer, sounlike herself. Otherwise it never would have occurred to him thatshe could be afraid of being alone in the house. She had often beenso in the days when he got more jobs.
She stared at him, a little suspiciously. "I be afraid?" she echoed."Certainly not. Why should I be? I've never been afraid before.What d'you exactly mean by that, Bunting?"
"Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny-like, all aloneon this ground floor. You was so upset yesterday when that youngfool Chandler came, dressed up, to the door."
"I shouldn't have been frightened if he'd just been an ordinarystranger," she said short
ly. "He said something silly to me--justin keeping with his character-like, and it upset me. Besides, Ifeel better now."
As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noiseoutside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers.
"I'll just run out," said Bunting apologetically, "and see whathappened at that inquest to-day. Besides, they may have a clueabout the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it--when he wasn't talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He'son to-night, luckily not till twelve o'clock; plenty of time toescort the two of 'em back after the play. Besides, he saidhe'll put them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto'goes on too long for him to take 'em home."
"On to-night?" repeated Mrs. Bunting. "Whatever for?"
"Well, you see, The Avenger's always done 'em in couples, so tospeak. They've got an idea that he'll have a try again to-night.However, even so, Joe's only on from midnight till five o'clock.Then he'll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy,Fine thing to be young, ain't it, Ellen?"
"I can't believe that he'd go out on such a night as this!"
"What do you mean?" said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spokenso oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone.
"What do I mean?" she repeated--and a great fear clutched at herheart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud.
"Why, by saying he won't go out. Of course, he has to go out.Besides, he'll have been to the play as it is. 'Twould be a prettything if the police didn't go out, just because it was cold!"
"I--I was thinking of The Avenger," said Mrs. Bunting. She lookedat her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utterthose true words.
"He don't take no heed of heat nor cold," said Bunting sombrely."I take it the man's dead to all human feeling--saving, ofcourse, revenge."
"So that's your idea about him, is it?" She looked across at herhusband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation betweenthem attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it."D'you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That youngman what passed her with a newspaper parcel?"
"Let me see," he said slowly. "I thought that 'twas from the bedroomwindow a woman saw him?"
"No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband'sbreakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the mostrespectable-looking woman of the two," said Mrs. Bunting impatiently.
And then, seeing her husband's look of utter, blank astonishment,she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenlymad to have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair."There, now," she said; "here I am gossiping all about nothing whenI ought to be seeing about the lodger's supper. It was someone inthe train talked to me about that person as thinks she saw TheAvenger."
Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit thegas, and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out tobuy the paper they had both forgotten during their dangerousdiscussion.
As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl,Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quiteunnaturally cold even for the time of year.
She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealedby the washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag thatstand aside and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was goingto be out to-night. He would have to put on his dress clothes, andshe didn't like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn't suither ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire here,in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit of fire tocheer her up after he had gone.
Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very littlesleep the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste,at her nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of littleease, listening--listening. . . .
She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth'ssupper, for she had made all her preparations before going out soas not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so.
Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, shelistened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a goodfire, how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table!But unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth wasmoving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was hiswont at this time of the evening.
She knocked, and then waited a moment.
There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning inthe lock of the chiffonnier cupboard--or so Mr. Sleuth's landladycould have sworn.
There was a pause--she knocked again.
"Come in," said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door andcarried in the tray.
"You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?"he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice.
"I don't think so, sir, but I've been out. Perhaps I lost count ofthe time. I thought you'd like your breakfast early, as you haddinner rather sooner than usual."
"Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?"
"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure! I meant supper." He looked ather fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terriblequestioning look in his dark, sunken eyes.
"Aren't you well?" he said slowly. "You don't look well, Mrs.Bunting."
"No, sir," she said. "I'm not well. I went over to see a doctorthis afternoon, to Ealing, sir."
"I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting"--the lodger's voice hadbecome softer, kinder in quality.
"It always does me good to see the doctor," said Mrs. Buntingevasively.
And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth's face. "Doctors are amaligned body of men," he said. "I'm glad to hear you speak well ofthem. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liableto err, but I assure you they do their best."
"That I'm sure they do, sir"--she spoke heartily, sincerely.Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously.
And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger's one hot dishupon it, she went towards the door. "Wouldn't you like me to bringup another scuttleful of coals, sir? it's bitterly cold--gettingcolder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in--" shelooked at him deprecatingly.
And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much.Pushing his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his fullheight.
"What d'you mean?" he stammered. "Why did you say that, Mrs.Bunting?"
She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there came anawful questioning look over his face.
"I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He's got a job to-night. He'sgoing to act as waiter at a young lady's birthday party. I wasthinking it's a pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes,too"--she brought out her words jerkily.
Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down. "Ah!"he said. "Dear me--I'm sorry to hear that! I hope your husbandwill not catch cold, Mrs. Bunting."
And then she shut the door, and went downstairs.
******
Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavywashhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire.
Then in some triumph she called Bunting in.
"Time for you to dress," she cried out cheerfully, "and I've got alittle bit of fire for you to dress by."
As he exclaimed at her extravagance, "Well, 'twill be pleasant forme, too; keep me company-like while you're out; and make the roomnice and warm when you come in. You'll be fair perished, evenwalking that short way," she said.
And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bunting went upstairsand cleared away Mr. Sleuth's supper.
The lodger said no word while she was so engaged--no word at all.
He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual thing for himto do, and staring into the fire, his hands on his knees.
Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn. Somehow, agreat rush of pity, as well as of horror, came over Mrs. Bunting'sheart. He was such a--a--she searched for a word in her mind, butcould only
find the word "gentle"--he was such a nice, gentlegentleman, was Mr. Sleuth. Lately he had again taken to leaving hismoney about, as he had done the first day or two, and with someconcern his landlady had seen that the store had diminished a gooddeal. A very simple calculation had made her realise that almost thewhole of that missing money had come her way, or, at any rate, hadpassed through her hands.
Mr. Sleuth never stinted himself as to food, or stinted them, hislandlord and his landlady, as to what he had said he would pay.And Mrs. Bunting's conscience pricked her a little, for he hardlyever used that room upstairs--that room for which he had paid extraso generously. If Bunting got another job or two through that nastyman in Baker Street,--and now that the ice had been broken betweenthem it was very probable that he would do so, for he was a verywell-trained, experienced waiter--then she thought she would tellMr. Sleuth that she no longer wanted him to pay as much as he wasnow doing.
She looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at his long, bent back.
"Good-night, sir," she said at last.
Mr. Sleuth turned round. His face looked sad and worn.
"I hope you'll sleep well, sir."
"Yes, I'm sure I shall sleep well. But perhaps I shall take alittle turn first. Such is my way, Mrs. Bunting; after I have beenstudying all day I require a little exercise."
"Oh, I wouldn't go out to-night," she said deprecatingly. "'Tisn'tfit for anyone to be out in the bitter cold."
"And yet--and yet"--he looked at her attentively--"there willprobably be many people out in the streets to-night."
"A many more than usual, I fear, sir."
"Indeed?" said Mr. Sleuth quickly. "Is it not a strange thing,Mrs. Bunting, that people who have all day in which to amusethemselves should carry their revels far into the night?"
"Oh, I wasn't thinking of revellers, sir; I was thinking"--shehesitated, then, with a gasping effort Mrs. Bunting brought out thewords, "of the police."
"The police?" He put up his right hand and stroked his chin two orthree times with a nervous gesture. "But what is man--what is man'spuny power or strength against that of God, or even of those overwhose feet God has set a guard?"
Mr. Sleuth looked at his landlady with a kind of triumph lighting uphis face, and Mrs. Bunting felt a shuddering sense of relief. Thenshe had not offended her lodger? She had not made him angry by that,that--was it a hint she had meant to convey to him?
"Very true, sir," she said respectfully. "But Providence means usto take care o' ourselves too." And then she closed the door behindher and went downstairs.
But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go on, down to the kitchen. Shecame into her sitting-room, and, careless of what Bunting would thinkthe next morning, put the tray with the remains of the lodger's meal onher table. Having done that, and having turned out the gas in thepassage and the sitting-room, she went into her bedroom and closed thedoor.
The fire was burning brightly and clearly. She told herself thatshe did not need any other light to undress by.
What was it made the flames of the fire shoot up, shoot down, inthat queer way? But watching it for awhile, she did at last dozeoff a bit.
And then--and then Mrs. Bunting woke with a sudden thumping of herheart. Woke to see that the fire was almost out--woke to hear aquarter to twelve chime out--woke at last to the sound she had beenlistening for before she fell asleep--the sound of Mr. Sleuth,wearing his rubber-soled shoes, creeping downstairs, along thepassage, and so out, very, very quietly by the front door.
But once she was in bed Mrs. Bunting turned restless. She tossedthis way and that, full of discomfort and unease. Perhaps it wasthe unaccustomed firelight dancing on the walls, making queer shadowsall round her, which kept her so wide awake.
She lay thinking and listening--listening and thinking. It evenoccurred to her to do the one thing that might have quieted herexcited brain--to get a book, one of those detective stories ofwhich Bunting had a slender store in the next room, and then,lighting the gas, to sit up and read.
No, Mrs. Bunting had always been told it was very wrong to read inbed, and she was not in a mood just now to begin doing anything thatshe had been told was wrong. . . .
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