CHAPTER XXII
Feeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting litthe gas-ring to make his wife her morning cup of tea.
While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out:
"Bunting!" she cried weakly. "Bunting!" Quickly he hurried inresponse to her call. "Yes," he said. "What is it, my dear? Iwon't be a minute with your tea." And he smiled broadly, ratherfoolishly.
She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on her face.
"What are you grinning at?" she asked suspiciously.
"I've had a wonderful piece of luck," he explained. "But you wasso cross last night that I simply didn't dare tell you about it."
"Well, tell me now," she said in a low voice.
"I had a sovereign given me by the young lady. You see, it was herbirthday party, Ellen, and she'd come into a nice bit of money, andshe gave each of us waiters a sovereign."
Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay back and closed hereyes.
"What time d'you expect Daisy?" she asked languidly. "You didn'tsay what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was talking aboutit yesterday."
"Didn't I? Well, I expect they'll be in to dinner."
"I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?"said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully. All the cheer died out of Bunting'sround face. He became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thingif he couldn't have his own daughter for a bit--especially now thatthey were doing so well!
"Daisy'll stay here just as long as she can," he said shortly."It's too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps you allshe can; and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, 'twouldbe cruel--cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she andthat young chap are making friends-like. One would suppose thateven you would see the justice o' that!"
But Mrs. Bunting made no answer.
Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boilingnow, so he made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in,his heart softened. Ellen did look really ill--ill and wizened.He wondered if she had a pain about which she wasn't saying anything.She had never been one to grouse about herself.
"The lodger and me came in together last night," he observedgenially. "He's certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn'tthe sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, nowwas it? And yet he must 'a been out a long time if what he saidwas true."
"I don't wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates thecrowded streets," she said slowly. "They gets worse every day--that they do! But go along now; I want to get up."
He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fireand put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper.
Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night witha feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horriblethoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into hishead? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. Nodoubt Mr. Sleuth's nose had bled--that was what had happened;though, come to think of it, he had mentioned brushing up againsta dead animal.
Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn't do for one to bealways thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and such-like. Itmade one go dotty--that's what it did.
And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door aloud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But beforehe had time to get across the room, let alone to the front door,Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat andshawl.
"I'll go," she cried breathlessly. "I'll go, Bunting; don't youtrouble."
He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall.
She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took thetelegram from the invisible boy. "You needn't wait," she said."If there's an answer we'll send it out ourselves." Then she torethe envelope open--"Oh!" she said with a gasp of relief. "It'sonly from Joe Chandler, to say he can't go over to fetch Daisy thismorning. Then you'll have to go."
She walked back into their sitting-room. "There!" she said."There it is, Bunting. You just read it."
"Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged.--Chandler."
"I wonder why he's on duty?" said Bunting slowly, uncomfortably."I thought Joe's hours was as regular as clockwork--that nothingcould make any difference to them. However, there it is. I supposeit'll do all right if I start about eleven o'clock? It may haveleft off snowing by then. I don't feel like going out again justnow. I'm pretty tired this morning."
"You start about twelve," said his wife quickly.
"That'll give plenty of time."
The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received aletter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, alittle under a week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, atany rate, he made no sign of being awake; and though Mrs. Buntingoften, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room, therecame no sounds at all from overhead.
Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt morecheerful than they had done for a long time. They had quite apleasant little chat when Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit,before going down to prepare Mr. Sleuth's breakfast.
"Daisy will be surprised to see you--not to say disappointed!" sheobserved, and she could not help laughing a little to herself atthe thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she madehim stay on a little longer. "There's no such great hurry as that,"she said good-temperedly. "It'll do quite well if you're there byhalf-past twelve. I'll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn't helpwith that. I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard."
But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, andhis wife went with him to the front door. It was still snowing,less heavily, but still snowing. There were very few people comingand going, and only just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiouslyalong through the slush.
Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and aknock at the door--a now very familiar ring and knock. "Joe thinksDaisy's home again by now!" she said, smiling to herself.
Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler's voice. "Don'tbe scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!" But though not exactly scared,she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up torepresent a public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection,with his hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, hisseedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat.
"I haven't a minute," he said a little breathlessly. "But I thoughtI'd just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home again. You gotmy telegram all right? I couldn't send no other kind of message."
"She's not back yet. Her father hasn't been gone long after her."Then, struck by a look in his eyes, "Joe, what's the matter?" sheasked quickly.
There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn,while what little colour there was in it receded, leaving it verypale.
"Well," he said. "Well, Mrs. Bunting, I've no business to sayanything about it--but I will tell you!"
He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room carefully behindhim. "There's been another of 'em!" he whispered. "But this timeno one is to know anything about it--not for the present, I mean,"he corrected himself hastily. "The Yard thinks we've got a clue--and a good clue, too, this time."
"But where--and how?" faltered Mrs. Bunting.
"Well, 'twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it dark for thepresent"--he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse whisper. "Thepoor soul was found dead on a bench on Primrose Hill. And just bychance 'twas one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on hisway home, over Hampstead way. He knew where he'd be able to get anambulance quick, and he made a very clever, secret job of it. I'spect he'll get promotion for that!"
"What about the clue?" asked Mrs. Bunting, with dry lips. "You saidthere was a clue?"
"Well, I don't rightly understand about the clue myself. All Iknows is it's got something to do with a public-house, 'The Hammerand Tongs,' which isn't far off there. They feels su
re The Avengerwas in the bar just on closing-time."
And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better now. It was naturalthe police should suspect a public-house loafer. "Then that's why youwasn't able to go and fetch Daisy, I suppose?"
He nodded. "Mum's the word, Mrs. Bunting! It'll all be in the lasteditions of the evening newspapers--it can't be kep' out. There'd betoo much of a row if 'twas!"
"Are you going off to that public-house now?" she asked.
"Yes, I am. I've got a awk'ard job--to try and worm something outof the barmaid."
"Something out of the barmaid?" repeated Mrs. Bunting nervously."Why, whatever for?"
He came and stood close to her. "They think 'twas a gentleman," hewhispered.
"A gentleman?"
Mrs. Bunting stared at Chandler with a scared expression. "Whatevermakes them think such a silly thing as that?"
"Well, just before closing-time a very peculiar-looking gent, with aleather bag in his hand, went into the bar and asked for a glass ofmilk. And what d'you think he did? Paid for it with a sovereign!He wouldn't take no change--just made the girl a present of it!That's why the young woman what served him seems quite unwilling togive him away. She won't tell now what he was like. She doesn'tknow what he's wanted for, and we don't want her to know just yet.That's one reason why nothing's being said public about it. Butthere! I really must be going now. My time'll be up at threeo'clock. I thought of coming in on the way back, and asking you fora cup o' tea, Mrs. Bunting."
"Do," she said. "Do, Joe. You'll be welcome," but there was nowelcome in her tired voice.
She let him go alone to the door, and then she went down to herkitchen, and began cooking Mr. Sleuth's breakfast.
The lodger would be sure to ring soon; and then any minute Buntingand Daisy might be home, and they'd want something, too. Margaretalways had breakfast even when "the family" were away, unnaturallyearly.
As she bustled about Mrs. Bunting tried to empty her mind of allthought. But it is very difficult to do that when one is in a stateof torturing uncertainty. She had not dared to ask Chandler whatthey supposed that man who had gone into the public-house was reallylike. It was fortunate, indeed, that the lodger and that inquisitiveyoung chap had never met face to face.
At last Mr. Sleuth's bell rang--a quiet little tinkle. But whenshe went up with his breakfast the lodger was not in his sitting-room.
Supposing him to be still in his bedroom, Mrs. Bunting put the clothon the table, and then she heard the sound of his footsteps comingdown the stairs, and her quick ears detected the slight whirringsound which showed that the gas-stove was alight. Mr. Sleuth hadalready lit the stove; that meant that he would carry out someelaborate experiment this afternoon.
"Still snowing?" he said doubtfully. "How very, very quiet andstill London is when under snow, Mrs. Bunting. I have never knownit quite as quiet as this morning. Not a sound, outside or in. Avery pleasant change from the shouting which sometimes goes on inthe Marylebone Road."
"Yes," she said dully. "It's awful quiet to-day--too quiet to mythinking. 'Tain't natural-like."
The outside gate swung to, making a noisy clatter in the still air.
"Is that someone coming in here?" asked Mr. Sleuth, drawing a quick,hissing breath. "Perhaps you will oblige me by going to the windowand telling me who it is, Mrs. Bunting?"
And his landlady obeyed him.
"It's only Bunting, sir--Bunting and his daughter."
"Oh! Is that all?"
Mr. Sleuth hurried after her, and she shrank back a little. Shehad never been quite so near to the lodger before, save on thatfirst day when she had been showing him her rooms.
Side by side they stood, looking out of the window. And, as ifaware that someone was standing there, Daisy turned her bright faceup towards the window and smiled at her stepmother, and at thelodger, whose face she could only dimly discern.
"A very sweet-looking young girl," said Mr. Sleuth thoughtfully.And then he quoted a little bit of poetry, and this took Mrs.Bunting very much aback.
"Wordsworth," he murmured dreamily. "A poet too little readnowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful feeling for nature,for youth, for innocence."
"Indeed, sir?" Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little. "Your breakfastwill be getting cold, sir, if you don't have it now."
He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down as a childrebuked might have done.
And then his landlady left him.
"Well?" said Bunting cheerily. "Everything went off quite all right.And Daisy's a lucky girl--that she is! Her Aunt Margaret gave herfive shillings."
But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father thought she oughtto do.
"I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she said a littledisconsolately. "The very last words he said to me last night wasthat he'd be there at ten o'clock. I got quite fidgety as the timewent on and he didn't come."
"He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly.
"Been here?" cried her husband. "Then why on earth didn't he go andfetch Daisy, if he'd time to come here?"
"He was on the way to his job," his wife answered. "You run along,child, downstairs. Now that you are here you can make yourselfuseful."
And Daisy reluctantly obeyed. She wondered what it was herstepmother didn't want her to hear.
"I've something to tell you, Bunting."
"Yes?" He looked across uneasily. "Yes, Ellen?"
"There's been another o' those murders. But the police don't wantanyone to know about it--not yet. That's why Joe couldn't go overand fetch Daisy. They're all on duty again."
Bunting put out his hand and clutched hold of the edge of themantelpiece. He had gone very red, but his wife was far too muchconcerned with her own feelings and sensations to notice it.
There was a long silence between them. Then he spoke, making agreat effort to appear unconcerned.
"And where did it happen?" he asked. "Close to the other one?"
She hesitated, then: "I don't know. He didn't say. But hush!"she added quickly. "Here's Daisy! Don't let's talk of that horrorin front of her-like. Besides, I promised Chandler I'd be mum."
And he acquiesced.
"You can be laying the cloth, child, while I go up and clear awaythe lodger's breakfast." Without waiting for an answer, she hurriedupstairs.
Mr. Sleuth had left the greater part of the nice lemon sole untouched."I don't feel well to-day," he said fretfully. "And, Mrs. Bunting?I should be much obliged if your husband would lend me that paper Isaw in his hand. I do not often care to look at the public prints,but I should like to do so now."
She flew downstairs. "Bunting," she said a little breathlessly,"the lodger would like you just to lend him the Sun."
Bunting handed it over to her. "I've read it through," he observed."You can tell him that I don't want it back again."
On her way up she glanced down at the pink sheet. Occupying a thirdof the space was an irregular drawing, and under it was written, inrather large characters:
"We are glad to be able to present our readers with an authenticreproduction of the footprint of the half-worn rubber sole whichwas almost certainly worn by The Avenger when he committed hisdouble murder ten days ago."
She went into the sitting-room. To her relief it was empty.
"Kindly put the paper down on the table," came Mr. Sleuth's muffledvoice from the upper landing.
She did so. "Yes, sir. And Bunting don't want the paper backagain, sir. He says he's read it." And then she hurried out ofthe room.
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