The Lodger (15 page)

  "Oh, no," Joe spoke with confidence. "Whoever's
written that silly letter just signed that name for fun."

  "It is a silly letter," Mrs. Bunting had broken in
resentfully. "I wonder a respectable paper prints such
rubbish."

  "Fancy if The Avenger did turn out to be a gentleman
cried Daisy, in an awe-struck voice. "There'd be a how-to-do!"

  "There may be something in the notion," said her
father thoughtfully. "After all, the monster must be somewhere.
This very minute he must be somewhere a-hiding of himself."

  "Of course he's somewhere," said Mrs. Bunting
scornfully.

  She had just heard Mr. Sleuth moving overhead.
'Twould soon be time for the lodger's supper.

  She hurried on: "But what I do say is that - that -
he has nothing to do with the West End. Why, they say it's a sailor
from the Docks - that's a good bit more likely, I take it. But
there, I'm fair sick of the whole subject! We talk of nothing else
in this house. The Avenger this - The Avenger that - "

  "I expect Joe has something to tell us new
to-night," said Bunting cheerfully. "Well, Joe, is there anything
new?"

  "I say, father, just listen to this!" Daisy broke in
excitedly. She read out:

  "BLOODHOUNDS TO BE SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED"

  "Bloodhounds?" repeated Mrs. Bunting, and there was
terror in her tone. "Why bloodhounds? That do seem to me a most
horrible idea!"

  Bunting looked across at her, mildly astonished.
"Why, 'twould be a very good idea, if 'twas possible to have
bloodhounds in a town. But, there, how can that be done in London,
full of butchers' shops, to say nothing of slaughter-yards and
other places o' that sort?"

  But Daisy went on, and to her stepmother's shrinking
ear there seemed a horrible thrill of delight; of gloating
pleasure, in her fresh young voice.

  "Hark to this," she said:

  "A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood
near Blackburn was traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks
to the sagacious instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally
convicted and hanged."

  "La, now I Who'd ever have thought of such a thing?"
Bunting exclaimed, in admiration. "The newspapers do have some
useful hints in sometimes, Joe."

  But young Chandler shook his head. "Bloodhounds
ain't no use," he said; "no use at all! If the Yard was to listen
to all the suggestions that the last few days have brought in -
well, all I can say is our work would be cut out for us - not but
what it's cut out for us now, if it comes to that!" He sighed
ruefully. He was beginning to feel very tired; if only he could
stay in this pleasant, cosy room listening to Daisy Bunting reading
on and on for ever, instead of having to go out, as he would
presently have to do, into the cold and foggy night!

  Joe Chandler was fast becoming very sick of his new
job. There was a lot of unpleasantness attached to the business,
too. Why, even in the house where he lived, and in the little
cook-shop where he habitually took his meals, the people round him
had taken to taunt him with the remissness of the police. More than
that one of his pals, a man he'd always looked up to, because the
young fellow had the gift of the gab, had actually been among those
who had spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, making a
violent speech, not only against the Commissioner of the
Metropolitan Police, but also against the Home Secretary.

  But Daisy, like most people who believe themselves
blessed with the possession of an accomplishment, had no mind to
leave off reading just yet.

  "Here's another notion!" she exclaimed. "Another
letter, father!"

  "PARDON TO ACCOMPLICES.

  "DEAR Sir - During the last day or two several of
the more Intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The
Avenger, whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of
persons. It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds,
however nomad he may be in his habits - "

  "Now I wonder what 'nomad' can be?" Daisy
interrupted herself, and looked round at her little audience.

  "I've always declared the fellow had all his senses
about him," observed Bunting confidently.

  Daisy went on, quite satisfied:

  " - however nomad he may be in his habit; must have
some habitat where his ways are known to at least one person. Now
the person who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding
information in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being an
accessory after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the
consequences. My suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary
promise a free pardon. The more so that only thus can this
miscreant be brought to justice. Unless he was caught red-handed in
the act, it will be exceedingly difficult to trace the crime
committed to any individual, for English law looks very askance at
circumstantial evidence."

  "There's something worth listening to in that
letter," said Joe, leaning forward.

  Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled
involuntarily as she turned her gay, pretty little face the better
to hear what he was saying.

  "Yes, Mr. Chandler?" she said interrogatively.

  "Well, d'you remember that fellow what killed an old
gentleman in a railway carriage? He took refuge with someone - a
woman his mother had known, and she kept him hidden for quite a
long time. But at last she gave him up, and she got a big reward,
too!"

  "I don't think I'd like to give anybody up for a
reward," said Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way.

  "Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting," said Chandler
confidently. "You'd only be doing what it's the plain duty of
everyone - everyone, that is, who's a good citizen. And you'd be
getting something for doing it, which is more than most people gets
as does their duty."

  "A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better
than a common informer," went on Bunting obstinately. "And no man
'ud care to be called that! It's different for you, Joe," he added
hastily. "It's your job to catch those who've done anything wrong.
And a man'd be a fool who'd take refuge - like with you. He'd be
walking into the lion's mouth - " Bunting laughed.

  And then Daisy broke in coquettishly: "If I'd done
anything I wouldn't mind going for help to Mr. Chandler," she
said.

  And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, "No. And if you
did you needn't be afraid I'd give you up, Miss Daisy!"

  And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke
from Mrs. Bunting, sitting with towed head over the table, an
exclamation of impatience and anger, and, it seemed to those
listening, of pain.

  "Why, Ellen, don't you feel well?" asked Bunting
quickly.

  "Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side, like,"
answered the poor woman heavily. "It's over now. Don't mind
me."

  "But I don't believe - no, that I don't - that
there's anybody in the world who knows who The Avenger is," went on
Chandler quickly. "It stands to reason that anybody'd give him up -
in their own interest, if not in anyone else's. Who'd shelter such
a creature? Why, 'twould be dangerous to have him in the house
along with one!"

  "Then it's your idea that he's not responsible for
the wicked things he does?" Mrs. Bunting raised her head, and
looked over at Chandler with eager, anxious eyes.

  "I'd be sorry to think he wasn't responsible enough
to hang!" said Chandler deliberately. "After all the trouble he's
been giving us, too!"

  "Hanging'd be too good for that chap," said
Bunting.

  "Not if he's not responsible," said his wife
sharply. "I never heard of anything so cruel - that I never did! If
the man's a madman, he ought to be in an asylum - that's where he
ought to be."

  "Hark to her now!" Bunting looked at his Ellen with
amusement. "Contrary isn't the word for her! But there, I've
noticed the last few days that she seemed to be taking that
monster's part. That's what comes of being a born total
abstainer."

  Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. "What
nonsense you do talk!" she said angrily. "Not but what it's a good
thing if these murders have emptied the public-houses of women for
a bit. England's drink is England's shame - I'll never depart from
that! Now, Daisy, child, get up, do! Put down that paper. We've
heard quite enough. You can be laying the cloth while I goes down
the kitchen."

  "Yes, you mustn't be forgetting the lodger's
supper," called out Bunting. "Mr. Sleuth don't always ring - " he
turned to Chandler. "For one thing, he's often out about this
time."

  "Not often - just now and again, when he wants to
buy' something," snapped out Mrs. Bunting. "But I hadn't forgot his
supper. He never do want it before eight o'clock."

  "Let me take up the lodger's supper, Ellen," Daisy's
eager voice broke in. She had got up in obedience to her
stepmother, and was now laying the cloth.

  "Certainly not! I told you he only wanted me to wait
on him. You have your work cut out looking after things down here -
that's where I wants you to help me."

  Chandler also got up. Somehow he didn't like to be
doing nothing while Daisy was so busy. "Yes," he said, looking
across at Mrs. Bunting, "I'd forgotten about your lodger. Going on
all right, eh?"

  "Never knew so quiet and well-behaved a gentleman,"
said Bunting. "He turned our luck, did Mr. Sleuth."

  His wife left the room, and after she had gone Daisy
laughed. "You'll hardly believe it, Mr. Chandler, but I've never
seen this wonderful lodger. Ellen keeps him to herself, that she
does! If I was father I'd be jealous!"

  Both men laughed. Ellen? No, the idea was too
funny.

  
"A
ll I can say
is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can't always do just what one
wants to do - not in this world, at any rate!"

  Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in
particular, though both her husband and her stepdaughter were in
the room. She was standing by the table, staring straight before
her, and as she spoke she avoided looking at either Bunting or
Daisy. There was in her voice a tone of cross decision, of thin
finality, with which they were both acquainted, and to which each
listener knew the other would have to bow.

  There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out
passionately, "I don't see why I should go if I don't want to!" she
cried. "You'll allow I've been useful to you, Ellen? 'Tisn't even
as if you was quite well."

  "I am quite well - perfectly well!" snapped out Mrs.
Bunting, and she turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at
her stepdaughter.

  "'Tain't often I has a chance of being with you and
father." There were tears in Daisy's voice, and Bunting glanced
deprecatingly at his wife.

  An invitation had come to Daisy - an invitation from
her own dead mother's sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in
Belgrave Square. "The family" had gone away for the Christmas
holidays, and Aunt Margaret - Daisy was her godchild - had begged
that her niece might come and spend two or three days with her.

  But the girl had already had more than one taste of
what life was like in the great gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave
Square. Aunt Margaret was one of those old-fashioned servants for
whom the modern employer is always sighing. While "the family" were
away it was her joy - she regarded it as a privilege - to wash
sixty-seven pieces of very valuable china contained in two cabinets
in the drawing-room; she also slept in every bed by turns, to keep
them all well aired. These were the two duties with which she
intended her young niece to assist her, and Daisy's soul sickened
at the prospect.

  But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter
had come an hour ago, containing a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt
Margaret was not one to be trifled with.

  Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing
else, and from the very first Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy
ought to go - that there was no doubt about it, that it did not
admit of discussion. But discuss it they all did, and for once
Bunting stood up to his wife. But that, as was natural, only made
his Ellen harder and more set on her own view.