"What the child says is true," he observed. "It
isn't as if you was quite well. You've been took bad twice in the
last few days - you can't deny of it, Ellen. Why shouldn't I just
take a bus and go over and see Margaret? I'd tell her just how it
is. She'd understand, bless you!"
"I won't have you doing nothing of the sort!" cried
Mrs. Bunting, speaking almost as passionately as her stepdaughter
had done. "Haven't I a right to be ill, haven't I a right to be
took bad, aye, and to feel all right again - same as other
people?"
Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. "Oh,
Ellen!" she cried; "do say that you can't spare me!
I don't want to go across to that horrid old dungeon of a
place."
"Do as you like," said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. "I'm
fair tired of you both! There'll come a day, Daisy, when you'll
know, like me, that money is the main thing that matters in this
world; and when your Aunt Margaret's left her savings to somebody
else just because you wouldn't spend a few days with her this
Christmas, then you'll know what it's like to go without - you'll
know what a fool you were, and that nothing can't alter it any
more!"
And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor
Daisy saw it snatched from her.
"Ellen is right," Bunting said heavily. "Money does
matter - a terrible deal-though I never thought to hear Ellen say
'twas the only thing that mattered. But 'twould be foolish - very,
very foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It'll only be
two days after all - two days isn't a very long time."
But Daisy did not hear her father's last words. She
had already rushed from the room, and gone down to the kitchen to
hide her childish tears of disappointment - the childish tears
which came because she was beginning to be a woman, with a woman's
natural instinct for building her own human nest.
Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings of
any strange young man, and she had a peculiar dislike to the
police.
"Who'd ever have thought she'd have minded as much
as that!" Bunting looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; already his
heart was misgiving him.
"It's plain enough why she's become so fond of us
all of a sudden," said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as her
husband stared at her uncomprehendingly, she added, in a
tantalising tone, "as plain as the nose on your face, my man."
"What d'you mean?" he said. "I daresay I'm a bit
slow, Ellen, but I really don't know what you'd be at?"
"Don't you remember telling me before Daisy came
here that Joe Chandler had become sweet on her last summer? I
thought it only foolishness then, but I've come round to your view
- that's all."
Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got
into the way of coming very often, and there had been the
expedition to that gruesome Scotland Yard museum, but somehow he,
Bunting, had been so interested in the Avenger murders that he
hadn't thought of Joe in any other connection - not this time, at
any rate.
"And do you think Daisy likes him?" There was an
unwonted tone of excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting's voice.
His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not
an unkindly smile by any means, lit up her pale face. "I've never
been one to prophesy," she answered deliberately. "But this I don't
mind telling you, Bunting - Daisy'll have plenty o' time to get
tired of Joe Chandler before they two are dead. Mark my words!"
"Well, she might do worse," said Bunting
ruminatingly. "He's as steady as God makes them, and he's already
earning thirty-two shillings a week. But I wonder how Old Aunt'd
like the notion? I don't see her parting with Daisy before she
must."
"I wouldn't let no old aunt interfere with me about
such a thing as that!" cried Mrs. Bunting. "No, not for millions of
gold!" And Bunting looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was
singing a very different tune now to what she'd sung a few minutes
ago, when she was so keen about the girl going to Belgrave
Square.
"If she still seems upset while she's having her
dinner," said his wife suddenly, "well, you just wait till I've
gone out for something, and then you just say to her, 'Absence
makes the heart grow fonder' - just that, and nothing more! She'll
take it from you. And I shouldn't be surprised if it comforted her
quite a lot."
"For the matter of that, there's no reason why Joe
Chandler shouldn't go over and see her there," said Bunting
hesitatingly.
"Oh, yes, there is," said Mrs. Bunting, smiling
shrewdly. Plenty of reason. Daisy'll be a very foolish girl if she
allows her aunt to know any of her secrets. I've only seen that
woman once, hut I know exactly the sort Margaret is. She's just
waiting for Old Aunt to drop off and then she'll want to have Daisy
herself - to wait on her, like. She'd turn quite nasty if she
thought there was a young fellow what stood in her way."
She glanced at the dock, the pretty little eight-day
clock which had been a wedding present from a kind friend of her
last mistress. It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of
trouble, and had as mysteriously reappeared three or four days
after Mr. Sleuth's arrival.
"I've time to go out with that telegram," she said
briskly - somehow she felt better, different to what she had done
the last few days - "and then it'll be done. It's no good having
more words about it, and I expect we should have plenty more words
if I wait till the child comes upstairs again."
She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at
her rather wonderingly. Ellen very seldom spoke of Daisy as "the
child " - in fact, he could only remember her having done so once
before, and that was a long time ago. They had been talking over
their future life together, and she had said, very solemnly,
"Bunting, I promise I will do my duty - as much as lies in my
power, that is - by the child."
But Ellen had not had much opportunity of doing her
duty by Daisy. As not infrequently happens with the duties that we
are willing to do, that particular duty had been taken over by
someone else who had no mind to let it go.
"What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?" asked
Bunting, rather nervously. It was the first time since the lodger
had come to them that Ellen had offered to go out in the
morning.
She hesitated. In her anxiety to have the matter of
Daisy settled, she had forgotten Mr. Sleuth. Strange that she
should have done so - strange, and, to herself, very comfortable
and pleasant.
"Oh, well, you can just go up and knock at the door
and say I'll be back in a few minutes - that I had to go out with a
message. He's quite a reasonable gentleman." She went into the back
room to put on her bonnet and thick jacket for it was very cold -
getting colder every minute.
As she stood, buttoning her gloves - she wouldn't
have gone out untidy for the world - Bunting suddenly came across
to her. "Give us a kiss, old girl," he said. And his wife turned up
her face.
"One 'ud think it was catching!" she said, but there
was a lilt in her voice.
"So it is," Bunting briefly answered. "Didn't that
old cook get married just after us? She'd never 'a thought of it if
it hadn't been for you!"
But once she was out, walking along the damp, uneven
pavement, Mr. Sleuth revenged himself for his landlady's temporary
forgetfulness.
During the last two days the lodger had been queer,
odder than usual, unlike himself, or, rather, very much as he had
been some ten days ago, just before that double murder had taken
place.
The night before, while Daisy was telling all about
the dreadful place to which Joe Chandler had taken her and her
father, Mrs. Bunting had heard Mr. Sleuth moving about overhead,
restlessly walking up and down his sitting-room. And later, when
she took up his supper, she had listened a moment outside the door,
while he read aloud some of the texts his soul delighted in -
terrible texts telling of the grim joys attendant on revenge.
Mrs. Bunting was so absorbed in her thoughts, so
possessed with the curious personality of her lodger, that she did
not look where she was going, and suddenly a young woman bumped up
against her.
She started violently and looked round, dazed, as
the young person muttered a word of apology; - then she again fell
into deep thought.
It was a good thing Daisy was going away for a few
days; it made the problem of Mr. Sleuth and his queer ways less
disturbing. She, Ellen, was sorry she had spoken so sharp-like to
the girl, but after all it wasn't wonderful that she had been
snappy. This last night she had hardly slept at all. Instead, she
had lain awake listening - and there is nothing so tiring as to lie
awake listening for a sound that never comes.
The house had remained so still you could have heard
a pin drop. Mr. Sleuth, lying snug in his nice warm bed upstairs,
had not stirred. Had he stirred his landlady was bound to have
heard him, for his bed was, as we know, just above hers. No, during
those long hours of darkness Daisy's light, regular breathing was
all that had fallen on Mrs. Bunting's ears.
And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She made
a determined effort to expel him, to toss him, as it were, out of
her thoughts.
It seemed strange that The Avenger had stayed his
hand, for, as Joe had said only last evening, it was full time that
he should again turn that awful, mysterious searchlight of his on
himself. Mrs. Bunting always visioned The Avenger as a black shadow
in the centre a bright blinding light - but the shadow had no form
or definite substance. Sometimes he looked like one thing,
sometimes like another.. .
Mrs. Bunting had now come to the corner which led up
the street where there was a Post Office. But instead of turning
sharp to the left she stopped short for a minute.
There had suddenly come over her a feeling of
horrible self-rebuke and even self-loathing. It was dreadful that
she, of all women, should have longed to hear that another murder
had been committed last night!
Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened all
through breakfast hoping to hear the dread news being shouted
outside; yes, and more or less during the long discussion which had
followed on the receipt of Margaret's letter she had been hoping -
hoping against hope - that those dreadful triumphant shouts of the
newspaper-sellers still might come echoing down the Marylebone
Road. And yet hypocrite that she was, she had reproved Bunting when
he had expressed, not disappointment exactly - but, well, surprise,
that nothing had happened last night.
Now her mind switched off to Joe Chandler. Strange
to think how afraid she had been of that young man! She was no
longer afraid of him, or hardly at all. He was dotty - that's what
was the matter with him, dotty with love for rosy-checked,
blue-eyed little Daisy. Anything might now go on, right under Joe
Chandler's very nose - but, bless you, he'd never see it! Last
summer, when this affair, this nonsense of young Chandler and Daisy
bad begun, she had had very little patience with it all. In fact,
the memory of the way Joe had gone on then, the tiresome way he
would be always dropping in, had been one reason (though not the
most important reason of all) why she had felt so terribly put
about at the idea of the girl coming again. But now? Well, now she
had become quite tolerant, quite kindly - at any rate as far as Joe
Chandler was concerned.
She wondered why.
Still, 'twouldn't do Joe a bit of harm not to see
the girl for a couple of days. In fact 'twould be a very good
thing, for then he'd think of Daisy - think of her to the exclusion
of all else. Absence does make the heart grow fonder - at first, at
any rate. Mrs. Bunting was well aware of that. During the long
course of hers and Bunting's mild courting, they'd been separated
for about three months, and it was that three months which had made
up her mind for her. She had got so used to Bunting that she
couldn't do without him, and she had felt - oddest fact of all -
acutely, miserably jealous. But she hadn't let him know that - no
fear!
Of course, Joe mustn't neglect his job - that would
never do, But what a good thing it was, after all, that he wasn't
like some of those detective chaps that are written about in
stories - the sort of chaps that know everything, see everything,
guess everything - even where there isn't anything to see, or know,
or guess!
Why, to take only one little fact - Joe Chandler had
never shown the slightest curiosity about their lodger.. ..
Mrs. Bunting pulled herself together with a start,
and hurried quickly on. Bunting would begin to wonder what had
happened to her.
She went into the Post Office and handed the form to
the young woman without a word. Margaret, a sensible woman, who was
accustomed to manage other people's affairs, had even written out
the words: "Will be with you to tea. - DAISY."
It was a comfort to have the thing settled once for
all. If anything horrible was going to happen in the next two or
three days - it was just as well Daisy shouldn't be at home. Not
that there was any real danger that anything would happen, - Mrs.
Bunting felt sure of that.
By this time she was out in the street again, and
she began mentally counting up the number of murders The Avenger
had committed. Nine, or was it ten? Surely by now The Avenger must
be avenged? Surely by now, if - as that writer in the newspaper had
suggested - he was a quiet, blameless gentleman living in the West
End, whatever vengeance he had to wreak, must be satisfied?
She began hurrying homewards; it wouldn't do for the
lodger to ring before she had got back. Bunting would never know
how to manage Mr. Sleuth, especially if Mr. Sleuth was in one of
his queer moods.