F
eeling amazingly
light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting lit the 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 in response to her call. "Yes," he said. "What is it, my
dear? I won't be a minute with your tea." And he smiled broadly,
rather foolishly.
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 was so 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 her birthday party, Ellen, and she'd come into a nice
bit of money, and she gave each of us waiters a sovereign."
Mrs. Bunting made no comment. Instead, she lay back
and closed her eyes.
"What time d'you expect Daisy?" she asked languidly.
"You didn't say what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was
talking about it 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's round face. He became sullen and angry. It would
be a pretty thing if he couldn't have his own daughter for a bit -
especially now that they 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 all she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much.
Besides, 'twould be cruel - cruel to take the girl away just now,
just as she and that young chap are making friends-like. One would
suppose that even you would see the justice o' that!"
But Mrs. Bunting made no answer.
Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The
water was boiling now, 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
observed genially. "He's certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It
wasn't the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a
walk, now was it? And yet he must'a been out a long time if what he
said was true."
"I don't wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth
hates the crowded 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 fire and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with
his newspaper.
Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this
last night with a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had
made such horrible thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him
suddenly come into his head? And just because of a trifling thing
like that blood. No doubt Mr. Sleuth's nose had bled - that was
what had happened; though, come to think of it, he had mentioned
brushing up against a dead animal.
Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn't do for
one to be always thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and
such-like. It made one go dotty - that's what it did.
And just as he was telling himself that, there came
to the door a loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph
boy. But before he had time to get across the room, let alone to
the front door, Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a
petticoat and shawl.
"I'll go," she cried breathlessly. "I'll go,
Bunting; don't you trouble."
He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into
the hall.
She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the
door, took the telegram from the invisible boy. "You needn't wait,"
she said. "If there's an answer we'll send it out ourselves." Then
she tore the envelope open - "Oh!" she said with a gasp of relief.
"It's only from Joe Chandler, to say he can't go over to fetch
Daisy this morning. 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 nothing could make any difference to them. However, there it
is. I suppose it'll do all right if I start about eleven o'clock?
It may have left off snowing by then. I don't feel like going out
again just now. 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 a letter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next
Monday, a little under a week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly,
or, at any rate, he made no sign of being awake; and though Mrs.
Bunting often, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room,
there came no sounds at all from overhead.
Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his
wife felt more cheerful than they had done for a long time. They
had quite a pleasant 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!" she observed, and she could not help laughing a
little to herself at the thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got
up to go, she made him 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 by half-past twelve. I'll get dinner ready
myself. Daisy needn't help with that. I expect Margaret has worked
her pretty hard."
But at last there came the moment when Bunting had
to start, and his wife went with him to the front door. It was
still snowing, less heavily, but still snowing. There were very few
people coming and going, and only just a few cabs and carts
dragging cautiously along through the slush.
Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there
came a ring and a knock at the door - a now very familiar ring and
knock. "Joe thinks Daisy's home again by now!" she said, smiling to
herself.
Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler's
voice. "Don't be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!" But though not
exactly scared, she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood
Joe, made up to represent a public-house loafer; and he looked the
part to perfection, with his hair combed down raggedly over his
forehead, his seedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and
greenish-black pot hat.
"I haven't a minute," he said a little breathlessly.
"But I thought I'd just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home
again. You got my 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?" she asked 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 very pale.
"Well," he said. "Well, Mrs. Bunting, I've no
business to say anything about it - but I will tell you !"
He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room
carefully behind him. "There's been another of 'em!" he whispered.
"But this time no 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 the present" - he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse
whisper. "The poor soul' was found dead on a bench on Primrose
Hill. And just by chance 'twas one of our fellows saw the body
first. He was on his way home, over Hampstead way. He knew where
he'd be able to get an ambulance 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 said there was a clue?"
"Well, I don't rightly understand about the clue
myself. All I knows is it's got something to do with a
public-house, 'The Hammer and Tongs,' which isn't far off there.
They feels sure The Avenger was in the bar just on closing -
time."
And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better now.
It was natural the police should suspect a public-house loafer.
"Then that's why you wasn't able to go and fetch Daisy, I
suppose?"
He nodded. "Mum's the word, Mrs. Bunting! It'll all
be in the last editions of the evening newspapers - it can't be
kep' out. There'd be too 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 out of 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," he whispered.
"A gentleman?"
Mrs. Bunting stared at Chandler with a scared
expression. "Whatever makes them think such a silly thing as
that?"
"Well, just before closing-time a very
peculiar-looking gent, with a leather bag in his hand, went into
the bar and asked for a glass of milk. 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 to give him away. She won't tell
now what he was like. She doesn't know 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. But there! I really must be going now.
My time'll be up at three o'clock. I thought of coming in on the
way back, and asking you for a cup o' tea, Mrs. Bunting."
"Do," she said. "Do, Joe. You'll be welcome," but
there was no welcome in her tired voice.
She let him go alone to the door, and then she went
down to her kitchen, and began cooking Mr. Sleuth's breakfast.
The lodger would be sure to ring soon; and then any
minute Bunting and Daisy might be home, and they'd want something,
too. Margaret always had breakfast even when "the family" were
away, unnaturally early.
As she bustled about Mrs. Bunting tried to empty her
mind of all thought. But it is very difficult to do that when one
is in a state of torturing uncertainty. She had not dared to ask
Chandler what they supposed that man who had gone into the
public-house was really like. It was fortunate, indeed, that the
lodger and that inquisitive young chap had never met face to
face.
At last Mr. Sleuth's bell rang - a quiet little
tinkle. But when she 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 cloth on the table, and then she heard the sound of
his footsteps coming down the stairs, and her quick ears detected
the slight whirring sound which showed that the gas-stove was
alight. Mr. Sleuth had already lit the stove; that meant that he
would carry out some elaborate experiment this afternoon.
"Still snowing?" he said doubtfully. "How very, very
quiet and still London is when under snow, Mrs. Bunting. I have
never known it quite as quiet as this morning. Not a sound, outside
or in. A very pleasant change from the shouting which sometimes
goes on in the Marylebone Road."
"Yes," she said dully. "It's awful quiet to-day -
too quiet to my thinking. '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 window and 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. She had never been quite so near to the lodger before, save
on that first day when she had been showing him her rooms.
Side by side they stood, looking out of the window.
And, as if aware that someone was standing there, Daisy turned her
bright face up towards the window and smiled at her stepmother, and
at the lodger, 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 read nowadays, Mrs. Bunting; but one with a beautiful
feeling for nature, for youth, for innocence."
"Indeed, sir?" Mrs. Bunting stepped back a little.
"Your breakfast will be getting cold, sir, if you don't have it
now."
He went back to the table, obediently, and sat down
as a child rebuked 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 her five shillings."
But Daisy did not look as pleased as her father
thought she ought to do.
"I hope nothing's happened to Mr. Chandler," she
said a little disconsolately. "The very last words he said to me
last night was that he'd be there at ten o'clock. I got quite
fidgety as the time went on and he didn't come."
"He's been here," said Mrs. Bunting slowly.