The Lodger (9 page)

  He crept along the passage and let himself out very,
very quietly.

  But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did
not hear him come in again, for she soon fell into a heavy
sleep.

  Oddly enough, she was the first to wake the next
morning; odder still, it was she, not Bunting, who jumped out of
bed, and going out into the passage, picked up the newspaper which
had just been pushed through the letter-box.

  But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go
back at once into her bedroom. Instead she lit the gas in the
passage, and leaning up against the wall to steady herself, for she
was trembling with cold and fatigue, she opened the paper.

  Yes, there was the heading she sought:

  The AVENGER Murders"

  But, oh, how glad she was to see the words that
followed:

  "Up to the time of going to press there is little
new to report concerning the extraordinary series of crimes which
are amazing, and, indeed, staggering not only London, hut the whole
civilised world, and which would seem to be the work of some
woman-hating teetotal fanatic. Since yesterday morning, when the
last of these dastardly murders was committed, no reliable clue to
the perpetrator, or perpetrators, has been obtained, though several
arrests were made in the course of the day. In every case, however,
those arrested were able to prove a satisfactory alibi."

  And then, a little lower down

  "The excitement grows and grows. It is not too much
to say that even a stranger to London would know that something
very unusual was in the air. As for the place where the murder was
committed last night - "

  "Last night!" thought Mrs. Bunting, startled; and
then she realised that "last night," in this connection, meant the
night before last.

  She began the sentence again:

  "As for the place where the murder was committed
last night, all approaches to it were still blocked up to a late
hour by hundreds of onlookers, though, of course, nothing now
remains in the way of traces of the tragedy."

  Slowly and carefully Mrs. Bunting folded the paper
up again in its original creases, and then she stooped and put it
back down on the mat where she had found it. She then turned out
the gas, and going back into bed she lay down by her still sleeping
husband.

  "Anything the matter?" Bunting murmured, and stirred
uneasily. "Anything the matter, Ellen?"

  She answered in a whisper, a whisper thrilling with
a strange gladness, "No, nothing, Bunting - nothing the matter! Go
to sleep again, my dear."

  They got up an hour later, both in a happy, cheerful
mood. Bunting rejoiced at the thought of his daughter's coming, and
even Daisy's stepmother told herself that it would be pleasant
having the girl about the house to help her a bit.

  About ten o'clock Bunting went out to do some
shopping. He brought back with him a nice little bit of pork for
Daisy's dinner, and three mince-pies. He even remembered to get
some apples for the sauce.

  
J
ust as twelve
was striking a four-wheeler drew up to the gate.

  It brought Daisy - pink-cheeked, excited,
laughing-eyed Daisy - a sight to gladden any father's heart.

  "Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather
was bad," she cried out joyously.

  There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King's
Cross, as all the world knows, is nothing like two miles from the
Marylebone Road, but the man clamoured for one and sixpence, and
hinted darkly that he had done the young lady a favour in bringing
her at all.

  While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy,
leaving them to it, walked up the flagged path to the door where
her stepmother was awaiting her.

  As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss,
indeed, 'twas a mere peck on Mrs. Bunting's part, there fell, with
startling suddenness, loud cries on the still, cold air. Long-drawn
and wailing, they sounded strangely sad as they rose and fell
across the distant roar of traffic in the Edgware Road.

  "What's that?" exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. "Why,
whatever's that?"

  The cabman lowered his voice. "Them's 'a-crying out
that 'orrible affair at King's Cross. He's done for two of 'em this
time! That's what I meant when I said I might 'a got a better fare.
I wouldn't say nothink before little missy there, but folk 'ave
been coming from all over London the last five or six hours; plenty
of toffs, too - but there, there's nothing to see now!"

  "What? Another woman murdered last night?"

  Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the
five thousand constables been about to let such a dreadful thing
happen?

  The cabman stared at him, surprised. "Two of 'em, I
tell yer - within a few yards of one another. He 'ave - got a nerve
- But, of course, they was drunk. He are got a down on the
drink!"

  "Have they caught him?" asked Bunting
perfunctorily.

  "Lord, no! They'll never catch 'im! It must 'ave
happened hours and hours ago - they was both stone cold. One each
end of a little passage what ain't used no more. That's why they
didn't find 'em before."

  The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer - two
news vendors trying to outshout each other.

  "'Orrible discovery near King's Cross!" they yelled
exultingly. "The Avenger again!"

  And Bunting, with his daughter's large straw
hold-all in his hand, ran forward into the roadway and recklessly
gave a boy a penny for a halfpenny paper.

  He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his
acquaintance with young Joe Chandler made these murders seem a
personal affair. He hoped that Chandler would come in soon and tell
them all about it, as he had done yesterday morning when he,
Bunting, had unluckily been out.

  As be walked back into the little hall, he heard
Daisy's voice - high, voluble, excited - giving her stepmother a
long account of the scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt's
neighbours had thought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just
nettlerash.

  But as Bunting pushed open the door of the
sitting-room, there came a note of sharp alarm in his daughter's
voice, and he heard her cry, "Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter?
You do look bad!" and his wife's muffled answer, "Open the window -
do."

  "'Orrible discovery near King's Cross - a clue at
last!" yelled the newspaper-boys triumphantly.

  And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh.
She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro
as if in an ecstasy of mirth.

  "Why, father, whatever's the matter with her?"

  Daisy looked quite scared.

  "She's in 'sterics - that's what it is," he said
shortly. "I'll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!"

  Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous -
that's what she was, to be so easily upset.

  The lodger's bell suddenly pealed through the quiet
house. Either that sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had
a magical effect on Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still
shaking all over, but mentally composed.

  "I'll go up," she skid a little chokingly. "As for
you, child, just run down into the kitchen. You'll find a piece of
pork roasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for
the sauce."

  As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if
they were made of cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, and
clutched at the banister for support. But soon, making a great
effort over herself, she began to feel more steady; and after
waiting for a few moments on the landing, she knocked at the door
of the drawing-room.

  Mr. Sleuth's voice answered her from the bedroom.
"I'm not well," he called out querulously; "I think I've caught a
chill. I should be obliged if you would kindly bring me up a cup of
tea, and put it outside my door, Mrs. Bunting."

  "Very well, sir."

  Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs. She still
felt queer and giddy, so instead of going into the kitchen, she
made the lodger his cup of tea over her sitting-room gas-ring.

  During their midday dinner the husband and wile had
a little discussion as to where Daisy should sleep. It had been
settled that a bed should be made up for her in the top back room,
but Mrs. Bunting saw reason to change this plan. "I think 'twould
be better if Daisy were to sleep with me, Bunting, and you was to
sleep upstairs."

  Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he
acquiesced. Ellen was probably right; the girl would be rather
lonely up there, and, after all, they didn't know much about the
lodger, though he seemed a respectable gentleman enough.

  Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and
wanted to make herself useful to her stepmother. "I'll wash up;
don't you bother to come downstairs," she said cheerfully.

  Bunting began to walk up and down the room. His wife
gave him a furtive glance; she wondered what he was thinking
about.

  "Didn't you get a paper?" she said at last.

  "Yes, of course I did," he answered hastily. "But
I've put it away. I thought you'd rather not look at it, as you're
that nervous."

  Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he
seemed just as usual - he evidently meant just what he said and no
more.

  "I thought they was shouting something in the street
- I mean just before I was took bad."

  It was now Bunting's turn to stare at his wife
quickly and rather furtively. He had felt sure that her sudden
attack of queerness, of hysterics - call it what you might - had
been due to the shouting outside. She was not the only woman in
London who had got the Avenger murders on her nerves. His morning
paper said quite a lot of women were afraid to go out alone. Was it
possible that the curious way she had been taken just now had had
nothing to do with the shouts and excitement outside?

  "Don't you know what it was they were calling out?"
he asked slowly.

  Mrs. Bunting looked across at him. She would have
given a very great deal to be able to lie, to pretend that she did
not know what those dreadful cries had portended. But when it came
to the point she found she could not do so.

  "Yes," she said dully. "I heard a word here and
there. There's been another murder, hasn't there?"

  "Two other murders," he said soberly.

  "Two? That's worse news!" She turned so pale - a
sallow greenish-white - that Bunting thought she was again going
queer.

  "Ellen?" he said warningly, "Ellen, now do have a
care! I can't think what's come over, you about these murders. Turn
your mind away from them, do! We needn't talk about them - not so
much, that is "

  "But I wants to talk about them," cried Mrs. Bunting
hysterically.

  The husband and wife were standing, one each side of
the table, the man with his back to the fire, the woman with her
back to the door.

  Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly
perplexed and disturbed. She really did seem ill; even her slight,
spare figure looked shrunk. For the first time, so he told himself
ruefully, Ellen was beginning to look her full age. Her slender
hands - she had kept the pretty, soft white hands of the woman who
has never done rough work - grasped the edge of the table with a
convulsive movement.

  Bunting didn't at all like the look of her. "Oh,
dear," he said to himself, "I do hope Ellen isn't going to be ill!
That would be a to-do just now."

  "Tell me about it," she commanded, in a low voice. "
Can't you see I'm waiting to hear? Be quick now, Bunting!"

  "There isn't very much to tell," he said
reluctantly. "There's precious little in this paper, anyway. But
the cabman what brought Daisy told me - "

  "Well?"

  "What I said just now. There's two of 'em this time,
and they'd both been drinking heavily, poor creatures."