MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a long time.
“You won’t mind being alone, here? I don’t count the lodger—he’s no good—” Bunting looked at her anxiously. He was only prompted to ask the question because lately Ellen had been so queer, so unlike herself. Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that she could be afraid of being alone in the house. She had often been so in the days when he got more jobs.
She stared at him, a little suspiciously. “I be afraid?” she echoed. “Certainly not. Why should I be? I’ve never been afraid before. What d’you exactly mean by that, Bunting?”
“Oh, nothing. I only thought you might feel funny-like, all alone on this ground floor. You was so upset yesterday when that young fool Chandler came, dressed up, to the door.”
“I shouldn’t have been frightened if he’d just been an ordinary stranger,” she said shortly. “He said something silly to me—just in keeping with his character-like, and it upset me. Besides, I feel better now.”
As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noise outside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers.
“I’ll just run out,” said Bunting apologetically, “and see what happened at that inquest today. Besides, they may have a clue about the horrible affair last night. Chandler was full of it— when he wasn’t talking about Daisy and Margaret, that is. He’s on to-night, luckily not till twelve o’clock; plenty of time to escort the two of ’em back after the play. Besides, he said he’ll put them into a cab and blow the expense, if the panto’ goes on too long for him to take ’em home.”
“On to-night?” repeated Mrs. Bunting. “Whatever for?”
“Well, you see, The Avenger’s always done ’em in couples, so to speak. They’ve got an idea that he’ll have a try again to-night. However, even so, Joe’s only on from midnight till five o’clock. Then he’ll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy, Fine thing to be young, ain’t it, Ellen?”
“I can’t believe that he’d go out on such a night as this!”
“What do you mean?” said Bunting, staring at her. Ellen had spoken so oddly, as if to herself, and in so fierce and passionate a tone.
“What do I mean?” she repeated—and a great fear clutched at her heart. What had she said? She had been thinking aloud.
“Why, by saying he won’t go out. Of course, he has to go out. Besides, he’ll have been to the play as it is. ’Twould be a pretty thing if the police didn’t go out, just because it was cold!”
“I—I was thinking of The Avenger,” said Mrs. Bunting. She looked at her husband fixedly. Somehow she had felt impelled to utter those true words.
“He don’t take no heed of heat nor cold,” said Bunting sombrely. “I take it the man’s dead to all human feeling—saving, of course, revenge.”
“So that’s your idea about him, is it?” She looked across at her husband. Somehow this dangerous, this perilous conversation between them attracted her strangely. She felt as if she must go on with it. “D’you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?”
“Let me see,” he said slowly. “I thought that ’twas from the bedroom window a woman saw him?”
“No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband’s breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most respectable-looking woman of the two,” said Mrs. Bunting impatiently.
And then, seeing her husband’s look of utter, blank astonishment, she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly mad to have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. “There, now,” she said; “here I am gossiping all about nothing when I ought to be seeing about the lodger’s supper. It was someone in the train talked to me about that person as thinks she saw The Avenger.”
Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the gas, and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to buy the paper they had both forgotten during their dangerous discussion.
As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl, Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite unnaturally cold even for the time of year.
She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed by the washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that stand aside and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going to be out to-night. He would have to put on his dress clothes, and she didn’t like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn’t suit her ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire here, in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit of fire to cheer her up after he had gone.
Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little sleep the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste, at her nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of little ease, listening—listening . . . .
She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth’s supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so as not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so.
Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she listened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good fire, how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table! But unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was moving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his wont at this time of the evening.
She knocked, and then waited a moment.
There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in the lock of the chiffonnier cupboard—or so Mr. Sleuth’s landlady could have sworn.
There was a pause—she knocked again.
“Come in,” said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and carried in the tray.
“You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?” he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice.
“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ve been out. Perhaps I lost count of the time. I thought you’d like your breakfast early, as you had dinner rather sooner than usual.”
“Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure! I meant supper.” He looked at her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible questioning look in his dark, sunken eyes.
“Aren’t you well?” he said slowly. “You don’t look well, Mrs. Bunting.”
“No, sir,” she said. “I’m not well. I went over to see a doctor this afternoon, to Ealing, sir.”
“I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting”—the lodger’s voice had become softer, kinder in quality.
“It always does me good to see the doctor,” said Mrs. Bunting evasively.
And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth’s face. “Doctors are a maligned body of men,” he said. “I’m glad to hear you speak well of them. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable to err, but I assure you they do their best.”
“That I’m sure they do, sir”—she spoke heartily, sincerely. Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously.
And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger’s one hot dish upon it, she went towards the door. “Wouldn’t you like me to bring up another scuttleful of coals, sir? it’s bitterly cold—getting colder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in—” she looked at him deprecatingly.
And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much. Pushing his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full height.
“What d’you mean?” he stammered. “Why did