The Greatest Works of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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, but 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.