CHAPTER X
By what she regarded as a fortunate chance, Mrs. Bunting foundherself for close on an hour quite alone in the house during herhusband's and Daisy's jaunt with young Chandler.
Mr. Sleuth did not often go out in the daytime, but on thisparticular afternoon, after he had finished his tea, when dusk wasfalling, he suddenly observed that he wanted a new suit of clothes,and his landlady eagerly acquiesced in his going out to purchase it.
As soon as he had left the house, she went quickly up to thedrawing-room floor. Now had come her opportunity of giving the tworooms a good dusting; but Mrs. Bunting knew well, deep in her heart,that it was not so much the dusting of Mr. Sleuth's sitting-room shewanted to do--as to engage in a vague search for--she hardly knewfor what.
During the years she had been in service Mrs. Bunting had alwayshad a deep, wordless contempt for those of her fellow-servants whoread their employers' private letters, and who furtively peepedinto desks and cupboards in the hope, more vague than positive, ofdiscovering family skeletons.
But now, with regard to Mr. Sleuth, she was ready, aye, eager, todo herself what she had once so scorned others for doing.
Beginning with the bedroom, she started on a methodical search. Hewas a very tidy gentleman was the lodger, and his few things,under-garments, and so on, were in apple-pie order. She had earlyundertaken, much to his satisfaction, to do the very little bit ofwashing he required done, with her own and Bunting's. Luckily hewore soft shirts.
At one time Mrs. Bunting had always had a woman in to help her withthis tiresome weekly job, but lately she had grown quite clever atit herself. The only things she had to send out were Bunting'sshirts. Everything else she managed to do herself.
From the chest of drawers she now turned her attention to thedressing-table.
Mr. Sleuth did not take his money with him when he went out, hegenerally left it in one of the drawers below the old-fashionedlooking-glass. And now, in a perfunctory way, his landlady pulledout the little drawer, but she did not touch what was lying there;she only glanced at the heap of sovereigns and a few bits of silver.The lodger had taken just enough money with him to buy the clotheshe required. He had consulted her as to how much they would cost,making no secret of why he was going out, and the fact had vaguelycomforted Mrs. Bunting.
Now she lifted the toilet-cover, and even rolled up the carpet alittle way, but no, there was nothing there, not so much as a scrapof paper. And at last, when more or less giving up the search, asshe came and went between the two rooms, leaving the connecting doorwide open, her mind became full of uneasy speculation and wonder asto the lodger's past life.
Odd Mr. Sleuth must surely always have been, but odd in a sensiblesort of way, having on the whole the same moral ideals of conductas have other people of his class. He was queer about the drink--onemight say almost crazy on the subject--but there, as to that, hewasn't the only one! She, Ellen Bunting, had once lived with alady who was just like that, who was quite crazed, that is, on thequestion of drink and drunkards--She looked round the neatdrawing-room with vague dissatisfaction. There was only one placewhere anything could be kept concealed--that place was thesubstantial if small mahogany chiffonnier. And then an ideasuddenly came to Mrs. Bunting, one she had never thought of before.
After listening intently for a moment, lest something should suddenlybring Mr. Sleuth home earlier than she expected, she went to thecorner where the chiffonnier stood, and, exerting the whole of hernot very great physical strength, she tipped forward the heavy pieceof furniture.
As she did so, she heard a queer rumbling sound,--something rollingabout on the second shelf, something which had not been there beforeMr. Sleuth's arrival. Slowly, laboriously, she tipped the chiffonnierbackwards and forwards--once, twice, thrice--satisfied, yet strangelytroubled in her mind, for she now felt sure that the bag of which thedisappearance had so surprised her was there, safely locked away byits owner.
Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought came to Mrs. Bunting's mind.She hoped Mr. Sleuth would not notice that his bag had shifted insidethe cupboard. A moment later, with sharp dismay, Mr. Sleuth'slandlady realised that the fact that she had moved the chiffonniermust become known to her lodger, for a thin trickle of somedark-coloured liquid was oozing out though the bottom of the littlecupboard door.
She stooped down and touched the stuff. It showed red, bright red,on her finger.
Mrs. Bunting grew chalky white, then recovered herself quickly. Infact the colour rushed into her face, and she grew hot all over.
It was only a bottle of red ink she had upset--that was all! Howcould she have thought it was anything else?
It was the more silly of her--so she told herself in scornfulcondemnation--because she knew that the lodger used red ink.Certain pages of Cruden's Concordance were covered with notes writtenin Mr. Sleuth's peculiar upright handwriting. In fact in some placesyou couldn't see the margin, so closely covered was it with remarksand notes of interrogation.
Mr. Sleuth had foolishly placed his bottle of red ink in thechiffonnier--that was what her poor, foolish gentleman had done;and it was owing to her inquisitiveness, her restless wish to knowthings she would be none the better, none the happier, for knowing,that this accident had taken place.
She mopped up with her duster the few drops of ink which had fallenon the green carpet and then, still feeling, as she angrily toldherself, foolishly upset she went once more into the back room.
It was curious that Mr. Sleuth possessed no notepaper. She wouldhave expected him to have made that one of his first purchases--themore so that paper is so very cheap, especially that ratherdirty-looking grey Silurian paper. Mrs. Bunting had once lived witha lady who always used two kinds of notepaper, white for her friendsand equals, grey for those whom she called "common people." She,Ellen Green, as she then was, had always resented the fact. Strangeshe should remember it now, stranger in a way because that employerof her's had not been a real lady, and Mr. Sleuth, whatever hispeculiarities, was, in every sense of the word, a real gentleman.Somehow Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he had bought any notepaperit would have been white--white and probably cream-laid--notgrey and cheap.
Again she opened the drawer of the old-fashioned wardrobe and liftedup the few pieces of underclothing Mr. Sleuth now possessed.
But there was nothing there--nothing, that is, hidden away. Whenone came to think of it there seemed something strange in the notionof leaving all one's money where anyone could take it, and in lockingup such a valueless thing as a cheap sham leather bag, to say nothingof a bottle of ink.
Mrs. Bunting once more opened out each of the tiny drawers below thelooking-glass, each delicately fashioned of fine old mahogany. Mr.Sleuth kept his money in the centre drawer.
The glass had only cost seven-and-sixpence, and, after the auctiona dealer had come and offered her first fifteen shillings, and thena guinea for it. Not long ago, in Baker Street, she had seen alooking-glass which was the very spit of this one, labeled"Chippendale, Antique. L21 5s 0d."
There lay Mr. Sleuth's money--the sovereigns, as the landlady wellknew, would each and all gradually pass into her's and Bunting'spossession, honestly earned by them no doubt but unattainable--inact unearnable--excepting in connection with the present owner ofthose dully shining gold sovereigns.
At last she went downstairs to await Mr. Sleuth's return.
When she heard the key turn in the door, she came out into thepassage.
"I'm sorry to say I've had an accident, sir," she said a littlebreathlessly. "Taking advantage of your being out I went up todust the drawing-room, and while I was trying to get behind thechiffonnier it tilted. I'm afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink thatwas inside may have got broken, for just a few drops oozed out,sir. But I hope there's no harm done. I wiped it up as well asI could, seeing that the doors of the chiffonnier are locked."
Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a terrified glance.But Mrs. Bunting stood her ground. She felt far less afraid nowthan she ha
d felt before he came in. Then she had been sofrightened that she had nearly gone out of the house, on to thepavement, for company.
"Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink in there."
She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the lodger's browcleared.
"I was aware you used ink, sir," Mrs. Bunting went on, "for I haveseen you marking that book of yours--I mean the book you readtogether with the Bible. Would you like me to go out and get youanother bottle, sir?"
"No," said Mr. Sleuth. "No, I thank you. I will at once proceedupstairs and see what damage has been done. When I require you Ishall ring."
He shuffled past her, and five minutes later the drawing-room belldid ring.
At once, from the door, Mrs. Bunting saw that the chiffonnier waswide open, and that the shelves were empty save for the bottle ofred ink which had turned over and now lay in a red pool of its ownmaking on the lower shelf.
"I'm afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs. Bunting. Perhaps Iwas ill-advised to keep my ink in there."
"Oh, no, sir! That doesn't matter at all. Only a drop or two fellout on to the carpet, and they don't show, as you see, sir, for it'sa dark corner. Shall I take the bottle away? I may as well."
Mr. Sleuth hesitated. "No," he said, after a long pause, "I thinknot, Mrs. Bunting. For the very little I require it the inkremaining in the bottle will do quite well, especially if I add alittle water, or better still, a little tea, to what alreadyremains in the bottle. I only require it to mark up passages whichhappen to be of peculiar interest in my Concordance--a work, Mrs.Bunting, which I should have taken great pleasure in compilingmyself had not this--ah--this gentleman called Cruden, been before."
******
Not only Bunting, but Daisy also, thought Ellen far pleasanter inher manner than usual that evening. She listened to all they hadto say about their interesting visit to the Black Museum, and didnot snub either of them--no, not even when Bunting told of thedreadful, haunting, silly-looking death-masks taken from the hanged.
But a few minutes after that, when her husband suddenly asked hera question, Mrs. Bunting answered at random. It was clear she hadnot heard the last few words he had been saying.
"A penny for your thoughts!" he said jocularly. But she shook herhead.
Daisy slipped out of the room, and, five minutes later, came backdressed up in a blue-and-white check silk gown.
"My!" said her father. "You do look fine, Daisy. I've never seenyou wearing that before."
"And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!" observed Mrs. Buntingsarcastically. And then, "I suppose this dressing up means thatyou're expecting someone. I should have thought both of you musthave seen enough of young Chandler for one day. I wonder when thatyoung chap does his work--that I do! He never seems too busy tocome and waste an hour or two here."
But that was the only nasty thing Ellen said all that evening. Andeven Daisy noticed that her stepmother seemed dazed and unlikeherself. She went about her cooking and the various little thingsshe had to do even more silently than was her wont.
Yet under that still, almost sullen, manner, how fierce was thestorm of dread, of sombre anguish, and, yes, of sick suspense,which shook her soul, and which so far affected her poor, ailingbody that often she felt as if she could not force herself toaccomplish her simple round of daily work.
After they had finished supper Bunting went out and bought a pennyevening paper, but as he came in he announced, with a rather ruefulsmile, that he had read so much of that nasty little print thislast week or two that his eyes hurt him.
"Let me read aloud a bit to you, father," said Daisy eagerly, and hehanded her the paper.
Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring and a knockechoed through the house.