CHAPTER XII
"All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can't always dojust what one wants to do--not in this world, at any rate!"
Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular,though both her husband and her stepdaughter were in the room. Shewas standing by the table, staring straight before her, and as shespoke she avoided looking at either Bunting or Daisy. There was inher voice a tone of cross decision, of thin finality, with whichthey were both acquainted, and to which each listener knew the otherwould have to bow.
There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out passionately,"I don't see why I should go if I don't want to!" she cried."You'll allow I've been useful to you, Ellen? 'Tisn't even as ifyou was quite well."
"I am quite well--perfectly well!" snapped out Mrs. Bunting, andshe turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at herstepdaughter.
"'Tain't often I has a chance of being with you and father." Therewere tears in Daisy's voice, and Bunting glanced deprecatingly athis wife.
An invitation had come to Daisy--an invitation from her own deadmother's sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in BelgraveSquare. "The family" had gone away for the Christmas holidays, andAunt Margaret--Daisy was her godchild--had begged that her niecemight come and spend two or three days with her.
But the girl had already had more than one taste of what life waslike in the great gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave Square. AuntMargaret was one of those old-fashioned servants for whom the modernemployer is always sighing. While "the family" were away it washer joy--she regarded it as a privilege--to wash sixty-seven piecesof very valuable china contained in two cabinets in the drawing-room;she also slept in every bed by turns, to keep them all well aired.These were the two duties with which she intended her young nieceto assist her, and Daisy's soul sickened at the prospect.
But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter had come anhour ago, containing a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt Margaretwas not one to be trifled with.
Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing else, and from thevery first Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy ought to go--that therewas no doubt about it, that it did not admit of discussion. Butdiscuss it they all did, and for once Bunting stood up to his wife.But that, as was natural, only made his Ellen harder and more seton her own view.
"What the child says is true," he observed. "It isn't as if youwas quite well. You've been took bad twice in the last few days--you can't deny of it, Ellen. Why shouldn't I just take a busand go over and see Margaret? I'd tell her just how it is. She'dunderstand, bless you!"
"I won't have you doing nothing of the sort!" cried Mrs. Bunting,speaking almost as passionately as her stepdaughter had done."Haven't I a right to be ill, haven't I a right to be took bad,aye, and to feel all right again--same as other people?"
Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. "Oh, Ellen!" she cried;"do say that you can't spare me! I don't want to go across to thathorrid old dungeon of a place."
"Do as you like," said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. "I'm fair tired ofyou both! There'll come a day, Daisy, when you'll know, like me,that money is the main thing that matters in this world; and whenyour Aunt Margaret's left her savings to somebody else just becauseyou wouldn't spend a few days with her this Christmas, then you'llknow what it's like to go without--you'll know what a fool youwere, and that nothing can't alter it any more!"
And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor Daisy saw itsnatched from her.
"Ellen is right," Bunting said heavily. "Money does matter--aterrible deal--though I never thought to hear Ellen say 'twas theonly thing that mattered. But 'twould be foolish--very, veryfoolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It'll only betwo days after all--two days isn't a very long time."
But Daisy did not hear her father's last words. She had alreadyrushed from the room, and gone down to the kitchen to hide herchildish tears of disappointment--the childish tears which camebecause she was beginning to be a woman, with a woman's naturalinstinct for building her own human nest.
Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings of any strangeyoung 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 heartwas 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 heruncomprehendingly, she added, in a tantalising tone, "as plain asthe nose on your face, my man."
"What d'you mean?" he said. "I daresay I'm a bit slow, Ellen, butI really don't know what you'd be at?"
"Don't you remember telling me before Daisy came here that JoeChandler had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it onlyfoolishness then, but I've come round to your view--that's all."
Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got into the way ofcoming very often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesomeScotland Yard museum, but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interestedin the Avenger murders that he hadn't thought of Joe in any otherconnection--not this time, at any rate.
"And do you think Daisy likes him?" There was an unwonted tone ofexcitement, of tenderness, in Bunting's voice.
His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindlysmile by any means, lit up her pale face. "I've never been oneto prophesy," she answered deliberately. "But this I don't mindtelling you, Bunting--Daisy'll have plenty o' time to get tiredof Joe Chandler before they two are dead. Mark my words!"
"Well, she might do worse," said Bunting ruminatingly. "He's assteady as God makes them, and he's already earning thirty-twoshillings 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 thingas that!" cried Mrs. Bunting. "No, not for millions of gold!"And Bunting looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was singing avery different tune now to what she'd sung a few minutes ago, whenshe was so keen about the girl going to Belgrave Square.
"If she still seems upset while she's having her dinner," said hiswife 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 Ishouldn't be surprised if it comforted her quite a lot."
"For the matter of that, there's no reason why Joe Chandler shouldn'tgo over and see her there," said Bunting hesitatingly.
"Oh, yes, there is," said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly. "Plenty ofreason. Daisy'll be a very foolish girl if she allows her aunt toknow any of her secrets. I've only seen that woman once, but I knowexactly the sort Margaret is. She's just waiting for Old Aunt todrop off and then she'll want to have Daisy herself--to wait onher, like. She'd turn quite nasty if she thought there was a youngfellow what stood in her way."
She glanced at the dock, the pretty little eight-day clock whichhad been a wedding present from a kind friend of her last mistress.It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble, andhad as mysteriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth'sarrival.
"I've time to go out with that telegram," she said briskly--somehowshe 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 thechild comes upstairs again."
She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at her ratherwonderingly. 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 theirfuture life together, and she had said, very solemnly, "Bunting,I promise I will do my duty--as much as lies in my power, thatis--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 todo, that particular duty had been taken over by someone else whohad no mind to let it go.
&
nbsp; "What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?" asked Bunting, rathernervously. It was the first time since the lodger had come to themthat 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 beback in a few minutes--that I had to go out with a message. He'squite a reasonable gentleman." She went into the back room to puton her bonnet and thick jacket for it was very cold--getting colderevery minute.
As she stood, buttoning her gloves--she wouldn't have gone outuntidy for the world--Bunting suddenly came across to her. "Giveus 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 inher voice.
"So it is," Bunting briefly answered. "Didn't that old cook getmarried just after us? She'd never 'a thought of it if it hadn'tbeen 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 daysago, just before that double murder had taken place.
The night before, while Daisy was telling all about the dreadfulplace to which Joe Chandler had taken her and her father, Mrs.Bunting had heard Mr. Sleuth moving about overhead, restlesslywalking up and down his sitting-room. And later, when she took uphis supper, she had listened a moment outside the door, while heread aloud some of the texts his soul delighted in--terrible textstelling of the grim joys attendant on revenge.
Mrs. Bunting was so absorbed in her thoughts, so possessed with thecurious personality of her lodger, that she did not look where shewas going, and suddenly a young woman bumped up against her.
She started violently and looked round, dazed, as the young personmuttered 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 theproblem of Mr. Sleuth and his queer ways less disturbing. She,Ellen, was sorry she had spoken so sharp-like to the girl, but afterall it wasn't wonderful that she had been snappy. This last nightshe had hardly slept at all. Instead, she had lain awake listening--and there is nothing so tiring as to lie awake listening for asound 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 bedwas, as we know, just above hers. No, during those long hours ofdarkness Daisy's light, regular breathing was all that had fallen onMrs. Bunting's ears.
And then her mind switched off Mr. Sleuth. She made a determinedeffort 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 Joehad said only last evening, it was full time that he should againturn that awful, mysterious searchlight of his on himself. Mrs.Bunting always visioned The Avenger as a black shadow in the centrea bright blinding light--but the shadow had no form or definitesubstance. Sometimes he looked like one thing, sometimes likeanother . . .
Mrs. Bunting had now come to the corner which led up the streetwhere there was a Post Office. But instead of turning sharp to theleft she stopped short for a minute.
There had suddenly come over her a feeling of horrible self-rebukeand even self-loathing. It was dreadful that she, of all women,should have longed to hear that another murder had been committedlast night!
Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened all throughbreakfast hoping to hear the dread news being shouted outside; yes,and more or less during the long discussion which had followed onthe receipt of Margaret's letter she had been hoping--hopingagainst hope--that those dreadful triumphant shouts of thenewspaper-sellers still might come echoing down the Marylebone Road.And yet hypocrite that she was, she had reproved Bunting when hehad expressed, not disappointment exactly--but, well, surprise,that nothing had happened last night.
Now her mind switched off to Joe Chandler. Strange to think howafraid she had been of that young man! She was no longer afraid ofhim, or hardly at all. He was dotty--that's what was the matterwith him, dotty with love for rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed little Daisy.Anything might now go on, right under Joe Chandler's very nose--but,bless you, he'd never see it! Last summer, when this affair, thisnonsense of young Chandler and Daisy had begun, she had had verylittle patience with it all. In fact, the memory of the way Joehad gone on then, the tiresome way he would be always dropping in,had been one reason (though not the most important reason of all)why she had felt so terribly put about at the idea of the girlcoming again. But now? Well, now she had become quite tolerant,quite kindly--at any rate as far as Joe Chandler was concerned.
She wondered why.
Still, 'twouldn't do Joe a bit of harm not to see the girl for acouple of days. In fact 'twould be a very good thing, for then he'dthink of Daisy--think of her to the exclusion of all else. Absencedoes make the heart grow fonder--at first, at any rate. Mrs.Bunting was well aware of that. During the long course of hersand Bunting's mild courting, they'd been separated for about threemonths, and it was that three months which had made up her mind forher. She had got so used to Bunting that she couldn't do withouthim, and she had felt--oddest fact of all--acutely, miserablyjealous. But she hadn't let him know that--no fear!
Of course, Joe mustn't neglect his job--that would never do. Butwhat a good thing it was, after all, that he wasn't like some ofthose detective chaps that are written about in stories--the sortof chaps that know everything, see everything, guess everything--even where there isn't anything to see, or know, or guess!
Why, to take only one little fact--Joe Chandler had never shownthe slightest curiosity about their lodger. . . .
Mrs. Bunting pulled herself together with a start, and hurriedquickly on. Bunting would begin to wonder what had happened to her.
She went into the Post Office and handed the form to the young womanwithout a word. Margaret, a sensible woman, who was accustomed tomanage other people's affairs, had even written out the words: "Willbe with you to tea.--DAISY."
It was a comfort to have the thing settled once for all. If anythinghorrible was going to happen in the next two or three days--it wasjust as well Daisy shouldn't be at home. Not that there was any realdanger that anything would happen,--Mrs. Bunting felt sure of that.
By this time she was out in the street again, and she began mentallycounting up the number of murders The Avenger had committed. Nine,or was it ten? Surely by now The Avenger must be avenged? Surely bynow, if--as that writer in the newspaper had suggested--he was aquiet, blameless gentleman living in the West End, whatever vengeancehe had to wreak, must be satisfied?
She began hurrying homewards; it wouldn't do for the lodger to ringbefore she had got back. Bunting would never know how to manage Mr.Sleuth, especially if Mr. Sleuth was in one of his queer moods.
******
Mrs. Bunting put the key into the front door lock and passed intothe house. Then her heart stood still with fear and terror. Therecame the sound of voices--of voices she thought she did not know--in the sitting-room.
She opened the door, and then drew a long breath. It was only JoeChandler--Joe, Daisy, and Bunting, talking together. They stoppedrather guiltily as she came in, but not before she had heardChandler utter the words: "That don't mean nothing! I'll just runout and send another saying you won't come, Miss Daisy."
And then the strangest smile came over Mrs. Bunting's face. Therehad fallen on her ear the still distant, but unmistakable, shoutswhich betokened that something had happened last night--somethingwhich made it worth while for the newspaper-sellers to come cryingdown the Marylebone Road.
"Well?" she said a little breathlessly. "Well, Joe? I supposeyou've brought us news? I suppose ther
e's been another?"
He looked at her, surprised. "No, that there hasn't, Mrs. Bunting--not as far as I know, that is. Oh, you're thinking of thosenewspaper chaps? They've got to cry out something," he grinned."You wouldn't 'a thought folk was so bloodthirsty. They're justshouting out that there's been an arrest; but we don't take nostock of that. It's a Scotchman what gave himself up last nightat Dorking. He'd been drinking, and was a-pitying of himself.Why, since this business began, there's been about twenty arrests,but they've all come to nothing."
"Why, Ellen, you looks quite sad, quite disappointed," said Buntingjokingly. "Come to think of it, it's high time The Avenger was atwork again." He laughed as he made his grim joke. Then turned toyoung Chandler: "Well, you'll be glad when its all over, my lad."
"Glad in a way," said Chandler unwillingly. "But one 'ud have likedto have caught him. One doesn't like to know such a creature's atlarge, now, does one?"
Mrs. Bunting had taken off her bonnet and jacket. "I must just goand see about Mr. Sleuth's breakfast," she said in a weary,dispirited voice, and left them there.
She felt disappointed, and very, very depressed. As to the plotwhich had been hatching when she came in, that had no chance ofsuccess; Bunting would never dare let Daisy send out anothertelegram contradicting the first. Besides, Daisy's stepmothershrewdly suspected that by now the girl herself wouldn't care todo such a thing. Daisy had plenty of sense tucked away somewherein her pretty little head. If it ever became her fate to live asa married woman in London, it would be best to stay on the rightside of Aunt Margaret.
And when she came into her kitchen the stepmother's heart becamevery soft, for Daisy had got everything beautifully ready. In fact,there was nothing to do but to boil Mr. Sleuth's two eggs. Feelingsuddenly more cheerful than she had felt of late, Mrs. Bunting tookthe tray upstairs.
"As it was rather late, I didn't wait for you to ring, sir," shesaid.
And the lodger looked up from the table where, as usual, he wasstudying with painful, almost agonising intentness, the Book."Quite right, Mrs. Bunting--quite right! I have been ponderingover the command, 'Work while it is yet light.'"
"Yes, sir?" she said, and a queer, cold feeling stole over herheart. "Yes, sir?"
"'The spirit is willing, but the flesh--the flesh is weak,'" saidMr. Sleuth, with a heavy sigh.
"You studies too hard, and too long--that's what's ailing you, sir,"said Mr. Sleuth's landlady suddenly.
******
When Mrs. Bunting went down again she found that a great deal hadbeen settled in her absence; among other things, that Joe Chandlerwas going to escort Miss Daisy across to Belgrave Square. Hecould carry Daisy's modest bag, and if they wanted to ride insteadof walk, why, they could take the bus from Baker Street Stationto Victoria--that would land them very near Belgrave Square.
But Daisy seemed quite willing to walk; she hadn't had a walk, shedeclared, for a long, long time--and then she blushed rosy red,and even her stepmother had to admit to herself that Daisy was verynice looking, not at all the sort of girl who ought to be allowed togo about the London streets by herself.