CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that during which thelodger had been engaged in making his mysterious experiments in herkitchen. She was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep cameto her the moment she laid her head upon her pillow.
Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardlygiving herself time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and broughther, she got up and dressed.
She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircaserequired a thorough "doing down," and she did not even wait tillthey had eaten their breakfast before beginning her labours. Itmade Bunting feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire readinghis morning paper--the paper which was again of such absorbinginterest--he called out, "There's no need for so much hurry, Ellen.Daisy'll be back to-day. Why don't you wait till she's come home tohelp you?"
But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweeping, polishing,his wife's voice came back: "Girls ain't no good at this sort ofwork. Don't you worry about me. I feel as if I'd enjoy doing anextra bit of cleaning to-day. I don't like to feel as anyone couldcome in and see my place dirty."
"No fear of that!" Bunting chuckled. And then a new thought struckhim. "Ain't you afraid of waking the lodger?" he called out.
"Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night," sheanswered quickly. "As it is, I study him over-much; it's a long,long time since I've done this staircase down."
All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. Bunting leftthe sitting-room door wide open.
That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn't like to getup and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he would, he couldn'tread with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He hadnever known Ellen make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice helooked up and frowned rather crossly.
There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that. Ellenwas standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing.
"Come in," he said, "do! Ain't you finished yet?"
"I was only resting a minute," she said. "You don't tell me nothing.I'd like to know if there's anything--I mean anything new--in thepaper this morning."
She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of herunusual curiosity; and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Buntingsuddenly uneasy. "Come in--do!" he repeated sharply. "You'vedone quite enough--and before breakfast, too. 'Tain't necessary.Come in and shut that door."
He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him.
She came in, and did what she had never done before--brought thebroom with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner.
Then she sat down.
"I think I'll make breakfast up here," she said. "I--I feel cold,Bunting." And her husband stared at her surprised, for drops ofperspiration were glistening on her forehead.
He got up. "All right. I'll go down and bring the eggs up. Don'tyou worry. For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs ifyou like."
"No," she said obstinately. "I'd rather do my own work. You justbring them up here--that'll be all right. To-morrow morning we'llhave Daisy to help see to things."
"Come over here and sit down comfortable in my chair," he suggestedkindly. "You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I never see'dsuch a woman!"
And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the roomwith languid steps.
He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably.
She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bunting tooktwo steps towards her.
"I'll show you the most interesting bit" he said eagerly. "It'sthe piece headed, 'Our Special Investigator.' You see, they'vestarted a special investigator of their own, and he's got hold ofa lot of little facts the police seem to have overlooked. The manwho writes all that--I mean the Special Investigator--was afamous 'tec in his time, and he's just come back out of hisretirement o' purpose to do this bit of work for the paper. Youread what he says--I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he ends bygetting that reward! One can see he just loves the work oftracking people down."
"There's nothing to be proud of in such a job," said his wifelistlessly.
"He'll have something to be proud of if he catches The Avenger!"cried Bunting. He was too keen about this affair to be put offby Ellen's contradictory remarks. "You just notice that bit aboutthe rubber soles. Now, no one's thought o' that. I'll just tellChandler--he don't seem to me to be half awake, that young mandon't."
"He's quite wide awake enough without you saying things to him!How about those eggs, Bunting? I feel quite ready for my breakfasteven if you don't--"
Mrs. Bunting now spoke in what her husband sometimes secretlydescribed to himself as "Ellen's snarling voice."
He turned away and left the room, feeling oddly troubled. Therewas something queer about her, and he couldn't make it out. Hedidn't mind it when she spoke sharply and nastily to him. He wasused to that. But now she was so up and down; so different fromwhat she used to be! In old days she had always been the same, butnow a man never knew where to have her.
And as he went downstairs he pondered uneasily over his wife'schanged ways and manner.
Take the question of his easy chair. A very small matter, no doubt,but he had never known Ellen sit in that chair--no, not even once,for a minute, since it had been purchased by her as a present for him.
They had been so happy, so happy, and so--so restful, during thatfirst week after Mr. Sleuth had come to them. Perhaps it was thesudden, dramatic change from agonising anxiety to peace and securitywhich had been too much for Ellen--yes, that was what was the matterwith her, that and the universal excitement about these Avengermurders, which were shaking the nerves of all London. Even Bunting,unobservant as he was, had come to realise that his wife took amorbid interest in these terrible happenings. And it was the morequeer of her to do so that at first she refused to discuss them, andsaid openly that she was utterly uninterested in murder or crime ofany sort.
He, Bunting, had always had a mild pleasure in such things. In histime he had been a great reader of detective tales, and even now hethought there was no pleasanter reading. It was that which had firstdrawn him to Joe Chandler, and made him welcome the young chap ascordially as he had done when they first came to London.
But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged, that sortof talk between the two men. More than once she had exclaimedreproachfully: "To hear you two, one would think there was no nice,respectable, quiet people left in the world!"
But now all that was changed. She was as keen as anyone could beto hear the latest details of an Avenger crime. True, she took herown view of any theory suggested. But there! Ellen always had hadher own notions about everything under the sun. Ellen was a womanwho thought for herself--a clever woman, not an everyday woman byany manner of means.
While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through his mind,Bunting was breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to giveEllen a nice little surprise--to cook an omelette as a French chefhad once taught him to do, years and years ago. He didn't know howshe would take his doing such a thing after what she had said; butnever mind, she would enjoy the omelette when done. Ellen hadn'tbeen eating her food properly of late.
And when he went up again, his wife, to his relief, and, it must beadmitted, to his surprise, took it very well. She had not evennoticed how long he had been downstairs, for she had been readingwith intense, painful care the column that the great daily paperthey took in had allotted to the one-time famous detective.
According to this Special Investigator's own account he haddiscovered all sorts of things that had escaped the eye of thepolice and of the official detectives. For instance, owing, headmitted, to a fortunate chance, he had been at the place wherethe two last murders had been committed very soon after the doublecrime had been discovered--in fact within half an hour, and hehad found, or so he felt sure, on the slippery, wet pavementimprints of the murderer's right foot.
The paper reproduced
the impression of a half-worn rubber sole.At the same time, he also admitted--for the Special Investigatorwas very honest, and he had a good bit of space to fill in theenterprising paper which had engaged him to probe the awfulmystery--that there were thousands of rubber soles being worn inLondon. . . .
And when she came to that statement Mrs. Bunting looked up, andthere came a wan smile over her thin, closely-shut lips. It wasquite true--that about rubber soles; there were thousands ofrubber soles being worn just now. She felt grateful to the SpecialInvestigator for having stated the fact so clearly.
The column ended up with the words:
"And to-day will take place the inquest on the double crime of tendays ago. To my mind it would be well if a preliminary publicinquiry could be held at once. Say, on the very day the discoveryof a fresh murder is made. In that way alone would it be possibleto weigh and sift the evidence offered by members of the generalpublic. For when a week or more has elapsed, and these same peoplehave been examined and cross-examined in private by the police,their impressions have had time to become blurred and hopelesslyconfused. On that last occasion but one there seems no doubtthat several people, at any rate two women and one man, actuallysaw the murderer hurrying from the scene of his atrocious doublecrime--this being so, to-day's investigation may be of the highestvalue and importance. To-morrow I hope to give an account ofthe impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statementsmade during its course."
Even when her husband had come in with the tray Mrs. Bunting hadgone on reading, only lifting up her eyes for a moment. At last hesaid rather crossly, "Put down that paper, Ellen, this minute! Theomelette I've cooked for you will be just like leather if you don'teat it."
But once his wife had eaten her breakfast--and, to Bunting'smortification, she left more than half the nice omelette untouched--she took the paper up again. She turned over the big sheets,until she found, at the foot of one of the ten columns devoted toThe Avenger and his crimes, the information she wanted, and thenuttered an exclamation under her breath.
What Mrs. Bunting had been looking for--what at last she had found--was the time and place of the inquest which was to be held thatday. The hour named was a rather odd time--two o'clock in theafternoon, but, from Mrs. Bunting's point of view, it was mostconvenient.
By two o'clock, nay, by half-past one, the lodger would have hadhis lunch; by hurrying matters a little she and Bunting would havehad their dinner, and--and Daisy wasn't coming home till tea-time.
She got up out of her husband's chair. "I think you're right," shesaid, in a quick, hoarse tone. "I mean about me seeing a doctor,Bunting. I think I will go and see a doctor this very afternoon."
"Wouldn't you like me to go with you?" he asked.
"No, that I wouldn't. In fact I wouldn't go at all you was to gowith me."
"All right," he said vexedly. "Please yourself, my dear; you knowbest."
"I should think I did know best where my own health is concerned."
Even Bunting was incensed by this lack of gratitude. "'Twas I said,long ago, you ought to go and see the doctor; 'twas you said youwouldn't!" he exclaimed pugnaciously.
"Well, I've never said you was never right, have I? At any rate,I'm going."
"Have you a pain anywhere?" He stared at her with a look of realsolicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face.
Somehow Ellen didn't look right, standing there opposite him. Hershoulders seemed to have shrunk; even her cheeks had fallen in alittle. She had never looked so bad--not even when they had beenhalf starving, and dreadfully, dreadfully worked.
"Yes," she said briefly, "I've a pain in my head, at the back ofmy neck. It doesn't often leave me; it gets worse when anythingupsets me, like I was upset last night by Joe Chandler."
"He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that!" said Buntingcrossly. "I'd a good mind to tell him so, too. But I must say,Ellen, I wonder he took you in--he didn't me!"
"Well, you had no chance he should--you knew who it was," she saidslowly.
And Bunting remained silent, for Ellen was right. Joe Chandler hadalready spoken when he, Bunting, came out into the hall, and sawtheir cleverly disguised visitor.
"Those big black moustaches," he went on complainingly, "and thatblack wig--why, 'twas too ridic'lous--that's what I call it!"
"Not to anyone who didn't know Joe," she said sharply.
"Well, I don't know. He didn't look like a real man--nohow. Ifhe's a wise lad, he won't let our Daisy ever see him looking likethat!" and Bunting laughed, a comfortable laugh.
He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young Chandler the lasttwo days, and, on the whole, he was well pleased. It was a dull,unnatural life the girl was leading with Old Aunt. And Joe wasearning good money. They wouldn't have long to wait, these twoyoung people, as a beau and his girl often have to wait, as he,Bunting, and Daisy's mother had had to do, for ever so long beforethey could be married. No, there was no reason why they shouldn'tbe spliced quite soon--if so the fancy took them. And Buntinghad very little doubt that so the fancy would take Joe, at any rate.
But there was plenty of time. Daisy wouldn't be eighteen till theweek after next. They might wait till she was twenty. By thattime Old Aunt might be dead, and Daisy might have come into quitea tidy little bit of money.
"What are you smiling at?" said his wife sharply.
And he shook himself. "I--smiling? At nothing that I knows of."Then he waited a moment. "Well, if you will know, Ellen, I wasjust thinking of Daisy and that young chap Joe Chandler. He isgone on her, ain't he?"
"Gone?" And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindlylaugh. "Gone, Bunting?" she repeated. "Why, he's out o' sight--right, out of sight!"
Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on,twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke:--"I suppose he'll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or--ord'you think he'll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?"
"Inquest? What inquest?" He looked at her puzzled.
"Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by King'sCross."
"Oh, no; he'd have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter o'that, I know he's going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night--just when you went up to the lodger."
"That's just as well." Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerablesatisfaction. "Otherwise I suppose you'd ha' had to go. I wouldn'tlike the house left--not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth would beupset if there came a ring at the door."
"Oh, I won't leave the house, don't you be afraid, Ellen--not whileyou're out."
"Not even if I'm out a good while, Bunting."
"No fear. Of course, you'll be a long time if it's your idea to seethat doctor at Ealing?"
He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehownodding didn't seem as bad as speaking a lie.