CHAPTER XVIII
Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage,when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which isentirely novel.
Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of awitness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which wassharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory.
In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying fora fortnight with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one ofthose sudden, pitiful tragedies which occasionally destroy theserenity, the apparent decorum, of a large, respectable household.
The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drownedherself for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart causefor bitter jealousy. The girl had chosen to speak of her troublesto the strange lady's maid rather than to her own fellow-servants,and it was during the conversation the two women had had togetherthat the girl had threatened to take her own life.
As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to goingout, she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadfulaffair, and of the part she herself had unwillingly played in it.
She visualised the country inn where the inquest on that poor,unfortunate creature had been held.
The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he also was to giveevidence, and as they came up there had been a look of cheerfulanimation about the inn yard; people coming and going, many womenas well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl's fate hadaroused a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror which thosewho live on a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid.
Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, toEllen Green; there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs inthe old inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated, not only withchairs, but with cake and wine.
She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she hadfelt as if she would like to run away from her nice, easy place,rather than have to get up and tell the little that she knew of thesad business.
But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner hadbeen a kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact he had complimented her onthe clear, sensible way she had given her evidence concerning theexact words the unhappy girl had used.
One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put byan inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded,low-ceilinged room. "Ought not Miss Ellen Green," so the man hadasked, "to have told someone of the girl's threat? If she had doneso, might not the girl have been prevented from throwing herselfinto the lake?" And she, the witness, had answered, with someasperity--for by that time the coroner's kind manner had put herat her ease--that she had not attached any importance to what thegirl had threatened to do, never believing that any young womancould be so silly as to drown herself for love!
******
Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at which she wasgoing to be present this afternoon would be like that countryinquest of long ago.
It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very wellhow little by little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner,had got the whole truth out--the story, that is, of how thathorrid footman, whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the firstminute she had set eyes on him, had taken up with another youngwoman. It had been supposed that this fact would not be elicitedby the coroner; but it had been, quietly, remorselessly; more, thedead girl's letters had been read out--piteous, queerly expressedletters, full of wild love and bitter, threatening jealousy. Andthe jury had censured the young man most severely; she rememberedthe look on his face when the people, shrinking back, had made apassage for him to slink out of the crowded room.
Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Buntingthat long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, andsomehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it.
She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest. She longedto ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guesswhere she was thinking of going.
And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head--no, no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he would never,never suspect her of telling him a lie.
Stop--had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor afterthe inquest was finished--if there was time, that is. She wondereduneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case,as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surelybe very formal--formal and therefore short.
She herself had one quite definite object--that of hearing theevidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leavingthe spot where his victims lay weltering in their still flowingblood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and, yes, eagercuriosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matterwould describe the appearance of The Avenger. After all, a lot ofpeople must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only the daybefore to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a ghost; he was aliving man with some kind of hiding-place where he was known, andwhere he spent his time between his awful crimes.
As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck herhusband.
"Why, Ellen," he said, "it is time you went to the doctor. Youlooks just as if you was going to a funeral. I'll come along withyou as far as the station. You're going by train, ain't you? Notby bus, eh? It's a very long way to Ealing, you know."
"There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very firstminute!" But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfullyand sadly.
And Bunting hung his head. "Why, to be sure I'd gone and cleanforgot the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not waittill to-morrow, and take Daisy with you?"
"I like doing my own business in my own way, and not in someoneelse's way!" she snapped out; and then more gently, for Buntingreally looked concerned, and she did feel very far from well, "I'llbe all right, old man. Don't you worry about me!"
As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawlshe had put over her long jacket more closely round her.
She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so kind a husband.And yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burdenwith poor Bunting? Why, 'twould be enough to make a man go daft.Even she often felt as if she could stand it no longer--as if shewould give the world to tell someone--anyone--what it was that shesuspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth.
But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though itwas, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little thelast few days, for she had had a nervous terror of leaving the houseunprotected, as also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to comeinto contact with the lodger.
When she reached the Underground station she stopped short. Therewere two ways of getting to St. Pancras--she could go by bus, orshe could go by train. She decided on the latter. But beforeturning into the station her eyes strayed over the bills of theearly afternoon papers lying on the ground.
Two words,
THE AVENGER,
stared up at her in varying type.
Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders,Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclinedto buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyeswere smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of theclose print in the paper Bunting took in.
Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station.
And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting.
The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to beempty, save for the presence of a police inspector. And once theywere well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the questionshe knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes.
"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where death inquestsare held"--she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and thenconcluded--"in the neighbourhood of King's Cross?"
The man turned and, looked at h
er attentively. She did not look atall the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest--there are manysuch--just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was awidower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt; and the plainPrincess bonnet which framed her pale, refined face.
"I'm going to the Coroner's Court myself." he said good-naturedly."So you can come along of me. You see there's that big Avengerinquest going on to-day, so I think they'll have had to make otherarrangements for--hum, hum--ordinary cases." And as she lookedat him dumbly, he went on, "There'll be a mighty crowd of people atThe Avenger inquest--a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated, tosay nothing of the public."
"That's the inquest I'm going to," faltered Mrs. Bunting. She couldscarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort,yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she wasgoing to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murderinquest!
During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpenedby suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into thestolid face of her unknown friend, how she herself would haveregarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry from asimple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet--and yet that wasjust what she was about to do herself.
"I've got a reason for wanting to go there," she murmured. It wasa comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger.
"Ah!" he said reflectively. "A--a relative connected with one ofthe two victims' husbands, I presume?"
And Mrs. Bunting bent her head.
"Going to give evidence?" he asked casually, and then he turned andlooked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done.
"Oh, no!" There was a world of horror, of fear in the speaker's voice.
And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. "Hadn't seen her forquite a long time, I suppose?"
"Never had, seen her. I'm from the country." Something impelledMrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself,"At least, I was."
"Will he be there?"
She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he wasalluding.
"I mean the husband," went on the inspector hastily. "I felt sorryfor the last poor chap--I mean the husband of the last one--heseemed so awfully miserable. You see, she'd been a good wife and agood mother till she took to the drink."
"It always is so," breathed out Mrs. Bunting.
"Aye." He waited a moment. "D'you know anyone about the court?" heasked.
She shook her head.
"Well, don't you worry. I'll take you in along o' me. You'd neverget in by yourself."
They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some one's charge, ofhaving a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet evennow there was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantialabout the whole business.
"If he knew--if he only knew what I know!" she kept saying overand over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burlyform of the police inspector.
"'Tisn't far--not three minutes," he said suddenly. "Am I walkingtoo quick for you, ma'am?"'
"No, not at all. I'm a quick walker."
And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people,a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-lookinglittle door sunk into a high wall.
"Better take my arm," the inspector suggested. "Make way there!Make way!" he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through theserried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sightof his uniform.
"Lucky you met me," he said, smiling. "You'd never have gotthrough alone. And 'tain't a nice crowd, not by any manner ofmeans."
The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselveson a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A fewmen were out there, smoking.
Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back ofthe yard, Mrs. Bunting's kind new friend took out his watch."There's another twenty minutes before they'll begin," he said."There's the mortuary"--he pointed with his thumb to a low roombuilt out to the right of the court. "Would you like to go in andsee them?" he whispered.
"Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he lookeddown at her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was anice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbuedwith any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought ither duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law toone of The Avenger's victims.
They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of mentalking in subdued yet eager, animated tones.
"I think you'd better sit down here," he said considerately, and,leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashedwalls--"unless you'd rather be with the witnesses, that is."
But again she said, "Oh, no!" And then, with an effort, "Oughtn'tI to go into the court now, if it's likely to be so full?"
"Don't you worry," he said kindly. "I'll see you get a proper place.I must leave you now for a minute, but I'll come back in good timeand look after you."
She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face whilethey were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside,and looked about her.
Many of the gentlemen--they mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats--standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar. She pickedout one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animatedface was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widelyadvertised in connection with a preparation for the hair--thepreparation which in happier, more prosperous days Bunting had hadgreat faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit tohimself. This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half adozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke,and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody.
How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London,from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysteriousbeckoner had brought all these men here together, to this sordidplace, on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, allthinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality--that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who choseto call himself The Avenger. And somewhere, not so very far awayfrom them all The Avenger was keeping these clever, astute, highlytrained minds--aye, and bodies, too--at bay.
Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised the irony of herpresence among them.