CHAPTER VII
Just as twelve was striking a four-wheeler drew up to the gate.
It brought Daisy--pink-cheeked, excited, laughing-eyed Daisy--asight to gladden any father's heart.
"Old Aunt said I was to have a cab if the weather was bad," shecried out joyously.
There was a bit of a wrangle over the fare. King's Cross, as allthe world knows, is nothing like two miles from the Marylebone Road,but the man clamoured for one and sixpence, and hinted darkly thathe had done the young lady a favour in bringing her at all.
While he and Bunting were having words, Daisy, leaving them to it,walked up the flagged path to the door where her stepmother wasawaiting her.
As they were exchanging a rather frigid kiss, indeed, 'twas a merepeck on Mrs. Bunting's part, there fell, with startling suddenness,loud cries on the still, cold air. Long-drawn and wailing, theysounded strangely sad as they rose and fell across the distant roarof traffic in the Edgware Road.
"What's that?" exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. "Why, whatever'sthat?"
The cabman lowered his voice. "Them's 'a-crying out that 'orribleaffair at King's Cross. He's done for two of 'em this time! That'swhat I meant when I said I might 'a got a better fare. I wouldn'tsay nothink before little missy there, but folk 'ave been comingfrom all over London the last five or six hours; plenty of toffs,too--but there, there's nothing to see now!"
"What? Another woman murdered last night?"
Bunting felt tremendously thrilled. What had the five thousandconstables been about to let such a dreadful thing happen?
The cabman stared at him, surprised. "Two of 'em, I tell yer--within a few yards of one another. He 'ave--got a nerve--But,of course, they was drunk. He are got a down on the drink!"
"Have they caught him?" asked Bunting perfunctorily.
"Lord, no! They'll never catch 'im! It must 'ave happened hoursand hours ago--they was both stone cold. One each end of a littlepassage what ain't used no more. That's why they didn't find 'embefore."
The hoarse cries were coming nearer and nearer--two news vendorstrying to outshout each other.
"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross!" they yelled exultingly."The Avenger again!"
And Bunting, with his daughter's large straw hold-all in his hand,ran forward into the roadway and recklessly gave a boy a penny fora halfpenny paper.
He felt very much moved and excited. Somehow his acquaintance withyoung Joe Chandler made these murders seem a personal affair. Hehoped that Chandler would come in soon and tell them all about it,as he had done yesterday morning when he, Bunting, had unluckilybeen out.
As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy's voice--high, voluble, excited--giving her stepmother a long account ofthe scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt's neighbours hadthought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash.
But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, therecame a note of sharp alarm in his daughter's voice, and he heardher cry, "Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter? You do look bad!"and his wife's muffled answer, "Open the window--do."
"'Orrible discovery near King's Cross--a clue at last!" yelledthe newspaper-boys triumphantly.
And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed,and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in anecstasy of mirth.
"Why, father, whatever's the matter with her?"
Daisy looked quite scared.
"She's in 'sterics--that's what it is," he said shortly."I'll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!"
Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous--that's what shewas, to be so easily upset.
The lodger's bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Eitherthat sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magicaleffect on Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking allover, but mentally composed.
"I'll go up," she said a little chokingly. "As for you, child,just run down into the kitchen. You'll find a piece of porkroasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for thesauce."
As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were madeof cotton wool. She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at thebanister for support. But soon, making a great effort over herself,she began to feel more steady; and after waiting for a few momentson the landing, she knocked at the door of the drawing-room.
Mr. Sleuth's voice answered her from the bedroom. "I'm not well,"he called out querulously; "I think I've caught a chill. I shouldbe obliged if you would kindly bring me up a cup of tea, and put itoutside my door, Mrs. Bunting."
"Very well, sir."
Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs. She still felt queer andgiddy, so instead of going into the kitchen, she made the lodger hiscup of tea over her sitting-room gas-ring.
During their midday dinner the husband and wife had a littlediscussion as to where Daisy should sleep. It had been settledthat a bed should be made up for her in the top back room, butMrs. Bunting saw reason to change this plan. "I think 'twould bebetter if Daisy were to sleep with me, Bunting, and you was tosleep upstairs."
Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he acquiesced. Ellenwas probably right; the girl would be rather lonely up there, and,after all, they didn't know much about the lodger, though he seemeda respectable gentleman enough.
Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and wanted to makeherself useful to her stepmother. "I'll wash up; don't you bother tocome downstairs," she said cheerfully.
Bunting began to walk up and down the room. His wife gave him afurtive glance; she wondered what he was thinking about.
"Didn't you get a paper?" she said at last.
"Yes, of course I did," he answered hastily. "But I've put it away.I thought you'd rather not look at it, as you're that nervous."
Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he seemed just asusual--he evidently meant just what he said and no more.
"I thought they was shouting something in the street--I mean justbefore I was took bad."
It was now Bunting's turn to stare at his wife quickly and ratherfurtively. He had felt sure that her sudden attack of queerness,of hysterics--call it what you might--had been due to the shoutingoutside. She was not the only woman in London who had got theAvenger murders on her nerves. His morning paper said quite a lotof women were afraid to go out alone. Was it possible that thecurious way she had been taken just now had had nothing to do withthe shouts and excitement outside?
"Don't you know what it was they were calling out?" he asked slowly.
Mrs. Bunting looked across at him. She would have given a verygreat deal to be able to lie, to pretend that she did not know whatthose dreadful cries had portended. But when it came to the pointshe found she could not do so.
"Yes," she said dully. "I heard a word here and there. There'sbeen another murder, hasn't there?"
"Two other murders," he said soberly.
"Two? That's worse news!" She turned so pale--a sallowgreenish-white--that Bunting thought she was again going queer.
"Ellen?" he said warningly, "Ellen, now do have a care! I can'tthink what's come over you about these murders. Turn your mindaway from them, do! We needn't talk about them--not so much,that is--"
"But I wants to talk about them," cried Mrs. Bunting hysterically.
The husband and wife were standing, one each side of the table,the man with his back to the fire, the woman with her back to thedoor.
Bunting, staring across at his wife, felt sadly perplexed anddisturbed. She really did seem ill; even her slight, spare figurelooked shrunk. For the first time, so he told himself ruefully,Ellen was beginning to look her full age. Her slender hands--shehad kept the pretty, soft white hands of the woman who has neverdone rough work--grasped the edge of the table with a convulsivemovement.
Bunting didn't at all like the look of her. "Oh, dear," he saidto himself, "I do hope Ellen isn't going to be ill! That would bea to-do just now."
"Tell me about it," she commanded, in a low vo
ice. "Can't you seeI'm waiting to hear? Be quick now, Bunting!"
"There isn't very much to tell," he said reluctantly. "There'sprecious little in this paper, anyway. But the cabman what broughtDaisy told me--"
"Well?"
"What I said just now. There's two of 'em this time, and they'dboth been drinking heavily, poor creatures."
"Was it where the others was done?" she asked looking at her husbandfearfully.
"No," he said awkwardly. "No, it wasn't, Ellen. It was a good bitfarther West--in fact, not so very far from here. Near King's Cross--that's how the cabman knew about it, you see. They seems to havebeen done in a passage which isn't used no more." And then, as hethought his wife's eyes were beginning to look rather funny, he addedhastily. "There, that's enough for the present! We shall soon behearing a lot more about it from Joe Chandler. He's pretty sure tocome in some time to-day."
"Then the five thousand constables weren't no use?" said Mrs.Bunting slowly.
She had relaxed her grip of the table, and was standing moreupright.
"No use at all," said Bunting briefly. "He is artful and no mistakeabout it. But wait a minute--" he turned and took up the paperwhich he had laid aside, on a chair. "Yes they says here that theyhas a clue."
"A clue, Bunting?" Mrs. Bunting spoke in a soft, weak, die-awayvoice, and again, stooping somewhat, she grasped the edge of thetable.
But her husband was not noticing her now. He was holding the paperclose up to his eyes, and he read from it, in a tone of considerablesatisfaction:
"'It is gratifying to be able to state that the police at lastbelieve they are in possession of a clue which will lead to thearrest of the--'" and then Bunting dropped the paper and rushedround the table.
His wife, with a curious sighing moan, had slipped down on to thefloor, taking with her the tablecloth as she went. She lay therein what appeared to be a dead faint. And Bunting, scared out ofhis wits, opened the door and screamed out, "Daisy! Daisy! Comeup, child. Ellen's took bad again."
And Daisy, hurrying in, showed an amount of sense and resourcewhich even at this anxious moment roused her fond father'sadmiration.
"Get a wet sponge, Dad--quick!" she cried, "a sponge,--and, ifyou've got such a thing, a drop o' brandy. I'll see after her!"And then, after he had got the little medicine flask, "I can't thinkwhat's wrong with Ellen," said Daisy wonderingly. "She seemed quiteall right when I first came in. She was listening, interested-like,to what I was telling her, and then, suddenly--well, you saw howshe was took, father? 'Tain't like Ellen this, is it now?"
"No," he whispered. "No, 'tain't. But you see, child, we've beengoing through a pretty bad time--worse nor I should ever have letyou know of, my dear. Ellen's just feeling it now--that's what itis. She didn't say nothing, for Ellen's a good plucked one, butit's told on her--it's told on her!"
And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her eyes, andinstinctively put her hand up to her head to see if her hair wasall right.
She hadn't really been quite "off." It would have been better forher if she had. She had simply had an awful feeling that shecouldn't stand up--more, that she must fall down. Bunting's wordstouched a most unwonted chord in the poor woman's heart, and theeyes which she opened were full of tears. She had not thought herhusband knew how she had suffered during those weeks of starvingand waiting.
But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sentiment. To hersuch betrayal betokened "foolishness," and so all she said was,"There's no need to make a fuss! I only turned over a little queer.I never was right off, Daisy."
Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting had hurriedlypoured a little brandy. "I wouldn't touch such stuff--no, not ifI was dying!" she exclaimed.
Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with the help ofthe table, on to her feet. "Go down again to the kitchen, child";but there was a sob, a kind of tremor in her voice.
"You haven't been eating properly, Ellen--that's what's the matterwith you," said Bunting suddenly. "Now I come to think of it, youhaven't eat half enough these last two days. I always did say--inold days many a time I telled you--that a woman couldn't live onair. But there, you never believed me!"
Daisy stood looking from one to the other, a shadow over her bright,pretty face. "I'd no idea you'd had such a bad time, father," shesaid feelingly. "Why didn't you let me know about it? I might havegot something out of Old Aunt."
"We didn't want anything of that sort," said her stepmother hastily."But of course--well, I expect I'm still feeling the worry now. Idon't seem able to forget it. Those days of waiting, of--of--"she restrained herself; another moment and the word "starving" wouldhave left her lips.
"But everything's all right now," said Bunting eagerly, "all right,thanks to Mr. Sleuth, that is."
"Yes," repeated his wife, in a low, strange tone of voice. "Yes,we're all right now, and as you say, Bunting, it's all along ofMr. Sleuth."
She walked across to a chair and sat down on it. "I'm just a littletottery still," she muttered.
And Daisy, looking at her, turned to her father and said in awhisper, but not so low but that Mrs. Bunting heard her, "Don't youthink Ellen ought to see a doctor, father? He might give hersomething that would pull her round."
"I won't see no doctor!" said Mrs. Bunting with sudden emphasis. "Isaw enough of doctors in my last place. Thirty-eight doctors in tenmonths did my poor missis have. Just determined on having 'em shewas! Did they save her? No! She died just the same! Maybe a bitsooner."
"She was a freak, was your last mistress, Ellen," began Buntingaggressively.
Ellen had insisted on staying on in that place till her poor mistressdied. They might have been married some months before they weremarried but for that fact. Bunting had always resented it.
His wife smile wanly. "We won't have no words about that," she said,and again she spoke in a softer, kindlier tone than usual. "Daisy?If you won't go down to the kitchen again, then I must"--she turnedto her stepdaughter, and the girl flew out of the room.
"I think the child grows prettier every minute," said Bunting fondly.
"Folks are too apt to forget that beauty is but skin deep," said hiswife. She was beginning to feel better. "But still, I do agree,Bunting, that Daisy's well enough. And she seems more willing, too."
"I say, we mustn't forget the lodger's dinner," Bunting spokeuneasily. "It's a bit of fish to-day, isn't it? Hadn't I betterjust tell Daisy to see to it, and then I can take it up to him, asyou're not feeling quite the thing, Ellen?"
"I'm quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuth's luncheon," she saidquickly. It irritated her to hear her husband speak of the lodger'sdinner. They had dinner in the middle of the day, but Mr. Sleuthhad luncheon. However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgother lodger was a gentleman.
"After all, he likes me to wait on him, doesn't he? I can manageall right. Don't you worry," she added after a long pause.