 CHAPTER XIII. Daisy's father and stepmother stood side by side at the front door, watching the girl and young Chandler walk off into the darkness. A yellow-poll of fog had suddenly descended on London, and Joe had come a full half-hour before they expected him, explaining rather lamely that it was the fog which had brought him so soon. If we was to have waited much longer, perhaps Twidden had been possible to walk a yard, he explained, and they had accepted silently his explanation. I hope it's quite safe sending her off like that. Bunting looked deprecatingly at his wife. She had already told him more than once that he was too fussy about Daisy, that about his daughter he was like an old hen with her last chicken. She's safer than she would be with you or me. She couldn't have a smarter young fellow to look after her. It'll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner, said Bunting. It's always worse there than anywhere else. If I was Joe, I'd have taken her by the underground railway to Victoria that had been the best way considering the weather it is. They don't think anything of the weather, bless you, said his wife. They'll walk and walk as long as there's a glimmer left for them to steer by. Daisy's just been pining to have a walk with that young chap. I wonder you didn't notice how disappointed they both were when you were so set on going along with them to that hard place. Do you really mean that, Ellen? Bunting looked upset. I understood Joe to say he liked my company. Oh, did you? said Mrs. Bunting dryly. I expect he liked it just about as much as we liked the company of that old cook who would go out with us when we was courting. It always was a wonder to me how the woman could force herself upon two people who didn't want her. But I'm Daisy's father and an old friend of Chandler, said Bunting remonstratingly. I'm quite different from that cook. She was nothing to us and we was nothing to her. She'd have liked to be something to you, I make no doubt, observed his Ellen, shaking her head, and her husband smiled a little foolishly. By this time they were back in their nice, cozy sitting room, and a feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs. Bunting. It was a comfort to have Daisy out of her way for a bit. The girl, in some ways, was very wide awake and inquisitive, and she had early betrayed what her stepmother thought to be a very unseemly and silly curiosity concerning the lodger. You might just let me have one peep at him, Ellen, she had pleaded only that morning, but Ellen had shaken her head. Know that I won't. He's a very quiet gentleman, but he knows exactly what he likes and he don't like anyone but me waiting on him, why even your father's hardly seen him. But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy's desire to view Mr. Sleuth. There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that her stepdaughter had gone away for two days. During her absence, young Chandler was far less likely to haunt them in the way he had taken to doing lately, the more so that, in spite of what she had said to her husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask Joe Chandler to call a bellgrave square. It wouldn't be human nature, in any rate not girlish human nature, not to do so, even if Joe's coming did anger Aunt Margaret. Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away, they, the Buntings, would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a good thing. When Daisy wasn't there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs. Bunting felt clearly afraid of Chandler. After all, he was a detective. It was his job to be always nosing about trying to find out things. And though she couldn't fairly say to herself that he had done much of that sort of thing in her house, he might start doing it any minute. And then, then, where would she and, and Mr. Sleuth be? She thought of the bottle of red ink, of the leather bag which must be hidden somewhere, and her heart almost stopped beating. Those were the sort of things which, and the stories Bunting was so fond of reading, always led to the detection of famous criminals. Mr. Sleuth's bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than usual. The fog had probably misled him and made him think it later than it was. When she went up, I would like a cup of tea now and just one piece of bread and butter, the lodger said wearily. I don't feel like having anything else this afternoon. It's a horrible day, Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice than usual. No wonder you don't feel hungry, sir, and then it isn't so very long since you had your dinner, is it? No, he said absently. No, it isn't, Mrs. Bunting. She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then, as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp dismay. Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long, invernous cloak and his queer old high hat lay on the table, ready for him to put on. You're never going out this afternoon, sir, she asked falteringly. Why, the fog's awful. You can't see a yard ahead of you. Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting's voice had risen almost to a scream. She moved back, still holding the tray and stood between the door and her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way, to erect between Mr. Sleuth and the dark foggy world outside a living barrier. The weather never affects me at all, he said sullenly, and he looked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so, she noticed for the first time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his right hand. It was the key of the chiffonere cupboard. He had been on his way there when her coming in had disturbed him. It's very kind of you to be so concerned about me, he stammered. But, but Mrs. Bunting, you must excuse me if I say that I do not welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I, I cannot stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings are watched, spied upon. She pulled herself together. No one spies upon you, sir, she said with considerable dignity. I've done my best to satisfy you. You have, you have, he spoke in a distressed apologetic tone. But you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doing what I wish to do, and deed what I have to do. For years I have been misunderstood, persecuted. He waited a moment, then in a hollow voice added the one word, tortured. Do not tell me that you were going to add yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs. Bunting. She stared at him helplessly. Don't you be afraid I'll ever be that, sir? I only spoke as I did because, well, sir, because I thought it really wasn't safe for a gentleman to go out this afternoon. Why, there's hardly anyone about, though we're so near Christmas. He walked across to the window and looked out. The fog is clearing somewhat, Mrs. Bunting. But there was no relief in his voice, rather was their disappointment and dread. Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Sleuth was right. The fog was lifting, rolling off in that sudden mysterious way in which local fogs sometimes do lift in London. He turned sharply from the window. Our conversation has made me forget an important thing, Mrs. Bunting. I should be glad if you would just leave out a glass of milk and some bread and butter for me this evening. I shall not require supper when I come in, for after my walk I shall probably go straight upstairs to carry through a very difficult experiment. Very good, sir, and the Mrs. Bunting left the lodger. But when she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for a bit had drifted in as she and her husband had stood at the door seeing Daisy off. Instead of going into Bunting, she did a very odd thing. A thing she had never thought of doing in her life before. She pressed her hot forehead against the cool bit of looking glass, let into the hat and umbrella stand. I don't know what to do, she moaned to herself. And then, I can't bear it. I can't bear it. But though she felt that her secret suspense and trouble was becoming intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery never occurred to Mrs. Bunting. In the long history of crime it is very, very seldom happened that a woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her. The timorous and cautious woman has not infrequently hunted a human being fleeing from his pursuer from her door, but she has not revealed the fact that he was ever there. In fact, it may almost be said that such betrayal has never taken place unless the betrayer has been actuated by love of gain or by longing for revenge. So far, perhaps because she is subject rather than citizen, her duty as a component part of civilized society weighs but lightly on women's shoulders. And then, and then in a sort of way Mrs. Bunting had become attached to Mr. Sleuth. A wan's smile would sometimes light up his sad face when he saw her come in with one of his meals. And when this happened Mrs. Bunting felt pleased, pleased and vaguely touched. In between those, those dreadful events outside which filled her with such suspicion, such anguish and such suspense, she never felt any fear, only pity for Mr. Sleuth. Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she turned over the strange problem in her mind. After all, the lodger must have lived somewhere during his 40 odd years of life. She did not even know if Mr. Sleuth had any brothers or sisters, friends she knew he had none. But however odd and eccentric he was, he had evidently, or so she supposed, let a quiet, undistinguished kind of life till, till now. What had made him alter all of a sudden, if that is, he had altered? That was what Mrs. Bunting was always debating fitfully with herself. And what was more, and very terribly to the point, having altered, why should he not in time go back to what he evidently had been, that is, a blameless quiet gentleman? If only he would, if only he would. As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead, all these thoughts, these hopes and fears jostled at lightning speed through her brain. She remembered what young Chandler had said the other day, that there had never been in the history of the world so strange a murderer as the Avenger had proved himself to be. She and Bunting, I and Little Daisy, too, had hung fascinated on Joe's words, as he had told them of other famous series of murders which had taken place in the past, not only in England but abroad, especially abroad. One woman whom all the people around her believed to be a kind, respectable soul had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people in order to get their insurance money. Then there had been the terrible tale of an apparently respectable, contented innkeeper and his wife, who, living at the entrance to a wood, killed all those humble travelers who took shelter under their roof, simply for their clothes and any valuables they possessed. But in all those stories, the murderer or murderers always had a very strong motive, the motive being, in almost every case, a wicked lust for gold. At last, after having passed her handkerchief over her forehead, she went into the room where Bunting was sitting smoking his pipe. The fogs lifting a bit, she said in an ill-assured voice, I hope that by this time Daisy and that Joe Chandler are right out of it. But the other shook his head silently. No such luck, he said briefly. You don't know what it's like in Hyde Park, Ellen. I expect we'll soon be just as heavy here as Twas half an hour ago. She wandered over to the window and pulled the curtain back. Quite a lot of people have come out anyway, she observed. There's a fine Christmas show on the Edgeware Road. I was thinking of asking if you wouldn't like to go along there with me. No, she said dolly. I'm quite content to stay at home. She was listening. Listening for the sounds which would betoken that the lodger was coming downstairs. At last she heard the cautious, selfless tread of his rubber-soled shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only woke to the fact when the front door shut, too. That's never Mr. Sleuth going out. He turned on his wife, startled. Why the poor gentleman will come to harm, that he will. One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn't taken any of his money out with him. Tisn't the first time Mr. Sleuth's been out in a fog, said Mrs. Bunting somberly. Somehow she couldn't help uttering these over-true words, and then she turned, eager and half-frightened, to see how Bunting had taken what she said. But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly heard her. We don't get the good old fogs we used to get, not what people used to call London particulars. I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. Crowley. I've often told you about her, Ellen. Mrs. Bunting nodded. Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting's ladies, one of those he had liked best, a cheerful jolly lady who used often to give her servants what she called a treat. It was seldom the kind of treat they would have chosen for themselves, but still they appreciated her kind thought. Mrs. Crowley used to say, went on Bunting in his slow dogmatic way, that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, so long as it was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley, he liked the country best, but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull like there. Fog never kept her from going out. No, that it didn't. She wasn't a bit afraid. But he turned round and looked at his wife. I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have thought him a timid kind of gentleman. He waited a moment and she felt forced to answer him. I wouldn't exactly call him timid, she said in a low voice, but he is very quiet certainly. That's why he dislikes going out when there are a lot of people bustling about the streets. I don't suppose he'll be out long. She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be in very soon that he would be daunted by the now increasing gloom. Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for very long. She got up and went over to the farthest window. The fog had lifted certainly. She could see the lamp-lights on the other side of the Mar-Lebonne road, glimmering redly, and shadowy figures were hurrying past, mostly making their way towards the Edgeware road to see the Christmas shops. At last, to his wife's relief, Bunting got up too. He went over to the cupboard where he kept this little store of books and took one out. I think I'll read a bit, he said. Seems a long time since I've looked at a book. The papers were so jolly interesting for a bit, but now there's nothing in them. His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A good many days had gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had very little to say about them that they hadn't said in different language a dozen times before. She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing. Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger, she had not had much time for that sort of work. It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy or the lodger in it. At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambra slipped down on her knee while she listened longingly for Mr. Sleuth's return home. And as the minutes sped by, she fell to wondering with a painful wonder if she would ever see her lodger again. For, from what she knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into any kind of, well, trouble outside, he would never betray where he had lived during the last few weeks. No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in a sudden away as he had come, and Bunting would never suspect, would never know, until perhaps, God what a horrible thought, a picture published in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting's knowledge. But if that happened, if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, she made up her mind here and now never to say anything. She also would pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the astounding revelation. CHAPTER XIV After he is at last, and I'm glad of it, Ellen, taint a night you would wish a dog to be out in. Bunting's voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and look at his wife as he spoke. Instead he continued to read the evening paper he held in his hand. He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his nice arm chair. He looked very well, well and ruddy. Mrs. Bunting stared across at him with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more of resentment. And this was very curious, for she was, in her own dry way, very fond of Bunting. You needn't feel so nervous about him. Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself all right. Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee. I can't think why he wanted to go out in such weather, he said impatiently. Well, it's the son of your business, Bunting, now is it. No, that's true enough. Still, it would be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger is the first bit of luck we've had for a terrible long time, Ellen. Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high chair. She remained silent for a moment. What Bunting had said was too obvious to be worth answering. Also she was listening, following an imagination her lodger's quick, singularly quiet progress. Stealthy, she called it to herself, through the fog filled, lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up the staircase. What was it that Bunting was saying? It isn't safe for decent folk to be out in such weather. No, that it ain't. Not unless they have something to do that won't wait till tomorrow. The speaker was looking straight into his wife's narrow, colorless face. Bunting was an obstinate man and liked to prove himself right. I have a good mind to speak to him about it that I have. He ought to be told that it isn't safe, not for the sort of man he is, to be wandering about the streets at night. I read you about the accidents in Lloyds, shocking they were, and all brought about by the fog, and then that horrid monster will soon be at his work again. Monster, repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. She was trying to hear the lodger's footsteps overhead. She was very curious to know whether he had gone into his nice sitting room, or straight upstairs to that cold experiment room, as he now always called it. But her husband went on as if he had not heard her, and she gave up trying to listen to what was going on above. It wouldn't be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that in the fog, eh, Ellen? He spoke as if the notion had a certain pleasant thrill in it after all. What stuff you do talk, said Mrs. Bunting sharply, and then she got up. Her husband's remarks had disturbed her. Why couldn't they talk of something pleasant when they did have a quiet bit of time together? Bunting looked down again in his paper, and she moved quietly about the room. Very soon it would be time for supper, and tonight she was going to cook her husband a nice piece of toasted cheese. That fortunate man as she was fond of telling him, with mingled contempt and envy, had the digestion of an ostrich, and yet he was rather fanciful, as gentlemen's servants who have lived in good places often are. Yes, Bunting was very lucky in the matter of his digestion. Mrs. Bunting prided herself on having a nice mind, and she would never have allowed an unrefined word, such a word as stomach, for instance, to say nothing of an even plainer term, to pass her lips, except of course to a doctor and a sick room. Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go down at once into her cold kitchen. Instead, with a sudden furtive movement, she opened the door leading into her bedroom, and then, closing the door quietly, stepped back into the darkness and stood motionless, listening. At first she heard nothing, but gradually there stole on her listening ears the sound of someone moving softly about in the room just overhead. That is, in Mr. Sleuth's bedroom. But try as she might it was impossible for her to guess what the lodger was doing. At last she heard him open the door leading out on the little landing. She could hear the stairs creaking. That meant no doubt that Mr. Sleuth would pass the rest of the evening in the cheerless room above. He hadn't spent any time up there for quite a long while, in fact not for nearly ten days. To his odd he chose tonight when it was so foggy to carry out an experiment. She groped her way to a chair and sat down. She felt very tired, strangely tired, as if she had gone through some great physical exertion. Yes, it was true that Mr. Sleuth had brought her in bunting luck, and it was wrong, very wrong of her ever to forget that. As she sat there she also reminded herself, and not for the first time, what the lodger's departure would mean. It would almost certainly mean roaring, just as his staying meant all sorts of good things, of which physical comfort was the least. If Mr. Sleuth stayed on with them, as he showed every intention of doing, it meant respectability, and above all, security. Mrs. Bunting thought of Mr. Sleuth's money. He never received a letter, and yet he must have some kind of income, so much was clear. She supposed he went and drew his money and sovereigns out of a bank as he required it. Her mind swung round, consciously, deliberately away from Mr. Sleuth. The Avenger. What a strange name. Again she assured herself that there would come a time when the Avenger, whoever he was, must feel satiated, when he would feel from self to be, so to speak, avenged. To go back to Mr. Sleuth. It was lucky that the lodger seemed so pleased, not only with the rooms, but with his landlord and landlady. Indeed, there was no real reason why Mr. Sleuth should ever wish to leave such nice lodgings. Mrs. Bunting suddenly stood up. She made a strong effort and shook off her awful sense of apprehension and unease. Feeling for the handle of the door, giving into the passage, she turned it, and then, with light firm steps, she went down into the kitchen. When they had first taken the house, the basement had been made by her care, if not into a pleasant, then at any rate into a very clean place. She had had it whitewashed, and against the still white walls, the gas stove loomed up, a great square of black iron and bright steel. It was a large gas stove, the kind for which one pays four shillings a quarter rent to the gas company, and here in the kitchen there was no foolish shilling in the slot arrangement. Mrs. Bunting was too shrewd a woman to have anything to do with that kind of business. There was a proper gas meter, and she paid for what she consumed after she had consumed it. Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden table, she turned up the gas jet and blew out the candle. Then, lighting one of the gas rings, she put a frying pan on the stove, and once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself, to Mr. Sleuth. Never had there been a more confiding or trusting gentleman than the lodger, and yet in some ways he was so secret, so, so peculiar. She thought of the bag, that bag which had rumbled about so clearly in the chiffonere. Something seemed to tell her that tonight the lodger had taken that bag out with him. And then she thrust away the thought of the bag almost violently from her mind, and went back to the more agreeable thought of Mr. Sleuth's income, and of how little trouble he gave. Of course the lodger was eccentric. Otherwise he wouldn't be their lodger at all. He would be living in quite a different sort of way with some of his relations, or with a friend in his own class. While these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through her mind, Mrs. Bunting went on with her cooking, preparing the cheese, cutting it up into little shreds, carefully measuring out the butter, doing everything, as was always her way, with a certain delicate and cleanly precision. And then, while in the middle of toasting the bread on which was to be poured the melted cheese, she suddenly heard sounds which startled her, made her feel uncomfortable. Shuffling, hesitating steps were creaking down the house. She looked up and listened. Surely the lodger was not going out again into the cold and foggy night, going out as he had done the other evening for a second time. But no, the sounds she heard, the sounds of now familiar footsteps, did not continue down the passage leading to the front door. Instead, why, what was this she heard now? She began to listen so intently that the bread she was holding at the end of the toasting fork grew quite black. With a start she became aware that this was so, and she frowned, vexed with herself. That came of not attending to one's work. Mr. Sleuth was evidently about to do what he had never yet done. He was coming down into the kitchen. Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, treading heavily on the kitchen stairs, and Mrs. Bunting's heart began to beat as if in response. She put out the flame of the gas ring, unheedful of the fact that the cheese would stiffen and spoil in the cold air. Then she turned and faced the door. There came a fumbling at the handle, and a moment later the door opened and revealed, as she had it once known and feared it would do, the lodger. Mr. Sleuth looked even odder than usual. He was clad in a plaid dressing gown, which she had never seen him wear before, though she knew that he had purchased it not long after his arrival. In his hand was a lighted candle. When he saw the kitchen all lighted up, and the woman standing in it, the lodger looked inexplicably taken aback, almost aghast. Yes, sir. What can I do for you, sir? I hope you didn't ring, sir. Mrs. Bunting held her ground in front of the stove. Mr. Sleuth had no business to come like this into her kitchen, and she intended to let him know that such was her view. No, I—I didn't ring, he stammered awkwardly. The truth is, I didn't know you were here, Mrs. Bunting. Please excuse my costume. My gas stove has gone wrong, or rather that shilling in the slot arrangement has done so. So I came down to see if you had a gas stove. I'm going to ask you to allow me to use it tonight for an important experiment I wish to make. Mrs. Bunting's heart was beating quickly. Quickly. She felt horribly troubled, unnaturally so. Why couldn't Mr. Sleuth's experiment wait till the morning? She stared at him dubiously, but there was that in his face that made her at once afraid and pitiful. It was a wild, eager, imploring look. Oh, certainly, sir, but you will find it very cold down here. It seems most pleasantly warm, he observed, his voice full of relief, warm and cozy after my cold room upstairs. And cozy. Mrs. Bunting stared at him in amazement. Nay, even that chairless room at the top of the house must be far warmer and more cozy than this cold underground kitchen could possibly be. I'll make you a fire, sir. We never used the grate, but it's in perfect order, for the first thing I did after I came into the house was to have the chimney swept. It was terribly dirty. It might have set the house on fire. Mrs. Bunting's house-wifely instincts were roused. For the matter of that you ought to have a fire in your bedroom this cold night. By no means. I would prefer not. I certainly do not want a fire there. I dislike an open fire, Mrs. Bunting. I thought I had told you as much. Mr. Sleuth frowned. He stood there, a strange-looking figure, his candle still alight, just inside the kitchen door. I shan't be very long, sir, just about a quarter of an hour. You could come down then. I'll have everything quite tidy for you. Is there anything I can do to help you? I do not require the use of your kitchen yet. Thank you all the same, Mrs. Bunting. I shall come down later, altogether later, after you and your husband have gone to bed. But I should be much obliged if you would see that the gas people come tomorrow and put my stove in order. It might be done while I am out. That the shilling in the slot machine should go wrong is very unpleasant. It has upset me greatly. Perhaps Bunting could put it right for you, sir. For the matter of that I could ask him to go up now. No, no, I don't want anything of that sort done tonight. Besides, he couldn't put it right. I am something of an expert, Mrs. Bunting, and I have done all I could. The cause of the trouble is quite simple. The machine is choked up with chillings, a very foolish plan, so I always felt it to be. Mr. Sleuth spoke pettishly, with far more heat than he was want to speak. But Mrs. Bunting sympathized with him in this matter. She had always suspected that those slot machines were as dishonest as if they were human. It was dreadful the way they swallowed up the chillings. She had had one once so she knew. And as if he were divining her thoughts, Mr. Sleuth walked forward and stared at the stove. Then you haven't got a slot machine, he said one ringly. I'm very glad of that, for I expect my experiment will take some time. But of course I shall pay you something for the use of the stove, Mrs. Bunting. Oh, no, sir. I wouldn't think of charging you anything for that. We don't use our stove very much, you know, sir. I'm never in the kitchen a minute longer than I can help this cold weather. Mrs. Bunting was beginning to feel better. When she was actually Mr. Sleuth's presence, her morbid fears would be lulled, perhaps because his manner almost invariably was gentle and very quiet. But still there came over her an eerie feeling, as with him preceding her, they made a slow progress to the ground floor. Once there the lodger courteously bade his landlady good night and proceeded upstairs to his own apartments. Mrs. Bunting returned to the kitchen. Again she lighted the stove, but she felt unnerved, afraid if she knew not what. As she was cooking the cheese, she tried to concentrate her mind on what she was doing, and on the whole she succeeded. But another part of her mind seemed to be working independently, asking her insistent questions. The place seemed to her alive with alien presences, and once she caught herself listening, which was absurd, for of course she could not hope to hear what Mr. Sleuth was doing, too, if not three flights upstairs. She wondered in what the lodger's experiments consisted. It was odd that she had never been able to discover what it was he really did with that big gas stove. All she knew was that he used a very high degree of heat. CHAPTER XV The Buntings went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bunting made up her mind to keep awake. She was set upon knowing at what hour of the night the lodger would come down into her kitchen to carry through his experiment, and above all she was anxious to know how long he would stay there. But she had had a long and a very anxious day, and presently she fell asleep. The church-clock hard by struck two, and suddenly Mrs. Bunting awoke. She felt put out, sharply annoyed with herself. How could she have dropped off like that? Mr. Sleuth must have been down and up again hours ago. Then gradually she became aware that there was a faint acrid odor in the room. Elusive, intangible, it yet seemed to encompass her and the snoring man by her side almost as a vapor might have done. Mrs. Bunting sat up in bed and sniffed, and then, in spite of the cold, she quietly crept out of her nice warm bed-clothes and crawled along to the bottom of the bed. When there, Mr. Sleuth's landlady did a very curious thing. She leaned over the brass rail and put her face close to the hinge of the door, giving into the hall. Yes, it was from here that this strange, horrible odor was coming. The smell must be very strong in the passage. As shivering she crept back under the bed clothes, she longed to give her sleeping husband a good shake, and in fancy she heard herself saying, Bunting, get up, there's something strange and dreadful going on downstairs which we ought to know about. But as she lay there, by her husband's side, listening with painful intentness for the slightest sound, she knew very well that she would do nothing of the sort. What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess, a certain amount of smell in her nice clean kitchen? Was he not? Was he not an almost perfect lodger? If they did anything to upset him, where could they ever hope to get another like him? Three o'clock struck before Mrs. Bunting heard slow, heavy steps creaking up the kitchen stairs. But Mr. Sleuth did not go straight up to his own quarters, as she had expected him to do. Instead, he went to the front door and opening it, put on the chain. Then he came past her door, and she thought, but could not be sure, that he sat down on the stairs. At the end of ten minutes or so she heard him go down the passage again. Very softly he closed the front door. By then she had divined why the lodger had behaved in this funny fashion. He wanted to get the strong, accurate smell of burning. Was it a burning wool out of the house? But Mrs. Bunting, lying there in the darkness, listening to the lodger creeping upstairs, felt as if she herself would never get rid of the horrible odor. Mrs. Bunting felt herself to be all smell. At last the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep, and then she dreamed a most terrible and unnatural dream. Horse voices seemed to be shouting in her ear. The Avenger close here, the Avenger close here, horrible murder off the edge where road, the Avenger at his work again. And even in her dream Mrs. Bunting felt angered, angered and impatient. She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this horrid nightmare. It was because of Bunting. Bunting who could think and talk of nothing else than those frightful murders in which only morbid and vulgar-minded people took any interest. Why even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking to her about it. Ellen, so she heard Bunting murmur in her ear. Ellen, my dear, I'm just going to get up to get a paper. It's after seven o'clock. The shouting, nay worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet smote on her shrinking ears. Pushing back her hair off her forehead with both hands, she sat up and listened. It had been no nightmare then, but something infinitely worse. Reality. Why couldn't Bunting have lain quiet a bed for a while longer and let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have been easier to bear than this awakening. She heard her husband go to the front door and, as he bought the paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper seller. Then he came back. There was a pause and she heard him lighting the gas ring in the sitting room. Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had promised to do this when they first married and he had never yet broken his word. It was a very little thing and a very usual thing, no doubt, for a kind husband to do. But this morning the knowledge that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bunting's pale blue eyes. This morning he seemed to be rather longer than usual over the job. When at last he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his wife lying with her face to the wall. Here's your tea, Ellen, he said, and there was a thrill of eager, nay, happy excitement in his voice. She turned herself round and sat up. Well, she asked. Well, why don't you tell me about it? I thought you was asleep, he stammered out. I thought, Ellen, you never heard nothing. How could I have slipped through all that din? Of course I heard. Why don't you tell me? I've hardly had time to glance at the paper myself, he said slowly. You was reading it just now, she said severely, for I heard the rustling. You begun reading it before you lit the gas ring. Don't tell me. What was that they was shouting about the edge-ware road? Well, said Bunting, as you do know, I may as well tell you. The Avenger's moving west. That's what he's doing. Last time to his king's cross. Now, to his the edge-ware road, I said he'd come our way, and he has come our way. You just go and get me that paper, she commanded. I wants to see for myself. Bunting went into the next room. Then he came back and handed her silently the odd-looking, thin little sheet. Why, whatever's this, she asked. This ain't our paper. Course not, he answered a trifle crossly. It's a special early edition of The Sun, just because of the Avenger. Here's the bit about it. He showed her the exact spot. But she would have found it, even by the comparatively bad light of the gas jet now flaring over the dressing table, for the news was printed in large, clear characters. Once more, the murder-fiend who chooses to call himself the Avenger has escaped detection. While the whole attention of the police and of the great army of amateur detectives who are taking an interest in this strange series of atrocious crimes were concentrating their attention round the east end in King's Cross, he moved swiftly and silently westward. And, choosing a time when the edge where road is at its busiest and most thronged, did another human being to death with lightning-like quickness and savagery. Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse-yard where he had lured his victim to destruction or passing up and down scores of happy busy people and tent on their Christmas shopping. Into that cheerful throng he must have plunged within a moment of committing his atrocious crime, and it was only owing to the merest accident that the body was discovered as soon as it was, that is, just after midnight. Dr. Daltrey, who was called to the spot at once, is of opinion that the woman had been dead at least three hours, if not four. It was at first thought, we were going to say, hoped, that this murder had nothing to do with the series which is now puzzling and horrifying the whole of the civilized world. But no, pinned on the edge of the dead woman's dress was the usual now familiar triangular piece of gray paper, the grimest visiting card ever designed by the wood of man, and this time the Avenger has surpassed himself as regards his audacity and daring, so cold in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent wickedness. All the time that Mrs. Bunting was reading was slow, painful intentness, her husband was looking at her, longing, yet afraid to burst out with a new idea which he was burning to confide even to his Ellen's unsympathetic ears. At last, when she had quite finished, she looked up defiantly. Haven't you anything better to do than to stare at me like that? She said irritably. Murder or no murder, I've got to get up. Go away. Do. And Bunting went off into the next room. After he had gone, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. She tried to think of nothing. Nay, more, so strong, so determined was her will that for a few moments she actually did think of nothing. She felt terribly tired and weak. Brain and body both quiescent, as does a person who is recovering from a long-wearing illness. Presently detached, perlile thoughts drifted across the surface of her mind like little clouds across a summer sky. She wondered if those horrid newspaper men were allowed to shout in Belgrade Square. She wondered if, in that case, Margaret, who was so unlike her brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper. But no, Margaret was not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason as that. Was it tomorrow Daisy was coming back? Yes, tomorrow, not today. Well, that was a comfort at any rate. What amusing things Daisy would be able to tell about her visit to Margaret. The girl had an excellent gift of mimicry. And Margaret, with her precise, many ways, her perpetual talk about the family, lent herself to the cruel gift. And then Mrs. Bunting's mind, her poor, weak, tired mind, wandered off to young Chandler. A funny thing, love, was, when you came to think of it, which she, Ellen Bunting, didn't often do. There was Joe, a likely young fellow, seeing a lot of young women and pretty young women, too, quite as pretty as Daisy in ten times more artful, and yet there. He passed them all by, had done so ever since last summer, though you might be sure that they, artful mixes, by no manner of means passed him by, without giving them a thought. As Daisy wasn't here, he would probably be keep away today. There was comfort in that thought, too. And then Mrs. Bunting sat up, and memory returned in a dreadful, turgid flood. If Joe did come in, she must nerve herself to hear all that, that talk there'd be about the Avenger between him and Bunting. Slowly she dragged herself out of bed, feeling exactly as if she had just recovered from an illness which had left her very weak, very, very tired in body and soul. She stood for a moment listening, listening and shivering, for it was very cold. Considering how early it still was, there seemed a lot of coming and going in the Marilabone Road. She could hear the unaccustomed sounds through her closed door and the tightly fastened windows of the sitting-room. There must be a regular crowd of men and women, on foot and in cabs, hurrying to the scene of the Avenger's last extraordinary crime. She heard the sudden thud made by their usual morning paper falling from the letterbox onto the floor of the hall, and a moment later came the sound of Bunting quickly, quietly going out and getting it. She visualized him coming back and sitting down with a sigh of satisfaction by the newly lit fire. Languidly she began dressing herself to the accompaniment of distant tramping and of noise of passing traffic, which increased in volume and sound as the moment slipped by. When Mrs. Bunting went down into her kitchen, everything looked just as she had left it, and there was no trace of the acrid smell she had expected to find there. Instead the cavernous whitewashed room was full of fog, but she noticed that, though the shutters were bolted and barred as she had left them, the windows behind them had been widely open to the air. She had left them shut. Making a spill out of a twist of newspaper, she had been taught the art as a girl by one of her old mistresses. She stooped and flung open the oven door of her gas stove. Yes, it was as she had expected. A fierce heat had been generated there since she had last used the oven, and through to the stone floor below had fallen a mass of black, glowy soot. Mrs. Bunting took the ham and eggs that she had bought the previous day for her own and Bunting's breakfast upstairs, and broiled them over the gas ring in their sitting room. Her husband watched her in surprise silence. She had never done such a thing before. I couldn't stay down there, she said. It was so cold and foggy. I thought I'd make breakfast up here just for today. Yes, he said kindly. That's quite right, Ellen. I think you've done quite right, my dear. But when it came to the point, his wife could not eat any of the nice breakfast she had got ready. She only had another cup of tea. I'm afraid you're ill, Ellen, Bunting asked solicitously. No, she said shortly. I'm not ill at all. Don't be silly. The thought of that horrible thing happening so close by as upset me and put me off my food. Just hark to them now. Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of scurrying feet and loud, ribald laughter. What a crowd. Nay, what a mob must be hastening busily to and from the spot where there was now nothing to be seen. Mrs. Bunting made her husband lock the front gate. I don't want any of those ghouls in here, she exclaimed angrily. And then, what a lot of idle people there are in the world, she said. End of Chapter 15, recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 16 of the Lodger. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. The Lodger by Marie Bellock Lowndes. Chapter 16. Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to the window, stand there a while staring out at the people hurrying past, then coming back to the fireplace, sit down. But he could not stay long quiet. After a glance at his paper, up he would rise from his chair and go to the window again. I wish you'd stay still, his wife said at last, and then a few minutes later. Hadn't you better put your hat and coat on and go out, she exclaimed. And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hat and coat and go out. As he did so, he told himself that after all he was but human. It was natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful extraordinary thing which had just happened close by. Ellen wasn't reasonable about such things, how queer and disagreeable she had been that very morning, angry with him because he had gone out to hear what all the row was about, and even more angry when he had come back and said nothing because he thought it would annoy her to hear about it. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into the kitchen, and as she went through into the low white washed place, a tremor of fear of quick terror came over her. She turned and did what she had never in her life done before and what she had never heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen. She bolted the door. But having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off from everybody, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread. She felt as if she were locked in with an invisible presence, which mocked and jeered, reproached and threatened her by turns. Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days? Daisy at any rate was company, kind, young, unsuspecting company. With Daisy she could be her old, sharp self. It was such a comfort to be with someone to whom she not only need, but ought to say nothing. When with Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling of guilt, of shame. She was the man's wedded wife. In his stolid way he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping from him something he certainly had a right to know. Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful suspicion, nay, of her almost certainty. At last she went across to the door and unlocked it. Then she went upstairs and turned out her bedroom. That made her feel a little better. She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved by his absence. She would have liked to feel him nearby, and yet she welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house. And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind into what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what was going on upstairs. What a good rest the lodger was having. But there, that was only natural, Mr. Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last night, or rather this morning. Suddenly the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. Sleuth's landlady did not go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal which was the lodger's luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead she went downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger's food. Then, very slowly, with her heart beating clearly, she walked up and just outside the sitting-room, for she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth had got up, that he was there already, waiting for her. She rested the tray on the top of the banisters, and listened. For a few moments she heard nothing. Then through the door came the high, quavering voice with which she had become so familiar. She saith to him, Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant, but he knoweth not that the dead are there and that her guests are in the depths of hell. There was a long pause. Mrs. Bunting could hear the leaves of her Bible being turned over, eagerly, busily. And then again Mr. Sleuth broke out, this time in a softer voice. She hath cast down many wounded from her, yea, many strong men have been slain by her. And in a softer, lower, native tongue came the words. I applied my heart to know and to search and to seek out wisdom in the reason of things, and to know the wickedness of folly, even of foolishness and madness. And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, a spiritual oppression came over Mrs. Bunting. For the first time in her life she visioned the infinite mystery, the sadness and strangeness of human life. Poor Mr. Sleuth, poor unhappy distraught, Mr. Sleuth, an overwhelming pity blotted out for a moment, the fear, eye, and the loathing she had been feeling for her lodger. She knocked at the door, and then she took up her tray. Come in, Mrs. Bunting. Mr. Sleuth's voice sounded feebler, more toneless than usual. She turned the handle of the door and walked in. The lodger was not sitting in his usual place. He had taken the little round table on which his candle generally rested when he read in bed, out of his bedroom, and placed it over by the drawing-room window. On it were placed, open, the Bible and the concordance. But as his landlady came in, Mr. Sleuth hastily closed the Bible and began staring dreamily out of the window, down at the sordid, hurrying crowd of men and women, which now swept along the Marilobone Road. There seemed a great many people out to-day, he observed, without looking round. Yes, sir, there do. Mrs. Bunting began busying herself with laying the cloth and putting out the breakfast lunch, and as she did so she was seized with a mortal instinctive terror of the man sitting there. At last Mr. Sleuth got up and turned round. She forced herself to look at him. How tired, how worn he looked! And how strange! Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, he rubbed his hands together with a nervous gesture. It was a gesture he only made when something had pleased, nay, satisfied him. Mrs. Bunting, looking at him, remembered that he had rubbed his hands together thus when he had first seen the room upstairs, and realized that it contained a large gas stove and a convenient sink. What Mr. Sleuth was doing now also reminded her in an odd way of a play she had once seen, a play to which a young man had taken her when she was a girl, unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilled and fascinated her. Out, out, damned spot! That was what the tall, fierce, beautiful lady who had played the part of a queen had said, twisting her hands together just as the lodger was doing now. It's a fine day, said Mr. Sleuth, sitting down and unfolding his napkin. The fog has cleared. I do not know if you will agree with me, Mrs. Bunting, but I always feel brighter when the sun is shining as it is now, at any rate trying to shine. He looked at her inquiringly, but Mrs. Bunting could not speak. She only nodded. However, that did not affect Mr. Sleuth adversely. He had acquired a great liking and respect for this well-balanced, taciturn woman. She was the first woman for whom he had experienced any such feeling for many years past. He looked down at the still-covered dish and shook his head. I don't feel as if I could eat very much today, he said plaintively, and then he suddenly took a half-sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket. Already Mrs. Bunting had noticed that it was not the same waistcoat Mr. Sleuth had been wearing the day before. Mrs. Bunting, may I ask you to come here? And after a moment of hesitation his landlady obeyed him. Will you please accept this little gift for the use you kindly allowed me to make of your kitchen last night? He said quietly. I tried to make as little mess as I could, Mrs. Bunting, but, well, the truth is I was carrying out a very elaborate experiment. Mrs. Bunting held out her hand, she hesitated, and then she took the coin. The fingers which, for a moment, brushed lightly against her palm were icy cold, cold and clammy. Mr. Sleuth was evidently not well. As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet ball hanging in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Sleuth's landlady and threw blood-red gleams, or so it seemed to her, onto the piece of gold she was holding in her hand. The day went by as other days had gone by in that quiet household, but, of course, there was far greater animation outside the little house than was usually the case. Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time for some days, the whole of London seemed to be making holiday in that part of the town. When Bunting at last came back, his wife listened silently while he told her of the extraordinary excitement raining everywhere, and then, after he had been talking a long while, she suddenly shot a strange look at him. "'I suppose you went to see the place,' she said. And guiltily he acknowledged that he had done so. "'Well—' "'Well, there wasn't anything much to see, not now, but, oh, Ellen, the daring of him. Why, Ellen, if the poor soul had had time to cry out, which they don't believe she had, it's impossible someone wouldn't have heard her. They say that if he goes on doing it like that, in the afternoon like, he never will be caught. He must have just got mixed up with all the other people within ten seconds of what he'd done. During the afternoon Bunting bought papers recklessly. In fact, he must have spent the best part of six pence. But in spite of all the supposed and suggested clues, there was nothing—nothing at all new to read, less, in fact, than ever before. The police, it was clear, were quiet at a loss, and Mrs. Bunting began to feel curiously better, less tired, less ill, less—less terrified than she had felt through the morning. And then something happened which broke with dramatic suddenness the quietude of the day. They had had their tea, and Bunting was reading the last of the papers he had run out to buy, when suddenly there came a loud, thundering double-knock at the door. Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. Why, whoever can that be? she said. But as Bunting got up she added quickly. You just sit down again. I'll go myself. Sounds like someone after lodgings. I'll soon send them to the right about. And then she left the room, but not before there had come another loud double-knock. Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment she saw that the person who stood there was a stranger to her. He was a big, dark man with fierce black moustaches, and somehow, she could not have told you why, he suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bunting's mind. This notion of hers was confirmed by the very first words he uttered. For, I'm here to execute a warrant, he exclaimed in a theatrical hollow tone. With a weak cry of protest Mrs. Bunting suddenly threw out her arms as if to bar the way. She turned deadly white. But then, in an instant the supposed strangers laugh rang out with loud, jovial, familiar sound. There now, Mrs. Bunting, I never thought I'd take you in as well as all that. It was Joe Chandler. Joe Chandler dressed up as she knew he sometimes not very often did dress up in the course of his work. Mrs. Bunting began laughing. Bunting helplessly, hysterically, just as she had done on the morning of Daisy's arrival when the newspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marilabon Road. What's all this about? Bunting came out. Young Chandler roofily shut the front door. I didn't mean to upset her like this, he said, looking foolish. It was just my silly nonsense, Mr. Bunting, and together they helped her into the sitting-room. Once there poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse than ever. She threw her black apron over her face and began to sob hysterically. I made sure she'd know who I was when I spoke, went on the young fellow apologetically. But there now I have upset her. I am sorry. It don't matter, she exclaimed, throwing the apron off her face, but the tears were still streaming from her eyes as she sobbed and laughed by churns. Don't matter one little bit, Joe, twist stupid of me to be so taken aback. But there, that murder that's happened close by, it's just upset me, upset me altogether today. Enough to upset anyone that was, acknowledged the young man roofily. I've only come in for a minute-like. I haven't no right to come when I'm on duty like this. Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal were still on the table. You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup, said Bunting hospitably, and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We're right in the middle of everything now, ain't we? He spoke with evident enjoyment, almost pride in the gruesome fact. Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread and butter. He waited a moment, and then... Well, I have got one piece of news, not that I suppose it'll interest you very much. They both looked at him. Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though her breasts still heave from time to time. Our boss has resigned, said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively. No, not the commissioner of police, exclaimed Bunting. Yes, he has. He just can't bear what's said about us any longer, and I don't wonder. He done his best, and so's we all. The public have just gone daft in the West End, that is, today. As for the papers, well, they're something cruel, that's what they are. And the ridiculous ideas they print. You'd never believe the things they ask us to do, and quite serious like. What do you mean, questioned Mrs. Bunting? She really wanted to know. Well, the courier declares that there ought to be a house to house investigation all over London. Just think of it. Everybody to let the police go all over their house, from Garrett to Kitchen, just to see if the Avenger isn't concealed there. Dottie, I call it. Why'd you take us months and months just to do that one job in a town like London? I'd like to see them dare come into my house, said Mrs. Bunting, angrily. It's all along of them blustered papers that the Avenger went to work a different way this time, said Chandler slowly. Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his guest and was eagerly listening. How do you mean, he asked? I don't take your meaning, Joe. Well, you see, it's this way. The newspapers was always saying how extraordinary it was that the Avenger chose such a peculiar time to do his deeds. I mean, the time when no one's about the streets. Now, doesn't it stand to reason that the fellow, reading all that and seeing the sense of it, said to himself, I'll go on another tack this time? Just listen to this. He pulled a strip of paper part of a column cut from a newspaper out of his pocket. An ex-Lord Mayor of London on the Avenger. Will the murderer be caught? Yes, replied Sir John. He will certainly be caught, probably when he commits his next crime. A whole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on his track the moment he draws blood again. With the whole community against him he cannot escape, especially when it be remembered that he chooses the quietest hour in the twenty-four to commit his crimes. Londoners are now in such a state of nerves, if I may use the expression in such a state of funk, that every passerby, however innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbor if his avocation happens to take him abroad between the hours of one and three in the morning. I'd like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor, concluded Joe Chandler wrathfully. Just then the lodger's bell rang. Let me go up, my dear, said Bunting. His wife still looked pale and shaken by the fright she had had. No, no, she said hastily. You stop down here and talk to Joe. I'll look after Mr. Sleuth. He may be wanting his supper just a bit earlier than usual today. Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were made of cotton wool, she dragged herself up to the first floor, knocked at the door, and then went in. You did ring, sir, she said in her quiet, respectful way, and Mr. Sleuth looked up. She thought, but as she reminded herself afterwards, it might have been just her idea and nothing else, that for the first time the lodger looked frightened, frightened and cowed. I heard a noise downstairs, he said fretfully, and I wanted to know what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when I first took these rooms, quiet is essential to me. It was just a friend of ours, sir. I'm sorry you were disturbed. Would you like the knocker taken off to-morrow? Bunting will be pleased to do it if you don't like to hear the sound of the knocks. Oh, no, I wouldn't put you to such a trouble as that. Mr. Sleuth looked quite relieved. Just a friend of yours was it, Mrs. Bunting? He made a great deal of noise. Just a young fellow, she said apologetically. The son of one of Bunting's old friends. He often comes here, sir, but he never did give such a great big double knock as that before. I'll speak to him about it. Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing of the kind. It was just a passing annoyance, nothing more. She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing of the horse cries which had made of the road outside a perfect bedlam every hour or two throughout that day. But, no, Mr. Sleuth made no allusion to what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman at his reading. I thought maybe you'd like to have supper a little earlier tonight, sir. Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting, just when it's convenient, I do not wish to put you out in any way. She felt herself dismissed and, going out quietly, closed the door. As she did so, she heard the front door banging, too. She sighed. Joe Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow. End of Chapter 16, Recording by Leanne Howlett Chapter 17 of the Lodger. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. The Lodger. By Marie Bellock-Lownes. Chapter 17 Mrs. Bunting slept well the night following that during which the Lodger had been engaged in making his mysterious experiments in her kitchen. She was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came to her the moment she laid her head upon her pillow. Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardly giving herself time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and brought her, she got up and dressed. She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircase required a thorough doing down, and she did not even wait till they had eaten their breakfast before beginning her labors. It made Bunting feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading his morning paper, the paper which was again of such absorbing interest, he called out. There's no need for so much hurry, Ellen. Days you'll be back today. Why don't you wait till she's come home to help 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 of work. Don't you worry about me. I feel as if I'd enjoy doing an extra bit of cleaning today. I don't like to feel as anyone could come in and see my place dirty. No fear of that, Bunting chuckled, and then a new thought struck him. Ain't you afraid of waking the lodger, he called out? Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday and all last night, she answered 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 left the sitting-room door wide open. That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn't like to get up and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he would, he couldn't read with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He had never known Ellen make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice he looked up and frowned rather crossly. There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that. Ellen was 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 the paper this morning. She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her unusual curiosity, and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bunting suddenly uneasy. Come in, do, he repeated sharply. You've done quite enough, and before breakfast, too, taint 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 the broom with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner. Then she sat down. I'll think I'll make breakfast up here, she said. I—I feel cold, Bunting. And her husband stared at her, surprised, for drops of perspiration were glistening on her forehead. He got up. All right, I'll go down and bring the eggs up. Don't you worry. For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs if you like. No, she said obstinately. I'd rather do my own work. You just bring them up here. That'll be all right. Tomorrow morning we'll have Daisy to help see the things. Come over here and sit down comfortable in my chair, he suggested kindly. You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I never seed such a woman. And again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the room with languid steps. He watched her, anxiously, uncomfortably. She took up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bunting took two steps towards her. I'll show you the most interesting bit, he said eagerly. It's the piece headed our special investigator. You see, they've started a special investigator of their own, and he's got hold of a lot of little facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man who writes all that—I mean, the special investigator—was a famous tech in his time, and he's just come back out of his retirement a purpose to do this bit of work for the paper. You read what he says. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he ends by getting that reward. One can see he just loves the work of tracking people down. There's nothing to be proud of in such a job," said his wife listlessly. 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 off by Ellen's contradictory remarks. You just noticed that bit about the rubber souls. Now no one's thought of that. I'll just tell Chandler. He don't seem to me to be half awake that young man don't. He's quite wide awake enough without you saying things to him. How about those eggs, Bunting? I feel quite ready for my breakfast even if you don't. Mrs. Bunting now spoke of what her husband sometimes secretly described to himself as Ellen's snarling voice. He turned away and left the room, feeling oddly troubled. There was something queer about her, and he couldn't make it out. He didn't mind it when she spoke sharply and nastily to him. He was used to that. But now she was so up and down, so different from what she used to be. In old days she had always been the same, but now a man never knew where to have her. And as he went downstairs he pondered uneasily over his wife's changed 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 restful during that first week after Mr. Sleuth had come to them. Perhaps it was a sudden dramatic change from agonizing anxiety to peace and security which had been too much for Ellen. Yes, that was what was the matter with her. That and the universal excitement about these Avenger murders which were shaking the nerves of all London. Even Bunting, unobservant as he was, had come to realize that his wife took a morbid interest in these terrible happenings. And it was the more queer of her to do so that at first she refused to discuss them, and said openly that she was utterly uninterested in murder or crime of any sort. He, Bunting, had always had a mild pleasure in such things. In his time he had been a great reader of detective tales, and even now he thought there was no pleasanter reading. It was that which had first drawn him to Joe Chandler and made him welcome the young chap as cordially as he had done when they first came to London. But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged that sort of talk between the two men, more than once she had exclaimed reproachfully. To hear you too 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 any one could be to hear the latest details of an Avenger crime. True, she took her own view of any theory suggested. But there, Ellen always had had her own notions about everything under the sun. Ellen was a woman who thought for herself, a clever woman, not an everyday woman by any manner of means. While these thoughts were going disconnectively through his mind, Bunting was breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to give Ellen a nice little surprise. To cook an omelet as a French chef had once taught him to do years and years ago. He didn't know how she would take his doing such a thing after what she had said. But never mind, she would enjoy the omelet when done. Ellen hadn't been eating her food properly of late. And when he went up again his wife, to his relief, and it must be admitted to his surprise, took it very well. She had not even noticed how long he had been downstairs, for she had been reading with intense painful care the column that the great daily paper they took in had allotted to the one time famous detective. According to this special investigator's own account, he had discovered all sorts of things that had escaped the eye of the police and of the official detectives. For instance, owing he admitted to a fortunate chance, he had been at the place where the last two murders had been committed very soon after the double crime had been discovered. In fact, within half an hour, and he had found, or so he felt sure, on the slippery wet pavement imprints 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 investigator was very honest, and he had a good bit of space to fill in the enterprising paper, which had engaged him to probe the awful mystery, that there were thousands of rubber soles being worn in London. And when she came to that statement, Mrs. Bunting looked up, and there came a one smile over her thin, closely shut lips. It was quite true that about rubber soles. There were thousands of rubber soles being worn just now. She felt grateful to the special investigator for having stated the facts so clearly. The column ended up with the words, and today will take place the inquest on the double crime of ten days ago. To my mind it would be well if a preliminary public inquiry could be held at once. Say, on the very day the discovery of a fresh murder is made. In that way alone would it be possible to weigh and sift the evidence offered by members of the general public. For when a week or more has elapsed, and the same people have been examined and cross examined in private by the police, their impressions have had time to become blurred and hopelessly confused. On that last occasion, but one, there seems no doubt that several people, at any rate two women and one man, actually saw the murderer hurrying from the scene of his atrocious double crime. This being so, today's investigation may be of the highest value and importance. Tomorrow I hope to give an account of the impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statements made during its course. Even when her husband had come in with the tray Mrs. Bunting had gone on reading, only lifting up her eyes for a moment. At last he said rather crossly, put down that paper, Ellen, this minute. The omelet I've cooked for you will be just like leather if you don't eat it. But once his wife had eaten her breakfast, and to Bunting's mortification, she left more than half the nice omelet 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 to the Avenger and his crimes, the information she wanted, and uttered 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 that day. The hour named was a rather odd time, two o'clock in the afternoon, but from Mrs. Bunting's point of view it was most convenient. By two o'clock, nay by half past one, the lodger would have had his lunch. By hurrying matters a little she and Bunting would have had their dinner, and Daisy wasn't coming home till tea time. She got up out of her husband's chair. I think you're right, she said, in a quick horse 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 go with me. All right, he said vexedly, please yourself, my dear, you know best. 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 you wouldn'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 real solicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face. Somehow Ellen didn't look right, standing there opposite him. Her shoulder seemed to have shrunk, even her cheeks had fallen in a little. She had never looked so bad, not even when they had been half-starving and dreadfully, dreadfully worked. Yes, she said briefly, I have a pain in my head at the back of my neck. It doesn't often leave me, it gets worse when anything upsets me, like I was upset last night by Joe Chandler. He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that, said Bunting crossly. I had 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 said slowly. And Bunting remained silent, for Ellen was right. Joe Chandler had already spoken when he, Bunting, came out into the hall and saw their cleverly disguised visitor. Those big black moustaches he went on, complainingly, and that black wig, why, twist too ridiculous, 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, no how. If he's a wise lad, he won't let our Daisy ever see him looking like that. And Bunting laughed, a comfortable laugh. He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young Chandler the last two days, and on the whole he was well pleased. It was a dull, unnatural life the girl was leading with old Aunt. And Joe was earning good money. They wouldn't have long to wait, these two young people, as a beau and his girl often have to wait, as he, Bunting and Daisy's mother had to do for ever so long before they could be married. No, there was no reason why they shouldn't be spliced quite soon if so the fancy took them. And Bunting had 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 the week after next. They might wait till she was twenty. By that time old Aunt might be dead and Daisy might have come into quite a 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 was just thinking of Daisy and that young chap Joe Chandler. He is gone on her, ain't he? Gone. And then Mrs. Bunting laughed, a queer odd, not unkindly laugh. Gone, Bunting, she repeated, why he's out of 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 do 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 nearby King's Cross? Oh, no, he'd have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter of 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 considerable satisfaction. Otherwise I suppose you'd have had to go. I wouldn't like the house left, not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth would be upset if there came a ring at the door. Oh, I won't leave the house. Don't you be afraid, Ellen. Not while you're out. Not even if I'm out a good while, Bunting. No fear. Of course, she'll be a long time if it's your idea to see that doctorate ealing. He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bunting nodded. Somehow nodding didn't seem as bad as speaking a lie. End of Chapter 17, Recording by Leanne Howlett. CHAPTER XVIII. OF THE LODGER. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. THE LODGER. By Marie Bellock-Lownes. 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 is entirely novel. Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest in the character of a witness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory. In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying for a fortnight with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one of those sudden pitiful tragedies which occasionally destroyed the serenity, the apparent decorum of a large respectable household. The underhousemaid, a pretty happy-natured girl, had drowned herself for love of the footman who had given his sweetheart cause for bitter jealousy. The girl had chosen to speak of her troubles to the strange ladies maid rather than to her own fellow servants, and it was during the conversation the two women had had together that the girl had threatened to take her own life. As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to going out, she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful affair and of the part she herself had unwillingly played in it. She visualized 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 give evidence, and as they came up there had been a look of cheerful animation about the innyard. People coming and going, many women as well as men, village folk among whom the dead girl's fate had aroused a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror which those who live on a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid. Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to Ellen Green. There had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in the old inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated, not only with chairs, but with cake and wine. She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had felt 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 the sad business. But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had been a kindly spoken gentleman. In fact, he had complimented her on the clear, sensible way she had given her evidence concerning the exact words the unhappy girl had used. One thing Ellen Green had said, an answer to a question put by an inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, low-ceiling storied room. "'Ought not Miss Ellen Green,' so the man had asked, to have told someone of the girl's threat, if she had done so might not the girl have been prevented from throwing herself into the lake?' And she, the witness, had answered with some asperity, for by that time the coroner's kind manner had put her at her ease, that she had not attached any importance to what the girl had threatened to do, never believing that any young woman could be so silly as to drown herself for love. Fagely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at which she was going to be present this afternoon would be like that country inquest of long ago. It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry. She remembered very well how little by little that pleasant spoken gentleman, the coroner, had got the whole truth out. The story, that is, of how that horrid footman, whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the first minute she had set eyes on him, had taken up with another young woman. It had been supposed that this fact would not be elicited by the coroner. But it had been, quietly, remorselessly. More, the dead girl's letters had been read out. Pideous, queerly expressed letters, full of wild love and bitter threatening jealousy. And the jury had censured the young man most severely. She remembered the look on his face when the people, shrinking back, had made a passage for him to slink out of the crowded room. Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bunting that long ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and somehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it. She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest. She longed to ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess where 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 after the inquest was finished, if there was time, that is. She wondered uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely be very formal, and therefore short. She herself had one quite definite object, that of hearing the evidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving the spot where his victims lay weltering and their still-flowing blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and yes, eager curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matter would describe the appearance of the Avenger. After all, a lot of people must have seen him, for as Bunting had said only the day before to young Chandler, the Avenger was not a ghost. He was a living man with some kind of hiding-place where he was known, and where he spent his time between his awful crimes. As she came back to the sitting-room her extreme power struck her husband. Why, Ellen, he said, it is time you went to the doctor. You looks just as if you was going to a funeral. I'll come along with you as far as the station. You're going by train, ain't you? Not by bus, eh? It's a very long way to Ealing, you know. Here you go, breaking your solemn promise to me the very first minute. But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfully and sadly. And Bunting hung his head. Why, to be sure, I'd gone and clean forgot the lodger. But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait till tomorrow and take Daisy with you? I like doing my own business in my own way and not in someone else's way, she snapped out. And then more gently, for Bunting really looked concerned, and she did feel very far from well. I'll be all right, old man, don't you worry about me. As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawl she 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 burden with poor Bunting? Why, it would be enough to make a man go daft. Even she often felt as if she could stand it no longer, as if she would give the world to tell someone, anyone, what it was that she suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth. But unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog laden though it was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the last few days, for she had had a nervous terror of leaving the house unprotected, was also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to come into contact with the lodger. When she reached the underground station she stopped short. There were two ways of getting to St. Pancras. She could go by bus or she could go by train. She decided on the latter. But before turning into the station, her eyes straight over the bills of the early 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 inclined to buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyes were smarting even now from their unaccustomed following of the close print and the paper Bunting took in. Solely 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 be empty, saved for the presence of a police inspector. And once they were well away she summoned up courage and asked him the question she knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes. Can you tell me, she said in a low voice, were death inquests her held? She moistened her lips, waited a moment and then concluded, In the neighborhood of King's Cross, the man turned and looked at her attentively. She did not look at all the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest, there are many such, just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt, and the plain princess 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 Avenger inquest going on today, so I think they'll have had to make other arrangements for, hum, hum, ordinary cases. And as she looked at him dumbly he went on. There'll be a mighty crowd of people at the Avenger inquest, a lot of ticket folk to be accommodated to say nothing of the public. That's the inquest I'm going to, faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could scarcely get the words out. She realized with acute discomfort, yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward was that which she was going to do, fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder inquest. During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened by suspense and fear. She realized now, as she looked into the stalled face of her unknown friend, how she herself would have regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry from a simple morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet, and yet that was just what she was about to do herself. I've got a reason for wanting to go there, she murmured. It was a comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger. Ah, he said reflectively. A relative connected with one of the two victims' husbands, I presume? And Mrs. Bunting bent her head. Going to give evidence, he asked casually, and then he turned and looked 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 for quite a long time, I suppose. Never had seen her. I'm from the country. Something impelled Mrs. 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 was alluding. I mean the husband went on the inspector hastily. I felt sorry for the last poor chap. I mean the husband of the last one. He seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she'd been a good wife and a good mother till she took to the drink. It always is so, breathed out Mrs. Bunting. I—he waited a moment. Do you know anything about the court? He asked. She shook her head. Well don't you worry, I'll take you in along a me. You'd never get in by yourself. They got out, and owe the comfort of being in someone's charge of having a determined man in uniform to look after one. And yet even now there was to Mrs. Bunting something dreamlike, unsubstantial about the whole business. If he knew, if he only knew what I know, she kept saying over and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big burly form of the police inspector. "'Tisn't far, not three minutes,' he said suddenly. "'Am I walking too 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 in a mean-looking little 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 the serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice at the side of his uniform. "'Lucky you met me,' he said, smiling. "'You'd never have got through alone, and taint a nice crowd, not by any manner of means.' The small door opened just a little way and they found themselves on a narrow stone-flagged path leading into a square yard. A few men were out there, smoking. Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of the 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 room built out to the right of the court. "'Would you like to go in and see them?' he whispered. "'Oh, no,' she cried in a tone of extreme horror, and he looked down at her with sympathy and with increased respect. She was a nice respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued with any morbid horrible curiosity, but because she thought of her duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law to one of the avengers' victims. They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men talking in subdued yet eager animated tones. "'I think you'd better sit down here,' he said considerably, and leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the white-washed walls, unless you'd rather be with the witnesses, that is. But again she said, "'Oh, no,' and then with an effort. "'Aughton I 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 time and look after you.' She raised a thick veil she had pulled down over her face while they 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 picked out one at once. He was a famous journalist whose shrewd, animated face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely advertised in connection with the preparation for the hair, the preparation which in happier, more prosperous days, Bunting had had great faith in and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to himself. This gentleman was a center of an eager circle. Half a dozen men were talking to him, listening differentially when he spoke, and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realized, was a somebody. How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, from their doubtless, important avocations, one unseen mysterious beckoner had brought all these men here together to this sordid place on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality, that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose to call himself the Avenger. And somewhere, not so very far away from them all, the Avenger was keeping these clever, astute, highly trained minds, eye and bodies too, at bay. Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realized the irony of her presence among them. End of Chapter 18, Recording by Leanne Howlett.