The Essential Writings of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes

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СКАЧАТЬ of the official detectives. For instance, owing, he admitted, to a fortunate chance, he had been at the place where the two last 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 wan 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 fact 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 these 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. To-morrow 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 omelette 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 omelette untouched —she took the paper up again. She turned over the big sheets, until she found, at the foot of one of the ten columns devoted to The Avenger and his crimes, the information she wanted, and then 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—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, hoarse tone. “I mean about me seeing a doctor, Bunting. I think I will go and see a doctor this very afternoon.”

      “Wouldn’t you like me to go with you?” he asked.

      “No, that I wouldn’t. In fact I wouldn’t go at all you was to 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 shoulders 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’ve 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’d a good mind to tell him so, too. But I must say, Ellen, I wonder he took you in—he didn’t me!”

      “Well, you had no chance he should—you knew who it was,” she 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, ’twas too ridic’lous—that’s what I call it!”

      “Not to anyone who didn’t know Joe,” she said sharply.

      “Well, I don’t know. He didn’t look like a real man—nohow. 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 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 o’ sight —right, out of sight!”

      Then hesitatingly, and looking narrowly at her husband, she went on, twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke:— “I suppose he’ll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or—or d’you think he’ll have to be at that inquest, Bunting?”

      “Inquest? What inquest?” He looked at her puzzled.

      “Why, the inquest on them bodies found in the passage near by King’s Cross.”

      “Oh, no; he’d have no call to be at the inquest. For the matter o’ that, I know he’s going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night —just when you went up to the lodger.”

      “That’s just as well.” Mrs. Bunting spoke with considerable satisfaction. “Otherwise I suppose you’d ha’ had to go. I wouldn’t like the house left—not with us out of it. Mr. Sleuth СКАЧАТЬ