The Essential Writings of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes

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СКАЧАТЬ then what immediately followed recalled to Mrs. Bunting, for the first time, that informal little country inquest of long ago.

      First came the “Oyez! Oyez!” the old Norman–French summons to all whose business it is to attend a solemn inquiry into the death —sudden, unexplained, terrible—of a fellow-being.

      The jury—there were fourteen of them—all stood up again. They raised their hands and solemnly chanted together the curious words of their oath.

      Then came a quick, informal exchange of sentences ’twixt the coroner and his officer.

      Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed the bodies—he quickly corrected himself—the body, for, technically speaking, the inquest just about to be held only concerned one body.

      And then, amid a silence so absolute that the slightest rustle could be heard through the court, the coroner—a clever-looking gentleman, though not so old as Mrs. Bunting thought he ought to have been to occupy so important a position on so important a day—gave a little history, as it were, of the terrible and mysterious Avenger crimes.

      He spoke very clearly, warming to his work as he went on.

      He told them that he had been present at the inquest held on one of The Avenger’s former victims. “I only went through professional curiosity,” he threw in by way of parenthesis, “little thinking, gentlemen, that the inquest on one of these unhappy creatures would ever be held in my court.”

      On and on, he went, though he had, in truth, but little to say, and though that little was known to every one of his listeners.

      Mrs. Bunting heard one of the older gentlemen sitting near her whisper to another: “Drawing it out all he can; that’s what he’s doing. Having the time of his life, evidently!” And then the other whispered back, so low that she could only just catch the words, “Aye, aye. But he’s a good chap—I knew his father; we were at school together. Takes his job very seriously, you know—he does today, at any rate.”

      She was listening intently, waiting for a word, a sentence, which would relieve her hidden terrors, or, on the other hand, confirm them. But the word, the sentence, was never uttered.

      And yet, at the very end of his long peroration, the coroner did throw out a hint which might mean anything—or nothing.

      “I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence today as will in time lead to the apprehension of the miscreant who has committed, and is still committing, these terrible crimes.”

      Mrs. Bunting stared uneasily up into the coroner’s firm, determined-looking face. What did he mean by that? Was there any new evidence—evidence of which Joe Chandler, for instance, was ignorant? And, as if in answer to the unspoken question, her heart gave a sudden leap, for a big, burly man had taken his place in the witness-box—a policeman who had not been sitting with the other witnesses.

      But soon her uneasy terror became stilled. This witness was simply the constable who had found the first body. In quick, business-like tones he described exactly what had happened to him on that cold, foggy morning ten days ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it slowly, carefully, with a thick finger. That was the exact place —no, he was making a mistake—that was the place where the other body had lain. He explained apologetically that he had got rather mixed up between the two bodies—that of Johanna Cobbett and Sophy Hurtle.

      And then the coroner intervened authoritatively: “For the purpose of this inquiry,” he said, “we must, I think, for a moment consider the two murders together.”

      After that, the witness went on far more comfortably; and as he proceeded, in a quick monotone, the full and deadly horror of The Avenger’s acts came over Mrs. Bunting in a great seething flood of sick fear and—and, yes, remorse.

      Up to now she had given very little thought—if, indeed, any thought —to the drink-sodden victims of The Avenger. It was he who had filled her thoughts,—he and those who were trying to track him down. But now? Now she felt sick and sorry she had come here today. She wondered if she would ever be able to get the vision the policeman’s words had conjured up out of her mind—out of her memory.

      And then there came an eager stir of excitement and of attention throughout the whole court, for the policeman had stepped down out of the witness-box, and one of the women witnesses was being conducted to his place.

      Mrs. Bunting looked with interest and sympathy at the woman, remembering how she herself had trembled with fear, trembled as that poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was trembling now. The woman had looked so cheerful, so—so well pleased with herself till a minute ago, but now she had become very pale, and she looked round her as a hunted animal might have done.

      But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and gentle in his manner, just as that other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen Green at the inquest on that poor drowned girl.

      After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice the solemn words of the oath, she began to be taken, step by step, though her story. At once Mrs. Bunting realised that this was the woman who claimed to have seen The Avenger from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence, as she went on, the witness described how she had heard a long-drawn, stifled screech, and, aroused from deep sleep, had instinctively jumped out of bed and rushed to her window.

      The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. “Let me see! Here is the plan. Yes—I think I understand that the house in which you are lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes were committed?”

      And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The house did not face the alley, but the window of the witness’s bedroom faced the alley.

      “A distinction without a difference,” said the coroner testily. “And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when you looked out.”

      There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And then the woman broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. “I saw ’im!” she cried. “I shall never forget it—no, not till my dying day!” And she looked round defiantly.

      Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had had with a person who slept under this woman’s room. That person had unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not got up that night—that she had made up the whole story. She, the speaker, slept lightly, and that night had been tending a sick child. Accordingly, she would have heard if there had been either the scream described by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed.

      “We quite understand that you think you saw the”—the coroner hesitated—“the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible crimes. But what we want to have from you is a description of him. In spite of the foggy atmosphere about which all are agreed, you say you saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards below your window. Now, please, try and tell us what he was like.”

      The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a coloured handkerchief she held in her hand.

      “Let us begin at the beginning,” said the coroner patiently. “What sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from the passage?”

      “It was just a black ‘at” said the witness at last, in a husky, rather anxious tone.

      “Yes—just a black hat. And a coat—were you able to see what sort of a coat he was wearing?”

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