The Essential Writings of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes

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СКАЧАТЬ lodger and me came in together last night,” he observed genially. “He’s certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn’t the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now was it? And yet he must ‘a been out a long time if what he said was true.”

      “I don’t wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the crowded streets,” she said slowly. “They gets worse every day— that they do! But go along now; I want to get up.”

      He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper.

      Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into his head? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No doubt Mr. Sleuth’s nose had bled—that was what had happened; though, come to think of it, he had mentioned brushing up against a dead animal.

      Perhaps Ellen was right after all. It didn’t do for one to be always thinking of dreadful subjects, of murders and such-like. It made one go dotty—that’s what it did.

      And just as he was telling himself that, there came to the door a loud knock, the peculiar rat-tat-tat of a telegraph boy. But before he had time to get across the room, let alone to the front door, Ellen had rushed through the room, clad only in a petticoat and shawl.

      “I’ll go,” she cried breathlessly. “I’ll go, Bunting; don’t you trouble.”

      He stared at her, surprised, and followed her into the hall.

      She put out a hand, and hiding herself behind the door, took the telegram from the invisible boy. “You needn’t wait,” she said. “If there’s an answer we’ll send it out ourselves.” Then she tore the envelope open—“Oh!” she said with a gasp of relief. “It’s only from Joe Chandler, to say he can’t go over to fetch Daisy this morning. Then you’ll have to go.”

      She walked back into their sitting-room. “There!” she said. “There it is, Bunting. You just read it.”

      “Am on duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged.— Chandler.”

      “I wonder why he’s on duty?” said Bunting slowly, uncomfortably. “I thought Joe’s hours was as regular as clockwork—that nothing could make any difference to them. However, there it is. I suppose it’ll do all right if I start about eleven o’clock? It may have left off snowing by then. I don’t feel like going out again just now. I’m pretty tired this morning.”

      “You start about twelve,” said his wife quickly.

      “That’ll give plenty of time.”

      The morning went on quietly, uneventfully. Bunting received a letter from Old Aunt saying Daisy must come back next Monday, a little under a week from now. Mr. Sleuth slept soundly, or, at any rate, he made no sign of being awake; and though Mrs. Bunting often, stopped to listen, while she was doing her room, there came no sounds at all from overhead.

      Scarcely aware that it was so, both Bunting and his wife felt more cheerful than they had done for a long time. They had quite a pleasant little chat when Mrs. Bunting came and sat down for a bit, before going down to prepare Mr. Sleuth’s breakfast.

      “Daisy will be surprised to see you—not to say disappointed!” she observed, and she could not help laughing a little to herself at the thought. And when, at eleven, Bunting got up to go, she made him stay on a little longer. “There’s no such great hurry as that,” she said good-temperedly. “It’ll do quite well if you’re there by half-past twelve. I’ll get dinner ready myself. Daisy needn’t help with that. I expect Margaret has worked her pretty hard.”

      But at last there came the moment when Bunting had to start, and his wife went with him to the front door. It was still snowing, less heavily, but still snowing. There were very few people coming and going, and only just a few cabs and carts dragging cautiously along through the slush.

      Mrs. Bunting was still in the kitchen when there came a ring and a knock at the door—a now very familiar ring and knock. “Joe thinks Daisy’s home again by now!” she said, smiling to herself.

      Before the door was well open, she heard Chandler’s voice. “Don’t be scared this time, Mrs. Bunting!” But though not exactly scared, she did give a gasp of surprise. For there stood Joe, made up to represent a public-house loafer; and he looked the part to perfection, with his hair combed down raggedly over his forehead, his seedy-looking, ill-fitting, dirty clothes, and greenish-black pot hat.

      “I haven’t a minute,” he said a little breathlessly. “But I thought I’d just run in to know if Miss Daisy was safe home again. You got my telegram all right? I couldn’t send no other kind of message.”

      “She’s not back yet. Her father hasn’t been gone long after her.” Then, struck by a look in his eyes, “Joe, what’s the matter?” she asked quickly.

      There came a thrill of suspense in her voice, her face grew drawn, while what little colour there was in it receded, leaving it very pale.

      “Well,” he said. “Well, Mrs. Bunting, I’ve no business to say anything about it—but I will tell you!”

      He walked in and shut the door of the sitting-room carefully behind him. “There’s been another of ’em!” he whispered. “But this time no one is to know anything about it—not for the present, I mean,” he corrected himself hastily. “The Yard thinks we’ve got a clue— and a good clue, too, this time.”

      “But where—and how?” faltered Mrs. Bunting.

      “Well, ’twas just a bit of luck being able to keep it dark for the present”—he still spoke in that stifled, hoarse whisper. “The poor soul was found dead on a bench on Primrose Hill. And just by chance ’twas one of our fellows saw the body first. He was on his way home, over Hampstead way. He knew where he’d be able to get an ambulance quick, and he made a very clever, secret job of it. I ‘spect he’ll get promotion for that!”

      “What about the clue?” asked Mrs. Bunting, with dry lips. “You said there was a clue?”

      “Well, I don’t rightly understand about the clue myself. All I knows is it’s got something to do with a public-house, ‘The Hammer and Tongs,’ which isn’t far off there. They feels sure The Avenger was in the bar just on closing-time.”

      And then Mrs. Bunting sat down. She felt better now. It was natural the police should suspect a public-house loafer. “Then that’s why you wasn’t able to go and fetch Daisy, I suppose?”

      He nodded. “Mum’s the word, Mrs. Bunting! It’ll all be in the last editions of the evening newspapers—it can’t be kep’ out. There’d be too much of a row if ’twas!”

      “Are you going off to that public-house now?” she asked.

      “Yes, I am. I’ve got a awk’ard job—to try and worm something out of the barmaid.”

      “Something out of the barmaid?” repeated Mrs. Bunting nervously. “Why, whatever for?”

      He came and stood close to her. “They think ’twas a gentleman,” he whispered.

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