The Lodger

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

  CHAPTER XVI

  Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to thewindow; stand there awhile 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, uphe 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 fewminutes later, "Hadn't you better put your hat and coat on and goout?" she exclaimed.

  And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hatand coat and go out.

  As he did so he told himself that, after all, he was but human; itwas natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful,extraordinary thing which had just happened close by. Ellen wasn'treasonable about such things. How queer and disagreeable she hadbeen that very morning--angry with him because he had gone outto hear what all the row was about, and even more angry when he hadcome back and said nothing, because he thought it would annoy herto hear about it!

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into thekitchen, and as she went through into the low, whitewashed place,a tremor of fear, of quick terror, came over her. She turned anddid what she had never in her life done before, and what she hadnever heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen. She bolted the door.

  But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off fromeverybody, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread. Shefelt as if she were locked in with an invisible presence, whichmocked 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 comfortto be with someone to whom she not only need, but ought to, saynothing. When with Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling ofguilt, of shame. She was the man's wedded wife--in his stolid wayhe was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping from him somethinghe certainly had a right to know.

  Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadfulsuspicion--nay, of her almost certainty.

  At last she went across to the door and unlocked it. Then she wentupstairs and turned out her bedroom. That made her feel a littlebetter.

  She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relievedby his absence. She would have liked to feel him near by, and yetshe welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house.

  And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mindinto what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time whatwas going on upstairs.

  What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, that was onlynatural. Mr. Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time lastnight, or rather this morning.

  ******

  Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But Mr. Sleuth's landlady didnot go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple mealwhich was the lodger's luncheon and breakfast combined. Instead, shewent downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger's food.

  Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up, andjust outside the sitting-room--for she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth hadgot up, that he was there already, waiting for her--she rested thetray on the top of the banisters and listened. For a few moments sheheard nothing; then through the door came the high, quavering voicewith which she had become so familiar:

  "'She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten insecret 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 ofher 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 menhave been slain by her.'" And in a softer, lower, plaintive tonecame the words: "'I applied my heart to know, and to search, andto seek out wisdom and the reason of things; and to know thewickedness of folly, even of foolishness and madness.'"

  And as she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress, ofspiritual oppression, came over Mrs. Bunting. For the first timein her life she visioned the infinite mystery, the sadness andstrangeness, of human life.

  Poor Mr. Sleuth--poor unhappy, distraught Mr. Sleuth! Anoverwhelming pity blotted out for a moment the fear, aye, and theloathing, 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, moretoneless than usual.

  She turned the handle of the door and walked in. The lodger wasnot sitting in his usual place; he had taken the little round tableon which his candle generally rested when he read in bed, out ofhis bedroom, and placed it over by the drawing-room window. On itwere placed, open, the Bible and the Concordance. But as hislandlady came in, Mr. Sleuth hastily closed the Bible, and beganstaring dreamily out of the window, down at the sordid, hurryingcrowd of men and women which now swept along the Marylebone Road.

  "There seem a great many people out today," he observed, withoutlooking round.

  "Yes, sir, there do."

  Mrs. Bunting began busying herself with laying the cloth andputting out the breakfast-lunch, and as she did so she was seizedwith a mortal, instinctive terror of the man sitting there.

  At last Mr. Sleuth got up and turned round. She forced herself tolook at him. How tired, how worn, he looked, and--how strange!

  Walking towards the table on which lay his meal, he rubbed his handstogether with a nervous gesture--it was a gesture he only made whensomething had pleased, nay, satisfied him. Mrs. Bunting, looking athim, remembered that he had rubbed his hands together thus when hehad first seen the room upstairs, and realised that it contained alarge gas-stove and a convenient sink.

  What Mr. Sleuth was doing now also reminded her in an odd way of aplay she had once seen--a play to which a young man had taken herwhen she was a girl, unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilledand 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 hisnapkin. "The fog has cleared. I do not know if you will agree withme, 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 herinquiringly, 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 experiencedany such feeling for many years past.

  He looked down at the still covered dish, and shook his head. "Idon't feel as if I could eat very much to-day," 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 waistcoatMr. 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 kindlyallowed 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 tookthe coin. The fingers which for a moment brushed lightly againsther palm were icy cold--cold and clammy. Mr. Sleuth was evidentlynot well.

  As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet ballhanging in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Sleuth's landlady, andthrew blood-red gleams, or so it seemed to her, on to the piece ofgold 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 littlehouse than was usually the cas
e.

  Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time for somedays, the whole of London seemed to be making holiday in that partof the town.

  When Bunting at last came back, his wife listened silently while hetold her of the extraordinary excitement reigning everywhere. Andthen, after he had been talking a long while, she suddenly shot astrange 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 cryout--which they don't believe she had--it's impossible someonewouldn't 'a heard her. They say that if he goes on doing it likethat--in the afternoon, like--he never will be caught. He musthave just got mixed up with all the other people within ten secondsof what he'd done!"

  During the afternoon Bunting bought papers recklessly--in fact, hemust have spent the best part of six-pence. But in spite of all thesupposed and suggested clues, there was nothing--nothing at all newto read, less, in fact than ever before.

  The police, it was clear, were quite at a loss, and Mrs. Buntingbegan to feel curiously better, less tired, less ill, less--lessterrified than she had felt through the morning.

  And then something happened which broke with dramatic suddenness thequietude of the day.

  They had had their tea, and Bunting was reading the last of thepapers 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?" shesaid.

  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 sendthem to the right-about!"

  And then she left the room, but not before there had come anotherloud double knock.

  Mrs. Bunting opened the front door. In a moment she saw that theperson who stood there was a stranger to her. He was a big, darkman, with fierce, black moustaches. And somehow--she could nothave 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 armsas if to bar the way; she turned deadly white--but then, in aninstant the supposed stranger's laugh rang out, with loud, jovial,familiar sound!

  "There now, Mrs. Bunting! I never thought I'd take you in as wellas all that!"

  It was Joe Chandler--Joe Chandler dressed up, as she knew hesometimes, not very often, did dress up in the course of his work.

  Mrs. Bunting began laughing--laughing helplessly, hysterically,just as she had done on the morning of Daisy's arrival, when thenewspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marylebone Road.

  "What's all this about?" Bunting came out

  Young Chandler ruefully shut the front door. "I didn't mean toupset her like this," he said, looking foolish; "'twas just my sillynonsense, Mr. Bunting." And together they helped her into thesitting-room.

  But, once there, poor Mrs. Bunting went on worse than ever; shethrew 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 youngfellow apologetically. "But, there now, I have upset her. I amsorry!"

  "It don't matter!" she exclaimed, throwing the apron off her face,but the tears were still streaming from her eyes as she sobbed andlaughed by turns. "Don't matter one little bit, Joe! 'Twas stupidof me to be so taken aback. But, there, that murder that's happenedclose by, it's just upset me--upset me altogether to-day."

  "Enough to upset anyone--that was," acknowledged the young manruefully. "I've only come in for a minute, like. I haven't noright to come when I'm on duty like this--"

  Joe Chandler was looking longingly at what remains of the meal werestill on the table.

  "You can take a minute just to have a bite and a sup," said Buntinghospitably; "and then you can tell us any news there is, Joe. We'reright in the middle of everything now, ain't we?" He spoke withevident enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact.

  Joe nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread-and-butter. Hewaited a moment, and then: "Well I have got one piece of news--notthat I suppose it'll interest you very much."

  They both looked at him--Mrs. Bunting suddenly calm, though herbreast still heaved from time to time.

  "Our Boss has resigned!" said Joe Chandler slowly, impressively.

  "No! Not the Commissioner o' 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. Thepublic have just gone daft--in the West End, that is, to-day. Asfor the papers, well, they're something cruel--that's what theyare. And the ridiculous ideas they print! You'd never believe thethings they asks us to do--and quite serious-like."

  "What d'you mean?" questioned Mrs. Bunting. She really wanted toknow.

  "Well, the Courier declares that there ought to be a house-to-houseinvestigation--all over London. Just think of it! Everybody tolet the police go all over their house, from garret to kitchen,just to see if The Avenger isn't concealed there. Dotty, I callsit! Why, 'twould take us months and months just to do that onejob in a town like London."

  "I'd like to see them dare come into my house!" said Mrs. Buntingangrily.

  "It's all along of them blarsted papers that The Avenger went towork a different way this time," said Chandler slowly.

  Bunting had pushed a tin of sardines towards his guest, and waseagerly listening. "How d'you mean?" he asked. "I don't takeyour meaning, Joe."

  "Well, you see, it's this way. The newspapers was always sayinghow extraordinary it was that The Avenger chose such a peculiartime to do his deeds--I mean, the time when no one's about thestreets. Now, doesn't it stand to reason that the fellow, readingall that, and seeing the sense of it, said to himself, 'I'll go onanother tack this time'? Just listen to this!" He pulled a stripof 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 willcertainly be caught--probably when he commits his next crime. Awhole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on histrack the moment he draws blood again. With the whole communityagainst him, he cannot escape, especially when it be remembered thathe 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 theexpression, in such a state of funk--that every passer-by, howeverinnocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour if hisavocation happens to take him abroad between the hours of one andthree in the morning.'

  "I'd like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor!" concluded Joe Chandlerwrathfully.

  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 abit earlier than usual to-day."

  Slowly, painfully, again feeling as if her legs were made of cottonwool, 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 havebeen just her idea, and nothing else--that for the first time thelodger looked frightened--frightened and cowed.

  "I heard a noise downstairs," he said fretfully, "and I wanted toknow what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bunting, when Ifirst 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'll bepleased to do
it if you don't like to hear the sound of the knocks."

  "Oh, no, I wouldn't put you to such trouble as that." Mr. Sleuthlooked 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 ofBunting's old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never didgive such a great big double knock as that before. I'll speak tohim about it."

  "Oh, no, Mrs. Bunting. I would really prefer you did nothing ofthe kind. It was just a passing annoyance--nothing more!"

  She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Sleuth said nothing ofthe hoarse cries which had made of the road outside a perfect Bedlamevery hour or two throughout that day. But no, Mr. Sleuth made noallusion to what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman athis reading.

  "I thought maybe you'd like to have supper a little earlier to-night,sir?"

  "Just when you like, Mrs. Bunting--just when it's convenient. Ido 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 to. She sighed--Joe Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow.