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 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 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, on to 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 reigning 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 ’a 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 quite 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 stranger’s laugh rang out, with a 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—laughing helplessly, hysterically, just as she had done on the morning of Daisy’s arrival, when the newspaper-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 to upset her like this,” he said, looking foolish; “ ’twas just my silly nonsense, Mr. Bunting.” And together they helped her into the sitting-room.
But, 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 turns. “Don’t matter one little bit, Joe! ’Twas 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 to-day.”
“Enough to upset anyone—that was,” acknowledged the young man ruefully. “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 breast 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. The public have just gone daft—in the West End, that is, to-day. 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 asks us to do—and quite serious-like.”
“What d’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 garret to kitchen, just to see if The Avenger isn’t concealed there. Dotty, I calls it! Why, ’twould 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 blarsted papers that The Ave
nger 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 d’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 passer-by, however innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbour 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 to-day.”
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’ll 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 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 hoarse 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 to-night, 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 to. She sighed—Joe Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow.
CHAPTER XVII
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 labours. 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. Daisy’ll be back to-day. 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 to-day. 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. ’Tain’t 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 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. To-morrow morning we’ll have Daisy to help see to 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 see’d 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 ’tec in his time, and he’s just come back out of his retirement o’ purpose to do this bit of work for the paper. You read what he says—I s
houldn’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 notice that bit about the rubber soles. Now, no one’s thought o’ 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 in 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—so restful, during that first week after Mr. Sleuth had come to them. Perhaps it was the sudden, dramatic change from agonising 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 realise 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.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 79