The Lodger (24 page)

***

  Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at
which she was going to be present this afternoon would be like that
country inquest of long ago.

  It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she
remembered very well how little by little that pleasant-spoken
gentleman, the coroner, had got the whole truth out - the story,
that is, of how that horrid footman, whom she, Ellen Green, had
disliked from the first minute she had set eyes on him, had, taken
up with another young woman. It had been supposed that this fact
would not be elicited by the coroner; but it had been, quietly,
remorselessly; more, the dead girl's letters had been read out -
piteous, queerly expressed letters, full of wild love and bitter,
threatening jealousy. And the jury had censured the young man most
severely; she remembered the look on his face when the people,
shrinking back, had made a passage for him to slink out of the
crowded room.

  Come to think of it now, it was strange she had
never told Bunting that long-ago tale. It had occurred years before
she knew him, and somehow nothing had ever happened to make her
tell him about it.

  She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an
inquest. She longed to ask him. But if she asked him now, this
minute, he might guess where she was thinking of going.

  And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she
shook her head - no, no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he
would never, never suspect her of telling him a lie.

  Stop - had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the
doctor after the inquest was finished - if there was time, that is.
She wondered uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last.
In this case, as so very little had been discovered, the
proceedings would surely be very formal - formal and therefore
short.

  She herself had one quite definite object - that of
hearing the evidence of those who believed they had seen the
murderer leaving the spot where his victims lay weltering in their
still flowing blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and,
yes, eager curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about
the matter would describe the appearance of The Avenger. After all,
a lot of people must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only
the day before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a ghost; he
was a living man with some kind of hiding-place where he was known,
and where he spent his time between his awful crimes.

  As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme
pallor struck her husband.

  "Why, Ellen," he said, "it is time you went to the
doctor. You looks just as if you was going to a funeral. I'll come
along with you as far as the station. You're going by train, ain't
you? Not by bus, eh? It's a very long way to Ealing, you know."

  "There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me
the very first minute!" But somehow she did not speak unkindly,
only fretfully and sadly.

  And Bunting hung his head. "Why, to be sure I'd gone
and clean forgot the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why
not wait till to-morrow, and take Daisy with you?"

  "I like doing my own business in my own way, and not
in someone else's way!" she snapped out; and then more gently, for
Bunting really looked concerned, and she did feel very far from
well, "I'll be all right, old man. Don't you worry about me!"

  As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the
black shawl she had put over her long jacket more closely round
her.

  She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so
kind a husband. And yet, what could she do? How could she share her
dreadful burden with poor Bunting? Why, 'twould be enough to make a
man go daft. Even she often felt as if she could stand it no longer
- as if she would give the world to tell someone - anyone - what it
was that she suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be
the truth.

  But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air,
fog-laden though it was, soon began to do her good. She had gone
out far too little the last few days, for she had had a nervous
terror of leaving the house unprotected, as also a great
unwillingness to allow Bunting to come into contact with the
lodger.

  When she reached the Underground station she stopped
short. There were two ways of getting to St. Pancras - she could go
by bus, or she could go by train. She decided on the latter. But
before turning into the station her eyes strayed over the bills of
the early afternoon papers lying on the ground.

  Two words,

  THE AVENGER,

  stared up at her in varying type.

  Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about
her shoulders, Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. She did
not feel inclined to buy a paper, as many of the people round her
were doing. Her eyes were smarting, even now, from their
unaccustomed following of the close print in the paper Bunting took
in.

  Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground
station.

  And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell
Mrs. Bunting.

  The third-class carriage in which she took her place
happened to be empty, save for the presence of a police inspector.
And once they were well away she summoned up courage, and asked him
the question she knew she would have to ask of someone within the
next few minutes.

  "Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where
death inquests are held " - she moistened her lips, waited a
moment, and then concluded - " in the neighbourhood of King's
Cross?"

  The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She
did not look at all the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest -
there are many such - just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly,
for he was a widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt; and
the plain Princess bonnet which framed her pale, refined face.

  "I'm going to the Coroner's Court myself." he said
good-naturedly. "So you can come along of me. You see there's that
big Avenger inquest going on to-day, so I think they'll have had to
make other arrangements for - hum, hum - ordinary cases." And as
she looked at him dumbly, he went on, "There'll be a mighty crowd
of people at The Avenger inquest - a lot of ticket folk to be
accommodated, to say nothing of the public."

  "That's the inquest I'm going to," faltered Mrs.
Bunting. She could scarcely get the words out. She realised with
acute discomfort, yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was
that which she was going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting
to attend a murder inquest!

  During the last few days all her perceptions had be
come sharpened by suspense and fear. She realised now, as she
looked into the stolid face of her unknown friend, how she herself
would have regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry
from a simple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet - and yet that
was just what she was about to do herself.

  "I've got a reason for wanting to go there," she
murmured. It was a comfort to unburden herself this little way even
to a stranger.

  "Ah!" he said reflectively. "A - a relative
connected with one of the two victims' husbands, I presume?"

  And Mrs. Bunting bent her head.

  "Going to give evidence?" he asked casually, and
then he turned and looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention
than he had yet done.

  "Oh, no!" There was a world of horror, of fear in
the speaker's voice.

  And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. "Hadn't
seen her for quite a long time, I suppose?"

  "Never had, seen her. I'm from the country."
Something impelled Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily
corrected herself, "At least, I was."

  "Will he be there?"

  She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing
to whom he was alluding.

  "I mean the husband," went on the inspector hastily.
"I felt sorry for the last poor chap - I mean the husband of the
last one - he seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she'd been a
good wife and a good mother till she took to the drink."

  "It always is so," breathed out Mrs. Bunting.

  "Aye." he waited a moment. "D'you know anyone about
the court?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Well, don't you worry. I'll take you in along o'
me. You'd never get in by yourself."

  They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some
one's charge, of having a determined man in uniform to look after
one! And yet even now there was to Mrs. Bunting something
dream-like, unsubstantial about the whole business.

  "If he knew - if he only knew what I know!" she kept
saying over and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the
big, burly form of the police inspector.

  "'Tisn't far - not three minutes," he said suddenly.
"Am I walking too quick for you, ma'am?"'

  "No, not at all. I'm a quick walker."

  And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a
mass of people, a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at
a mean-looking little door sunk into a high wall.

  "Better take my arm," the inspector suggested. "Make
way there! Make way!" he cried authoritatively; and he swept her
through the serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice,
at the sight of his uniform.

  "Lucky you met me," he said, smiling. "You'd never
have got through alone. And 'tain't a nice crowd, not by any manner
of means."

  The small door opened just a little way, and they
found themselves on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a
square yard. A few men were out there, smoking.

  Before preceding her into the building which rose at
the back of the yard, Mrs. Bunting's kind new friend took out his
watch. "There's another twenty minutes before they'll begin," he
said. "There's the mortuary" - he pointed with his thumb to a low
room built out to the right of the court. "Would you like to go in
and see them?" he whispered.

  "Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of extreme horror.
And he looked down at her with sympathy, and with increased
respect. She was a nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not
come here imbued with any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because
she thought it her duty to do so. He suspected her of being
sister-in-law to one of The Avenger's victims.

  They walked through into a big room or hall, now
full of men talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones.

  "I think you'd better sit down' here," he said
considerately, and, leading her to one of the benches that stood
out from the whitewashed walls - "unless you'd rather be with the
witnesses, that is."

  But again she said, "Oh, no!" And then, with an
effort, "Oughtn't I to go into the court now, if it's likely to be
so full?"

  "Don't you worry," he said kindly. "I'll see you get
a proper place. I must leave you now for a minute, but I'll come
back in good time and look after you."

  She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over
her face while they were going through that sinister,
wolfish-looking crowd outside, and looked about her.

  Many of the gentlemen - they mostly wore tall hats
and good overcoats - standing round and about her looked vaguely
familiar. She picked out one at once. He was a famous journalist,
whose shrewd, animated face was familiar to her owing to the fact
that it was widely advertised in connection with a preparation for
the hair - the preparation which in happier, more prosperous days
Bunting had had great faith in, and used, or so he always said,
with great benefit to himself. This gentleman was the centre of an
eager circle; half a dozen men were talking to him, listening
deferentially when he spoke, and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting
realised, was a Somebody.

  How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all
parts of London, from their doubtless important avocations, one
unseen, mysterious beckoner had brought all these men here
together, to this sordid place, on this bitterly cold, dreary day.
Here they were, all thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown,
mysterious personality - that of the shadowy and yet terribly real
human being who chose to call himself The Avenger. And somewhere,
not so very far away from them all The Avenger was keeping these
clever, astute, highly trained minds - aye, and bodies, too - at
bay.

  Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised
the irony of her presence among them.