MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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various photographs which hung on the walls of the Black Museum; especially was he pleased to see those connected with a famous and still mysterious case which had taken place not long before in Scotland, and in which the servant of the man who died had played a considerable part—not in elucidating, but in obscuring, the mystery.
“I suppose a good many murderers get off?” he said musingly.
And Joe Chandler’s friend nodded. “I should think they did!” he exclaimed. “There’s no such thing as justice here in England. ’Tis odds on the murderer every time. ‘Tisn’t one in ten that come to the end he should do—to the gallows, that is.”
“And what d’you think about what’s going on now—I mean about those Avenger murders?”
Bunting lowered his voice, but Daisy and Chandler were already moving towards the door.
“I don’t believe he’ll ever be caught,” said the other confidentially. “In some ways ’tis a lot more of a job to catch a madman than ’tis to run down just an ordinary criminal. And, of course—leastways to my thinking—The Avenger is a madman—one of the cunning, quiet sort. Have you heard about the letter?” his voice dropped lower.
“No,” said Bunting, staring eagerly at him. “What letter d’you mean?”
“Well, there’s a letter—it’ll be in this museum some day—which came just before that last double event. ’Twas signed ‘The Avenger,’ in just the same printed characters as on that bit of paper he always leaves behind him. Mind you, it don’t follow that it actually was The Avenger what sent that letter here, but it looks uncommonly like it, and I know that the Boss attaches quite a lot of importance to it.”
“And where was it posted?” asked Bunting. “That might be a bit of a clue, you know.”
“Oh, no,” said the other. “They always goes a very long way to post anything—criminals do. It stands to reason they would. But this particular one was put in the Edgware Road Post Office.”
“What? Close to us?” said Bunting. “Goodness! dreadful!”
“Any of us might knock up against him any minute. I don’t suppose The Avenger’s in any way peculiar-looking—in fact we know he ain’t.”
“Then you think that woman as says she saw him did see him?” asked Bunting hesitatingly.
“Our description was made up from what she said,” answered the other cautiously. “But, there, you can’t tell! In a case like that it’s groping—groping in the dark all the time—and it’s just a lucky accident if it comes out right in the end. Of course, it’s upsetting us all very much here. You can’t wonder at that!”
“No, indeed,” said Bunting quickly. “I give you my word, I’ve hardly thought of anything else for the last month.”
Daisy had disappeared, and when her father joined her in the passage she was listening, with downcast eyes, to what Joe Chandler was saying.
He was telling her about his real home, of the place where his mother lived, at Richmond—that it was a nice little house, close to the park. He was asking her whether she could manage to come out there one afternoon, explaining that his mother would give them tea, and how nice it would be.
“I don’t see why Ellen shouldn’t let me,” the girl said rebelliously. “But she’s that old-fashioned and pernickety is Ellen—a regular old maid! And, you see, Mr. Chandler, when I’m staying with them, father don’t like for me to do anything that Ellen don’t approve of. But she’s got quite fond of you, so perhaps if you ask her—?” She looked at him, and he nodded sagely.
“Don’t you be afraid,” he said confidently. “I’ll get round Mrs. Bunting. But, Miss Daisy”—he grew very red—“I’d just like to ask you a question—no offence meant—”
“Yes?” said Daisy a little breathlessly. “There’s father close to us, Mr. Chandler. Tell me quick; what is it?”
“Well, I take it, by what you said just now, that you’ve never walked out with any young fellow?”
Daisy hesitated a moment; then a very pretty dimple came into her cheek. “No,” she said sadly. “No, Mr. Chandler, that I have not.” In a burst of candour she added, “You see, I never had the chance!”
And Joe Chandler smiled, well pleased.
Chapter 10
By what she regarded as a fortunate chance, Mrs. Bunting found herself for close on an hour quite alone in the house during her husband’s and Daisy’s jaunt with young Chandler.
Mr. Sleuth did not often go out in the daytime, but on this particular afternoon, after he had finished his tea, when dusk was falling, he suddenly observed that he wanted a new suit of clothes, and his landlady eagerly acquiesced in his going out to purchase it.
As soon as he had left the house, she went quickly up to the drawing-room floor. Now had come her opportunity of giving the two rooms a good dusting; but Mrs. Bunting knew well, deep in her heart, that it was not so much the dusting of Mr. Sleuth’s sitting-room she wanted to do—as to engage in a vague search for—she hardly knew for what.
During the years she had been in service Mrs. Bunting had always had a deep, wordless contempt for those of her fellow-servants who read their employers’ private letters, and who furtively peeped into desks and cupboards in the hope, more vague than positive, of discovering family skeletons.
But now, with regard to Mr. Sleuth, she was ready, aye, eager, to do herself what she had once so scorned others for doing.
Beginning with the bedroom, she started on a methodical search. He was a very tidy gentleman was the lodger, and his few things, under-garments, and so on, were in apple-pie order. She had early undertaken, much to his satisfaction, to do the very little bit of washing he required done, with her own and Bunting’s. Luckily he wore soft shirts.
At one time Mrs. Bunting had always had a woman in to help her with this tiresome weekly job, but lately she had grown quite clever at it herself. The only things she had to send out were Bunting’s shirts. Everything else she managed to do herself.
From the chest of drawers she now turned her attention to the dressing-table.
Mr. Sleuth did not take his money with him when he went out, he generally left it in one of the drawers below the old-fashioned looking-glass. And now, in a perfunctory way, his landlady pulled out the little drawer, but she did not touch what was lying there; she only glanced at the heap of sovereigns and a few bits of silver. The lodger had taken just enough money with him to buy the clothes he required. He had consulted her as to how much they would cost, making no secret of why he was going out, and the fact had vaguely comforted Mrs. Bunting.
Now she lifted the toilet-cover, and even rolled up the carpet a little way, but no, there was nothing there, not so much as a scrap of paper. And at last, when more or less giving up the search, as she came and went between the two rooms, leaving the connecting door wide open, her mind became full of uneasy speculation and wonder as to the lodger’s past life.
Odd Mr. Sleuth must surely always have been, but odd in a sensible sort of way, having on the whole the same moral ideals of conduct as have other people of his class. He was queer about the drink—one might say almost crazy on the subject—but there, as to that, he wasn’t the only one! She, Ellen Bunting, had once lived with a lady who was just like that, who was quite crazed, that is, on the question of drink and drunkards—She looked round the neat drawing-room with vague dissatisfaction. There was only one place where anything could be kept concealed—that place was the substantial if small mahogany chiffonnier. And then an idea suddenly came to Mrs. Bunting, one she had never thought of before.
After listening