The Greatest Works of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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And ’twas the more wonderful because all three buttons was different!”
Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken button which had hung a man. “And whatever’s that!” she asked, pointing to a piece of dirty-looking stuff.
“Well,” said Chandler reluctantly, “that’s rather a horrible thing —that is. That’s a bit o’ shirt that was buried with a woman— buried in the ground, I mean—after her husband had cut her up and tried, to burn her. ’Twas that bit o’ shirt that brought him to the gallows.”
“I considers your museum’s a very horrid place!” said Daisy pettishly, turning away.
She longed to be out in the passage again, away from this brightly lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room.
But her father was now absorbed in the case containing various types of infernal machines. “Beautiful little works of art some of them are,” said his guide eagerly, and Bunting could not but agree.
“Come along—do, father!” said Daisy quickly. “I’ve seen about enough now. If I was to stay in here much longer it ‘ud give me the horrors. I don’t want to have no nightmares to-night. It’s dreadful to think there are so many wicked people in the world. Why, we might knock up against some murderer any minute without knowing it, mightn’t we?”
“Not you, Miss Daisy,” said Chandler smilingly. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever come across even a common swindler, let alone anyone who’s committed a murder—not one in a million does that. Why, even I have never had anything to do with a proper murder case!”
But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly enjoying every moment of the time. Just now he was studying intently the 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