The Lodger (26 page)

  The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner
of a coloured handkerchief she held in her hand.

  "Let us begin at the beginning," said the coroner
patiently. "What sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw
him hurrying from the passage?"

  "It was just a black 'at" said the witness at last,
in a husky, rather anxious tone.

  "Yes - just a black hat. And a coat - were you able
to see what sort of a coat he was wearing?"

  "'E 'adn't got no coat" she said decidedly. "No coat
at all! I remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, as
it was so cold - everybody as can wears some sort o' coat this
weather!"

  A juryman who had been looking at a strip of
newspaper, and apparently not attending at all to what the witness
was saying, here jumped up and put out his hand.

  "Yes?" the coroner turned to him.

  "I just want to say that this 'ere witness - if her
name is Lizzie Cole, began by saying The Avenger was wearing a coat
- a big, heavy coat. I've got it here, in this bit of paper."

  "I never said so!" cried the woman passionately. "I
was made to say all those things by the young man what came to me
from the Evening Sun. Just put in what 'e liked in 'is paper, 'e
did - not what I said at all!"

  At this there was some laughter, quickly
suppressed.

  "In future," said the coroner severely, addressing
the juryman, who had now sat down again, "you must ask any question
you wish to ask through your foreman, and please wait till I have
concluded my examination of the witness."

  But this interruption, this - this accusation, had
utterly upset the witness. She began contradicting herself
hopelessly. The man she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness
below was tall - no, he was short. He was thin - no, he was a
stoutish young man. And as to whether he was carrying anything,
there was quite an acrimonious discussion.

  Most positively, most confidently, the witness
declared that she had seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had
bulged out at the back - so she declared. But it was proved, very
gently and firmly, that she had said nothing of the kind to the
gentleman from Scotland Yard who had taken down her first account -
in fact, to him she had declared confidently that the man had
carried nothing - nothing at all; that she had seen his arms
swinging up and down.

  One fact - if fact it could be called - the coroner
did elicit. Lizzie Cole suddenly volunteered the statement that as
he had passed her window he had looked up at her. This was quite a
new statement.

  "He looked up at you?" repeated the coroner. "You
said nothing of that in your examination."

  "I said nothink because I was scared - nigh scared
to death!"

  "If you could really see his countenance, for we
know the night was dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he
was like?"

  But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand
straying over his desk; not a creature in that court now believed
the woman's story.

  "Dark!" she answered dramatically. "Dark, almost
black! If you can take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look."

  And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled.
And sharply the coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down.

  Far more credence was given to the evidence of the
next witness.

  This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently
dressed in black. Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay
in a big warehouse situated about a hundred yards from the alley or
passage where the crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take
her husband some food he always had at one in the morning. And a
man had passed her, breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her
attention had been drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone
at that hour, and because he had such an odd, peculiar look and
manner.

  Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that
it was very much from what this witness had said that the official
description of The Avenger had been composed - that description
which had brought such comfort to her, Ellen Bunting's, soul.

  This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her
account of the newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly
clear and positive.

  "It was a neat parcel," she said, "done up with
string."

  She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably
dressed young man to carry such a parcel - that was what had made
her notice it. But when pressed, she had to admit that it had been
a very foggy night - so foggy that she herself had been afraid of
losing her way, though every step was familiar.

  When the third woman went into the box, and with
sighs and tears told of her acquaintance with one of the deceased,
with Johanna Cobbett, there was a stir of sympathetic attention.
But she had nothing to say throwing any light on the investigation,
save that she admitted reluctantly that "Anny" would have been such
a nice, respectable young woman if it hadn't been for the
drink.

  Her examination was shortened as much as possible;
and so was that of the next witness, the husband of Johanna
Cobbett. He was a very respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big
business house at Croydon. He seemed to feel his position most
acutely. He hadn't seen his wife for two years; he hadn't had news
of her for six months. Before she took to drink she had been an
admirable wife, and - and yes, mother.

  Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a
heart, or imagination to understand, was spent when the father of
the murdered woman was in the box. He had had later news of his
unfortunate daughter than her husband had had, but of course he
could throw no light at all on her murder or murderer.

  A barman, who had served both the women with drink
just before the public-house closed for the night, was handled
rather roughly. He had stepped with a jaunty air into the box, and
came out of it looking cast down, uneasy.

  And then there took place a very dramatic, because
an utterly unexpected, incident. It was one of which the evening
papers made the utmost much to Mrs. Bunting's indignation. But
neither coroner nor jury - and they, after all, were the people who
mattered - thought a great deal of it.

  There had come a pause in the proceedings. All seven
witnesses had been heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bunting
whispered, "They are now going to call Dr. Gaunt. He's been in
every big murder case for the last thirty years. He's sure to have
something interesting to say. It was really to hear him I
came."

  But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from
the seat with which he had been accommodated close to the coroner,
there came a stir among the general public, or, rather, among those
spectators who stood near the low wooden door which separated the
official part of the court from the gallery.

  The coroner's officer, with an apologetic air,
approached the coroner, and banded him up an envelope. And again in
an instant, there fell absolute silence on the court.

  Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the
envelope. He glanced down the sheet of notepaper it contained. Then
he looked up.

  "Mr. - " then he glanced down again. "Mr. - ah - Mr.
- is it Cannot?" he said doubtfully, "may come forward."

  There ran a titter though the spectators, and the
coroner frowned.

  A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a nice
fur-lined overcoat, with a fresh, red face and white side-whiskers,
was conducted from the place where he had been standing among the
general public, to the witness-box.

  "This is somewhat out of order, Mr. - er - Cannot,"
said the coroner severely. "You should have sent me this note
before the proceedings began. This gentleman," he said, addressing
the jury, "informs me that he has something of the utmost
importance to reveal in connection with our investigation."

  "I have remained silent - I have locked what I knew
within my own breast" - began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice,
"because I am so afraid of the Press! I knew if I said anything,
even to the police, that my house would be besieged by reporters
and newspaper men.. .. I have a delicate wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a
state of things - the state of things I imagine - might cause her
death - indeed, I hope she will never read a report of these
proceedings. Fortunately, she has an excellent trained nurse -
"

  "You will now take the oath," said the coroner
sharply. He already regretted having allowed this absurd person to
have his say.

  Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum
which had been lacking in most of those who had preceded him.

  "I will, address myself to the jury," he began.

  "You will do nothing of the sort," broke in the
coroner. "Now, please attend to me. You assert in your letter that
you know who is the - the - "

  "The Avenger," put in Mr. Cannot promptly.

  "The perpetrator of these crimes. You further
declare that you met him on the very night he committed the murder
we are now investigating?"

  "I do so declare," said Mr. Cannot confidently.
"Though in the best of health myself," - he beamed round the court,
a now amused, attentive court - "it is my fate to be surrounded by
sick people, to have only ailing friends. I have to trouble you
with my private affairs, Mr. Coroner, in order to explain why I
happened to be out at so undue an hour as one o'clock in the
morning - "

  Again a titter ran through the court. Even the jury
broke into broad smiles.

  "Yes," went on the witness solemnly, "I was with a
sick friend - in fact, I may say a dying friend, for since then he
has passed away. I will not reveal my exact dwelling-place; you,
sir, have it on my notepaper. It is not necessary to reveal it, but
you will understand me when I say that in order to come home I had
to pass through a portion of the Regent's Park; and it was there -
to be exact, about the middle of Prince's Terrace - when a very
peculiar-looking individual stopped and accosted me."

  Mrs. Bunting's hand shot up to her breast. A feeling
of deadly fear took possession of her.

  "I mustn't faint," she said to herself hurriedly. "I
mustn't faint! Whatever's the matter with me?" She took out her
bottle of smelling-salts, and gave it a good, long sniff.

  "He was a grim, gaunt man, was this stranger, Mr.
Coroner, with a very odd-looking face. I should say an educated man
- in common parlance, a gentleman. What drew my special attention
to him was that he was talking aloud to himself - in fact, he
seemed to be repeating poetry. I give you my word, I had no thought
of The Avenger, no thought at all. To tell you the truth, I thought
this gentleman was a poor escaped lunatic, a man who'd got away
from his keeper. The Regent's Park, sir, as I need hardly tell you,
is a most quiet and soothing neighbourhood - "

  And then a member of the general public gave a loud
guffaw.

  "I appeal to you; sir," the old gentleman suddenly
cried out "to protect me from this unseemly levity! I have not come
here with any other object than that of doing my duty as a
citizen!"

  "I must ask you to keep to what is strictly
relevant" said the coroner stiffly. "Time is going on, and I have
another important witness to call - a medical witness. Kindly tell
me, as shortly as possible, what made you suppose that this
stranger could possibly be - " with an effort he brought out for
the first time since the proceedings began, the words, "The
Avenger?"

  "I am coming to that!" said Mr. Cannot hastily. "I
am coming to that! Bear with me a little longer, Mr. Coroner. It
was a foggy night, but not as foggy as it became later. And just
when we were passing one an-other, I and this man, who was talking
aloud to himself - he, instead of going on, stopped and turned
towards me. That made me feel queer and uncomfortable, the more so
that there was a very wild, mad look on his face. I said to him, as
soothingly as possible, 'A very foggy night, sir.' And he said,
'Yes - yes, it is a foggy night, a night fit for the commission of
dark and salutary deeds.' A very strange phrase, sir, that - 'dark
and salutary deeds.' He looked at the coroner expectantly -

  "Well? Well, Mr. Cannot? Was that all? Did you see
this person go off in the direction of - of King's Cross, for
instance?"

  "No." Mr. Cannot reluctantly shook his head. "No, I
must honestly say I did not. He walked along a certain way by my
side, and then he crossed the road and was lost in the fog."

  "That will do," said the coroner. He spoke more
kindly. "I thank you, Mr. Cannot, for coming here and giving us
what you evidently consider important information."

  Mr. Cannot bowed, a funny, little, old-fashioned
bow, and again some of those present tittered rather foolishly.

  As he was stepping down from the witness-box, he
turned and looked up at the coroner, opening his lips as he did so.
There was a murmur of talking going on, but Mrs. Bunting, at any
rate, heard quite distinctly what it was that he said:

  "One thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of
importance. The man carried a bag - a rather light-coloured leather
bag, in his left hand. It was such a bag, sir, as might well
contain a long-handled knife."

  Mrs. Bunting looked at the reporters' table. She
remembered suddenly that she had told Bunting about the
disappearance of Mr. Sleuth's bag. And then a feeling of intense
thankfulness came over her; not a single reporter at the long,
ink-stained table had put down that last remark of Mr. Cannot. In
fact, not one of them had heard it.

  Again the last witness put up his hand to command
attention. And then silence did fall on the court.

  "One word more," he said in a quavering voice. "May
I ask to be accommodated with a seat for the rest of the
proceedings? I see there is some room left on the witnesses'
bench." And, without waiting for permission, he nimbly stepped
across and sat down.