The Lodger (34 page)

  Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very
extravagant present but she was far too wretched, far too absorbed
in her own thoughts, to trouble much about it. Besides, in such
matters she had generally had the good sense not to interfere
between her husband and his child.

  In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went
out to buy himself some more tobacco. He had never smoked so much
as in the last four days, excepting, perhaps, the week that had
followed on his leaving service. Smoking a pipe had then held all
the exquisite pleasure which we are told attaches itself to the
eating of forbidden fruit.

  His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it
acted on his nerves as an opiate, soothing his fears and helping
him to think. But he had been overdoing it, and it was that which
now made him feel so "jumpy," so he assured himself, when he found
himself starting at any casual sound outside, or even when his wife
spoke to him suddenly.

  Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen,
and Bunting didn't quite like the sensation of knowing that there
was only one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he
quietly slipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was
going out.

  In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual
haunts; above all, he had avoided even passing the time of day to
his acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear,
that they would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled
his mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray the
knowledge - no, not knowledge, rather the - the suspicion - that
dwelt within him.

  But to-day the unfortunate man had a curious,
instinctive longing for human companionship - companionship, that
is, other than that of his wife and of his daughter.

  This longing for a change of company finally led him
into a small, populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgeware Road.
There were more people there than usual just now, for the
housewives of the neighbourhood were doing their Saturday marketing
for Sunday. The ex-butler turned into a small old-fashioned shop
where he generally bought his tobacco.

  Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist,
and the two fell into desultory talk, but to his customer's relief
and surprise the man made no allusion to the subject of which all
the neighbourhood must still be talking.

  And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by
the counter, and before he had paid for the packet of tobacco he
held in his hand, Bunting, through the open door, saw with
horrified surprise that Ellen, his wife, was standing, alone,
outside a greengrocer's shop just opposite.

  Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the
shop and across the road.

  "Ellen!" he gasped hoarsely, "you've never gone and
left my little girl alone in the house with the lodger?

  Mrs. Bunting's face went yellow with fear. "I
thought you was indoors," she cried. "You was indoors! Whatever
made you come out for, without first making sure I'd stay in?"

  Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each
other in exasperated silence, each now knew that the other
knew.

  They turned and scurried down the crowded street.
"Don't run," he said suddenly; "we shall get there just as quickly
if we walk fast. People are noticing you, Ellen. Don't run."

  He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness
induced by fear and by excitement, not by the quick pace at which
they were walking.

  At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting
pushed past in front of his wife.

  After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn't know
how he was feeling.

  He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled
for a moment with his latchkey.

  Opening wide the door, "Daisy!" he called out, in a
wailing voice, "Daisy, my dear! where are you?"

  "Here I am, father. What is it?"

  "She's all right " Bunting turned a grey face to his
wife. "She's all right Ellen."

  He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the
passage. "It did give me a turn," he said, and then, warningly,
"Don't frighten the girl, Ellen."

  Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting
room, admiring herself in the glass.

  "Oh, father," she exclaimed, without turning round,
"I've seen the lodger! He's quite a nice gentleman, though, to be
sure, he does look a cure. He rang his bell, but I didn't like to
go up; and so he came down to ask Ellen for something. We had quite
a nice little chat - that we had. I told him it was my birthday,
and he asked me and Ellen to go to Madame Tussaud's with him this
afternoon." She laughed, a little self-consciously. "Of course, I
could see he was 'centric, and then at first he spoke so funnily.
'And who be you?' he says, threatening-like. And I says to him,
'I'm Mr. Bunting's daughter, sir.' 'Then you're a very fortunate
girl ' - that's what he says, Ellen - 'to 'ave such a nice
step-mother as you've got. That's why,' he says, 'you look such a
good, innocent girl.' And then he quoted a bit of the Prayer Book.
'Keep innocency,' he says, wagging his head at me. Lor'! It made me
feel as if I was with Old Aunt again."

  "I won't have you going out with the lodger - that's
flat."

  Bunting spoke in a muffled, angry tone. He was
wiping his forehead with one hand, while with the other he
mechanically squeezed the little packet of tobacco, for which, as
he now remembered, he had forgotten to pay.

  Daisy pouted. "Oh, father, I think you might let me
have a treat on my birthday! I told him that Saturday wasn't a very
good day - at least, so I'd heard - for Madame Tussaud's. Then he
said we could go early, while the fine folk are still having their
dinners." She turned to her stepmother, then giggled happily. "He
particularly said you was to come, too. The lodger has a wonderful
fancy for you, Ellen; if I was father, I'd feel quite jealous!"

  Her last words were cut across by a, tap-tap on the
door.

  Bunting and his wife looked at each other
apprehensively. Was it possible that, in their agitation, they had
left the front door open, and that someone, some merciless myrmidon
of the law, had crept in behind them?

  Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they
saw that it was only Mr. Sleuth - Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out;
the tall hat he had worn when he had first come to them was in his
hand, but he was wearing a coat instead of his Inverness cape.

  "I heard you come in " - he addressed Mrs. Bunting
in his high, whistling, hesitating voice - "and so I've come down
to ask you if you and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud's
now. I have never seen those famous waxworks, though I've heard of
the place all my life."

  As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his
lodger, a sudden doubt bringing with it a sense of immeasurable
relief, came to Mr. Sleuth's landlord.

  Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle,
mild-mannered gentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning
that Bunting had now for the terrible space of four days believed
him to be!

  He tried to catch his wife's eye, but Mrs. Bunting
was looking away, staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore
the bonnet and cloak in which she had just been out to do her
marketing. Daisy was already putting on her hat and coat.

  "Well?" said Mr. Sleuth. Then Mrs. Bunting turned,
and it seemed to his landlady that he was looking at her
threateningly. "Well?"

  "Yes, sir. We'll come in a minute," she said
dully.

  
M
adame Tussaud's
had hitherto held pleasant memories for Mrs. Bunting. In the days
when she and Bunting were courting they often spent there part of
their afternoon-out.

  The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hopkins,
who was one of the waxworks staff, and this man had sometimes given
him passes for "self and lady." But this was the first time Mrs.
Bunting had been inside the place since she had come to live almost
next door, as it were, to the big building.

  They walked in silence to the familiar entrance, and
then, after the ill-assorted trio had gone up the great staircase
and into the first gallery, Mr. Sleuth suddenly stopped short. The
presence of those curious, still, waxen figures which suggest so
strangely death in life, seemed to surprise and affright him.

  Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger's
hesitation and unease.

  "Oh, Ellen," she cried, "do let us begin by going
into the Chamber of Horrors! I've never been in there. Old Aunt
made father promise he wouldn't take me the only time I've ever
been here. But now that I'm eighteen I can do just as I like;
besides, Old Aunt will never know."

  Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed
for a moment over his worn, gaunt face.

  "Yes," he said, "let us go into the Chamber of
Horrors; that's a good idea, Miss Bunting. I've always wanted to
see the Chamber of Horrors."

  They turned into the great room in which the
Napoleonic relics were then kept, and which led into the curious,
vault-like chamber where waxen effigies of dead criminals stand
grouped in wooden docks.

  Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to
see her husband's old acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in charge of the
turnstile admitting the public to the Chamber of Horrors.

  "Well, you are a stranger," the man observed
genially. "I do believe that this is the very first time I've seen
you in here, Mrs. Bunting, since you was married!"

  "Yes," she said, "that is so. And this is my
husband's daughter, Daisy; I expect you've heard of her, Mr.
Hopkins. And this" - she hesitated a moment - "is our lodger, Mr.
Sleuth."

  But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy,
leaving her stepmother's side, joined him.

  Two, as all the world knows, is company, three is
none. Mrs. Bunting put down three sixpences.

  "Wait a minute," said Hopkins; "you can't go into
the Chamber of Horrors just yet. But you won't have to wait more
than four or five minutes, Mrs. Bunting. It's this way, you see;
our boss is in there, showing a party round." He lowered his voice.
"It's Sir John Burney - I suppose you know who Sir John Burney
is?"

  "No," she answered indifferently, "I don't know that
I ever heard of him."

  She felt slightly - oh, very sightly - uneasy about
Daisy. She would have liked her stepdaughter to keep well within
sight and sound, but Mr. Sleuth was now taking the girl down to the
other end of the room.

  "Well, I hope you never will know him - not in any
personal sense, Mrs. Bunting." The man chuckled. "He's the
Commissioner of Police - the new one - that's what Sir John Burney
is. One of the gentlemen he's showing round our place is the Paris
Police boss - whose job is on all fours, so to speak, with Sir
John's. The Frenchy has brought his daughter with him, and there
are several other ladies. Ladies always likes horrors, Mrs.
Bunting; that's our experience here. 'Oh, take me to the Chamber of
Horrors ' - that's what they say the minute they gets into this
here building!"

  Mrs. Bunting looked at him thoughtfully. It occurred
to Mr. Hopkins that she was very wan and tired; she used to look
better in the old days, when she was still in service, before
Bunting married her.

  "Yes," she said; "that's just what my stepdaughter
said just now. 'Oh, take me to the Chamber of Horrors' - that's
exactly what she did say when we got upstairs."

***

  A group of people, all talking and laughing
together; were advancing, from within the wooden barrier, toward
the turnstile.

  Mrs. Bunting stared at them nervously. She wondered
which of them was the gentleman with whom Mr. Hopkins had hoped she
would never be brought into personal contact; she thought she could
pick him out among the others. He was a tall, powerful, handsome
gentleman, with a military appearance.