The Lodger by Marie Belloc Lowndes (english novels to improve english .TXT) đ
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He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasnât worth answering. Then, âIt was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while the poor soul was still warm,ââhe shudderedââthat brought me out West this morning. One of our bosses lives close by, in Prince Albert Terrace, and I had to go and tell him all about it. They never offered me a bit or a supâI think they might have done that, donât you, Mrs. Bunting?â
âYes,â she said absently. âYes, I do think so.â
âBut, there, I donât know that I ought to say that,â went on Chandler. âHe had me up in his dressing-room, and was very considerate-like to me while I was telling him.â
âHave a bit of something now?â she said suddenly.
âOh, no, I couldnât eat anything,â he said hastily. âI donât feel as if I could ever eat anything any more.â
âThatâll only make you ill.â Mrs. Bunting spoke rather crossly, for she was a sensible woman. And to please her he took a bite out of the slice of bread-and-butter she had cut for him.
âI expect youâre right,â he said. âAnd Iâve a goodish heavy day in front of me. Been up since four, tooââ
âFour?â she said. âWas it then they foundââ she hesitated a moment, and then said, âit?â
He nodded. âIt was just a chance I was near by. If Iâd been half a minute sooner either I or the officer who found her must have knocked up against thatâthat monster. But two or three people do think they saw him slinking away.â
âWhat was he like?â she asked curiously.
âWell, thatâs hard to answer. You see, there was such an awful fog. But thereâs one thing they all agree about. He was carrying a bagââ
âA bag?â repeated Mrs. Bunting, in a low voice. âWhatever sort of bag might it have been, Joe?â
There had come across herâjust right in her middle, likeâsuch a strange sensation, a curious kind of tremor, or fluttering.
She was at a loss to account for it.
âJust a hand-bag,â said Joe Chandler vaguely. âA woman I spoke to âcross-examining her, likeâwho was positive she had seen him, said, âJust a tall, thin shadowâthatâs what he was, a tall, thin shadow of a manâwith a bag.ââ
âWith a bag?â repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. âHow very strange and peculiarââ
âWhy, no, not strange at all. He has to carry the thing he does the deed with in something, Mrs. Bunting. Weâve always wondered how he hid it. They generally throws the knife or fire-arms away, you know.â
âDo they, indeed?â Mrs. Bunting still spoke in that absent, wondering way. She was thinking that she really must try and see what the lodger had done with his bag. It was possibleâin fact, when one came to think of it, it was very probableâthat he had just lost it, being so forgetful a gentleman, on one of the days he had gone out, as she knew he was fond of doing, into the Regentâs Park.
âThereâll be a description circulated in an hour or two,â went on Chandler. âPerhaps thatâll help catch him. There isnât a London man or woman, I donât suppose, who wouldnât give a good bit to lay that chap by the heels. Well, I suppose I must be going now.â
âWonât you wait a bit longer for Bunting?â she said hesitatingly.
âNo, I canât do that. But Iâll come in, maybe, either this evening or to-morrow, and tell you any more thatâs happened. Thanks kindly for the tea. Itâs made a man of me, Mrs. Bunting.â
âWell, youâve had enough to unman you, Joe.â
âAye, that I have,â he said heavily.
A few minutes later Bunting did come in, and he and his wife had quite a little tiffâthe first tiff they had had since Mr. Sleuth became their lodger.
It fell out this way. When he heard who had been there, Bunting was angry that Mrs. Bunting hadnât got more details of the horrible occurrence which had taken place that morning, out of Chandler.
âYou donât mean to say, Ellen, that you canât even tell me where it happened?â he said indignantly. âI suppose you put Chandler off âthatâs what you did! Why, whatever did he come here for, excepting to tell us all about it?â
âHe came to have something to eat and drink,â snapped out Mrs. Bunting. âThatâs what the poor lad came for, if you wants to know. He could hardly speak of it at allâhe felt so bad. In fact, he didnât say a word about it until heâd come right into the room and sat down. He told me quite enough!â
âDidnât he tell you if the piece of paper on which the murderer had written his name was square or three-cornered?â demanded Bunting.
âNo; he did not. And that isnât the sort of thing I should have cared to ask him.â
âThe more fool you!â And then he stopped abruptly. The newsboys were coming down the Marylebone Road, shouting out the awful discovery which had been made that morningâthat of The Avengerâs fifth murder. Bunting went out to buy a paper, and his wife took the things he had brought in down to the kitchen.
The noise the newspaper-sellers made outside had evidently wakened Mr. Sleuth, for his landlady hadnât been in the kitchen ten minutes before his bell rang.
Mr. Sleuthâs bell rang again.
Mr. Sleuthâs breakfast was quite ready, but for the first time since he had been her lodger Mrs. Bunting did not answer the summons at once. But when there came the second imperative tinkleâfor electric bells had not been fitted into that old-fashioned houseâ she made up her mind to go upstairs.
As she emerged into the hall from the kitchen stairway, Bunting, sitting comfortably in their parlour, heard his wife stepping heavily under the load of the well-laden tray.
âWait a minute!â he called out. âIâll help you, Ellen,â and he came out and took the tray from her.
She said nothing, and together they proceeded up to the drawing-room floor landing.
There she stopped him. âHere,â she whispered quickly, âyou give me that, Bunting. The lodger wonât like your going in to him.â And then, as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she added in a rather acid tone, âYou might open the door for me, at any rate! How can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on my hands?â
She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprisedârather put out. Ellen wasnât exactly what youâd call a lively, jolly woman, but when things were going wellâas nowâshe was generally equable enough. He supposed she was still resentful of the way he had spoken to her about young Chandler and the new Avenger murder.
However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door, and as soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked into the room.
And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief, of lightness of heart.
As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible.
Somehowâshe could not have told you why, she would not willingly have told herselfâshe had expected to see Mr. Sleuth looking different. But no, he appeared to be exactly the sameâin fact, as he glanced up at her a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up his thin, pallid face.
âWell, Mrs. Bunting,â he said genially, âI overslept myself this morning, but I feel all the better for the rest.â
âIâm glad of that, sir,â she answered, in a low voice. âOne of the ladies I once lived with used to say, âRest is an old-fashioned remedy, but itâs the best remedy of all.ââ
Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Crudenâs Concordance off the table out of her way, and then he stood watching his landlady laying the cloth.
Suddenly he spoke again. He was not often so talkative in the morning. âI think, Mrs. Bunting, that there was someone with you outside the door just now?â
âYes, sir. Bunting helped me up with the tray.â
âIâm afraid I give you a good deal of trouble,â he said hesitatingly.
But she answered quickly, âOh, no, sir! Not at all, sir! I was only saying yesterday that weâve never had a lodger that gave us as little trouble as you do, sir.â
âIâm glad of that. I am aware that my habits are somewhat peculiar.â
He looked at her fixedly, as if expecting her to give some sort of denial to this observation. But Mrs. Bunting was an honest and truthful woman. It never occurred to her to question his statement. Mr. Sleuthâs habits were somewhat peculiar. Take that going out at night, or rather in the early morning, for instance? So she remained silent.
After she had laid the lodgerâs breakfast on the table she prepared to leave the room. âI suppose Iâm not to do your room till you goes out, sir?â
And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply. âNo, no!â he said. âI never want my room done when I am engaged in studying the Scriptures, Mrs. Bunting. But I am not going out to-day. I shall be carrying out a somewhat elaborate experimentâupstairs. If I go out at allâ he waited a moment, and again he looked at her fixedly ââI shall wait till night-time to do so.â And then, coming back to the matter in hand, he added hastily, âPerhaps you could do my room when I go upstairs, about five oâclockâif that time is convenient to you, that is?â
âOh, yes, sir! Thatâll do nicely!â
Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did not faceâeven in her inmost heartâthe strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken her. She only repeated to herself again and again, âIâve got upset âthatâs what Iâve done,â and then she spoke aloud, âI must get myself a dose at the chemistâs next time Iâm out. Thatâs what I must do.â
And just as she murmured the word âdo,â there came a loud double knock on the front door.
It was only the postmanâs knock, but the postman was an unfamiliar visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunting started violently. She was nervous, thatâs what was the matter with her,âso she told herself angrily. No doubt this was a letter for Mr. Sleuth; the lodger must have relations and acquaintances somewhere in the world. All gentlefolk have. But when she picked the small envelope off the hall floor, she saw it was a letter from Daisy, her husbandâs daughter.
âBunting!â she called out sharply. âHereâs a letter for you.â
She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. Yes, there was her husband, sitting back comfortably in his easy chair, reading a paper. And as she saw his broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting felt a sudden thrill of sharp irritation. There he was, doing nothingâin fact, doing worse than nothingâwasting his time reading all about those horrid crimes.
She sighedâa long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was getting into idle ways, bad ways for a man of his years. But how could she prevent it? He had been such an active, conscientious sort of man when they had first made acquaintanceâŠ
She also could remember, even more clearly than Bunting did himself, that first meeting of theirs in the dining-room of No. 90 Cumberland Terrace. As she had stood there, pouring out her mistressâs glass of port wine, she had not been too much absorbed in her task to have a good out-of-her-eye look at the spruce, nice, respectable-looking fellow who was standing over by the window. How superior he had appeared even then to the man she already hoped he would succeed as butler!
To-day, perhaps because
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