Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bunting that long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and somehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it.
She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest. She longed to ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess where she was thinking of going.
And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head—no, no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he would never, never suspect her of telling him a lie.
Stop—had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor after the inquest was finished—if there was time, that is. She wondered uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely be very formal—formal and therefore short.
She herself had one quite definite object—that of hearing the evidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving the spot where his victims lay weltering in their still flowing blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and, yes, eager curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matter would describe the appearance of The Avenger. After all, a lot of people must have seen him, for, as Bunting had said only the day before to young Chandler, The Avenger was not a ghost; he was a living man with some kind of hiding-place where he was known, and where he spent his time between his awful crimes.
As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her husband.
“Why, Ellen,” he said, “it is time you went to the doctor. You looks just as if you was going to a funeral. I’ll come along with you as far as the station. You’re going by train, ain’t you? Not by bus, eh? It’s a very long way to Ealing, you know.”
“There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first minute!” But somehow she did not speak unkindly, only fretfully and sadly.
And Bunting hung his head. “Why, to be sure I’d gone and clean forgot the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait till tomorrow, and take Daisy with you?”
“I like doing my own business in my own way, and not in someone else’s way!” she snapped out; and then more gently, for Bunting really looked concerned, and she did feel very far from well, “I’ll be all right, old man. Don’t you worry about me!”
As she turned to go across to the door, she drew the black shawl she had put over her long jacket more closely round her.
She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving so kind a husband. And yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden with poor Bunting? Why, ’twould be enough to make a man go daft. Even she often felt as if she could stand it no longer—as if she would give the world to tell someone—anyone—what it was that she suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth.
But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the last few days, for she had had a nervous terror of leaving the house unprotected, as also a great unwillingness to allow Bunting to come into contact with the lodger.
When she reached the Underground station she stopped short. There were two ways of getting to St. Pancras—she could go by bus, or she could go by train. She decided on the latter. But before turning into the station her eyes strayed over the bills of the early afternoon papers lying on the ground.
Two words,
The Avenger,
stared up at her in varying type.
Drawing her black shawl yet a little closer about her shoulders, Mrs. Bunting looked down at the placards. She did not feel inclined to buy a paper, as many of the people round her were doing. Her eyes were smarting, even now, from their unaccustomed following of the close print in the paper Bunting took in.
Slowly she turned, at last, into the Underground station.
And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bunting.
The third-class carriage in which she took her place happened to be empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. And once they were well away she summoned up courage, and asked him the question she knew she would have to ask of someone within the next few minutes.
“Can you tell me,” she said, in a low voice, “where death inquests are held”—she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then concluded—“in the neighbourhood of King’s Cross?”
The man turned and, looked at her attentively. She did not look at all the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest—there are many such—just for the fun of the thing. Approvingly, for he was a widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt; and the plain Princess bonnet which framed her pale, refined face.
“I’m going to the Coroner’s Court myself,” he said good-naturedly. “So you can come along of me. You see there’s that big Avenger inquest going on today, so I think they’ll have had to make other arrangements for—hum, hum—ordinary cases.” And as she looked at him dumbly, he went on, “There’ll be a mighty crowd of people at
