“That’s the inquest I’m going to,” faltered Mrs. Bunting. She could scarcely get the words out. She realised with acute discomfort, yes, and shame, how strange, how untoward, was that which she was going to do. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder inquest!
During the last few days all her perceptions had become sharpened by suspense and fear. She realised now, as she looked into the stolid face of her unknown friend, how she herself would have regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry from a simple, morbid feeling of curiosity. And yet—and yet that was just what she was about to do herself.
“I’ve got a reason for wanting to go there,” she murmured. It was a comfort to unburden herself this little way even to a stranger.
“Ah!” he said reflectively. “A—a relative connected with one of the two victims’ husbands, I presume?”
And Mrs. Bunting bent her head.
“Going to give evidence?” he asked casually, and then he turned and looked at Mrs. Bunting with far more attention than he had yet done.
“Oh, no!” There was a world of horror, of fear in the speaker’s voice.
And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. “Hadn’t seen her for quite a long time, I suppose?”
“Never had, seen her. I’m from the country.” Something impelled Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, “At least, I was.”
“Will he be there?”
She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he was alluding.
“I mean the husband,” went on the inspector hastily. “I felt sorry for the last poor chap—I mean the husband of the last one—he seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she’d been a good wife and a good mother till she took to the drink.”
“It always is so,” breathed out Mrs. Bunting.
“Aye.” He waited a moment. “D’you know anyone about the court?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Well, don’t you worry. I’ll take you in along o’ me. You’d never get in by yourself.”
They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in someone’s charge, of having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even now there was to Mrs. Bunting something dreamlike, unsubstantial about the whole business.
“If he knew—if he only knew what I know!” she kept saying over and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly form of the police inspector.
“ ’Tisn’t far—not three minutes,” he said suddenly. “Am I walking too quick for you, ma’am?”
“No, not at all. I’m a quick walker.”
And then suddenly they turned a corner and came on a mass of people, a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking little door sunk into a high wall.
“Better take my arm,” the inspector suggested. “Make way there! Make way!” he cried authoritatively; and he swept her through the serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice, at the sight of his uniform.
“Lucky you met me,” he said, smiling. “You’d never have got through alone. And ’tain’t a nice crowd, not by any manner of means.”
The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few men were out there, smoking.
Before preceding her into the building which rose at the back of the yard, Mrs. Bunting’s kind new friend took out his watch. “There’s another twenty minutes before they’ll begin,” he said. “There’s the mortuary”—he pointed with his thumb to a low room built out to the right of the court. “Would you like to go in and see them?” he whispered.
“Oh, no!” she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. And he looked down at her with sympathy, and with increased respect. She was a nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued with any morbid, horrible curiosity, but because she thought it her duty to do so. He suspected her of being sister-in-law to one of The Avenger’s victims.
They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones.
“I think you’d better sit down here,” he said considerately, and, leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed walls—“unless you’d rather be with the witnesses, that is.”
But again she said, “Oh, no!” And then, with an effort, “Oughtn’t I to go into the court now, if it’s likely to be so full?”
“Don’t you worry,” he said kindly. “I’ll see you get a proper place. I must leave you now for a minute, but I’ll come back in good time and look after you.”
She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while they were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, and looked about her.
Many of the gentlemen—they mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats—standing round and about her looked vaguely familiar. She picked out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair—the preparation which in happier, more prosperous days Bunting had had great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to himself. This gentleman was the centre of an eager circle; half a dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, and each of these men, so Mrs. Bunting realised, was a Somebody.
How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious beckoner had brought all these men here together, to this sordid place, on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality—that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose to call himself The Avenger. And somewhere, not so very far away from them all The Avenger was keeping these
