Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage,
when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is entirely
novel.
Mrs. Bunting had already attended an inquest, in the character of a
witness, and it was one of the few happenings of her life which was
sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory.
In a country house where the then Ellen Green had been staying for a
fortnight with her elderly mistress, there had occurred one of those
sudden, pitiful tragedies which occasionally destroy the serenity, the
apparent decorum, of a large, respectable household.
The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned herself
for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause for bitter
jealousy. The girl had chosen to speak of her troubles to the strange
lady’s maid rather than to her own fellow-servants, and it was during
the conversation the two women had had together that the girl had
threatened to take her own life.
As Mrs. Bunting put on her outdoor clothes, preparatory to going out,
she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful affair, and
of the part she herself had unwillingly played in it.
She visualised the country inn where the inquest on that poor,
unfortunate creature had been held.
The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he also was to give
evidence, and as they came up there had been a look of cheerful
animation about the inn yard; people coming and going, many women as
well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl’s fate had aroused
a great deal of interest, and the kind of horror which those who live
on a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid.
Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to Ellen
Green; there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in the old
inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated, not only with chairs, but
with cake and wine.
She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had felt as
if she would like to run away from her nice, easy place, rather than
have to get up and tell the little that she knew of the sad business.
But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had been a
kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact he had complimented her on the clear,
sensible way she had given her evidence concerning the exact words the
unhappy girl had used.
One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put by an
inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, low-ceilinged
room. “Ought not Miss Ellen Green,” so the man had asked, “to have told
someone of the girl’s threat? If she had done so, might not the girl
have been prevented from throwing herself into the lake?” And she, the
witness, had answered, with some asperity—for by that time the
coroner’s kind manner had put her at her ease—that she had not attached
any importance to what the girl had threatened to do, never believing
that any young woman could be so silly as to drown herself for love!
Vaguely Mrs. Bunting supposed that the inquest at which she was going
to be present this afternoon would be like that country inquest of long
ago.
It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very well how
little by little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner, had got
the whole truth out—the story, that is, of how that horrid footman,
whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the first minute she had set
eyes on him, had taken up with another young woman. It had been
supposed that this fact would not be elicited by the coroner; but it
had been, quietly, remorselessly; more, the dead girl’s letters had
been read out—piteous, queerly expressed letters, full of wild love and
bitter, threatening jealousy. And the jury had censured the young man
most severely; she remembered the look on his face when the people,
shrinking back, had made a passage for him to slink out of the crowded
room.
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
to-morrow, 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 to-day, 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 The Avenger inquest—a lot
of ticket folk to be accommodated, to say nothing of the public.”
“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 some one’s charge, of
having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even now
there was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, 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 clever, astute, highly trained minds—aye, and bodies,
too—at bay.
Even Mrs. Bunting, sitting here unnoticed, realised the irony of her
presence among them.