The Lodger - Marie Belloc Lowndes (story books for 5 year olds txt) š
- Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes
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He nodded impatiently, as if the question wasnāt worth answering. Then, āIt was all along of that bit of paper and my finding it while the poor soul was still warm,āāhe shudderedāāthat 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 supāI think they might have done that, donāt you, Mrs. Bunting?ā
āYes,ā she said absently. āYes, I do think so.ā
āBut, there, I donāt know that I ought to say that,ā went on Chandler. āHe had me up in his dressing-room, and was very considerate-like to me while I was telling him.ā
āHave a bit of something now?ā she said suddenly.
āOh, no, I couldnāt eat anything,ā he said hastily. āI donāt feel as if I could ever eat anything any more.ā
āThatāll only make you ill.ā 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.
āI expect youāre right,ā he said. āAnd Iāve a goodish heavy day in front of me. Been up since four, tooāā
āFour?ā she said. āWas it then they foundāā she hesitated a moment, and then said, āit?ā
He nodded. āIt was just a chance I was near by. If Iād been half a minute sooner either I or the officer who found her must have knocked up against thatāthat monster. But two or three people do think they saw him slinking away.ā
āWhat was he like?ā she asked curiously.
āWell, thatās hard to answer. You see, there was such an awful fog. But thereās one thing they all agree about. He was carrying a bagāā
āA bag?ā repeated Mrs. Bunting, in a low voice. āWhatever sort of bag might it have been, Joe?ā
There had come across herājust right in her middle, likeāsuch a strange sensation, a curious kind of tremor, or fluttering.
She was at a loss to account for it.
āJust a hand-bag,ā said Joe Chandler vaguely. āA woman I spoke to ācross-examining her, likeāwho was positive she had seen him, said, āJust a tall, thin shadowāthatās what he was, a tall, thin shadow of a manāwith a bag.āā
āWith a bag?ā repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. āHow very strange and peculiarāā
āWhy, no, not strange at all. He has to carry the thing he does the deed with in something, Mrs. Bunting. Weāve always wondered how he hid it. They generally throws the knife or fire-arms away, you know.ā
āDo they, indeed?ā 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 possibleāin fact, when one came to think of it, it was very probableāthat 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 Regentās Park.
āThereāll be a description circulated in an hour or two,ā went on Chandler. āPerhaps thatāll help catch him. There isnāt a London man or woman, I donāt suppose, who wouldnāt give a good bit to lay that chap by the heels. Well, I suppose I must be going now.ā
āWonāt you wait a bit longer for Bunting?ā she said hesitatingly.
āNo, I canāt do that. But Iāll come in, maybe, either this evening or to-morrow, and tell you any more thatās happened. Thanks kindly for the tea. Itās made a man of me, Mrs. Bunting.ā
āWell, youāve had enough to unman you, Joe.ā
āAye, that I have,ā he said heavily.
A few minutes later Bunting did come in, and he and his wife had quite a little tiffāthe 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 hadnāt got more details of the horrible occurrence which had taken place that morning, out of Chandler.
āYou donāt mean to say, Ellen, that you canāt even tell me where it happened?ā he said indignantly. āI suppose you put Chandler off āthatās what you did! Why, whatever did he come here for, excepting to tell us all about it?ā
āHe came to have something to eat and drink,ā snapped out Mrs. Bunting. āThatās what the poor lad came for, if you wants to know. He could hardly speak of it at allāhe felt so bad. In fact, he didnāt say a word about it until heād come right into the room and sat down. He told me quite enough!ā
āDidnāt he tell you if the piece of paper on which the murderer had written his name was square or three-cornered?ā demanded Bunting.
āNo; he did not. And that isnāt the sort of thing I should have cared to ask him.ā
āThe more fool you!ā And then he stopped abruptly. The newsboys were coming down the Marylebone Road, shouting out the awful discovery which had been made that morningāthat of The Avengerās 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 hadnāt been in the kitchen ten minutes before his bell rang.
Mr. Sleuthās bell rang again.
Mr. Sleuthās 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 tinkleāfor electric bells had not been fitted into that old-fashioned houseā 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.
āWait a minute!ā he called out. āIāll help you, Ellen,ā 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. āHere,ā she whispered quickly, āyou give me that, Bunting. The lodger wonāt like your going in to him.ā And then, as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she added in a rather acid tone, āYou might open the door for me, at any rate! How can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on my hands?ā
She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprisedārather put out. Ellen wasnāt exactly what youād call a lively, jolly woman, but when things were going wellāas nowāshe 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.
Somehowāshe could not have told you why, she would not willingly have told herselfāshe had expected to see Mr. Sleuth looking different. But no, he appeared to be exactly the sameāin fact, as he glanced up at her a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up his thin, pallid face.
āWell, Mrs. Bunting,ā he said genially, āI overslept myself this morning, but I feel all the better for the rest.ā
āIām glad of that, sir,ā she answered, in a low voice. āOne of the ladies I once lived with used to say, āRest is an old-fashioned remedy, but itās the best remedy of all.āā
Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Crudenās 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. āI think, Mrs. Bunting, that there was someone with you outside the door just now?ā
āYes, sir. Bunting helped me up with the tray.ā
āIām afraid I give you a good deal of trouble,ā he said hesitatingly.
But she answered quickly, āOh, no, sir! Not at all, sir! I was only saying yesterday that weāve never had a lodger that gave us as little trouble as you do, sir.ā
āIām glad of that. I am aware that my habits are somewhat peculiar.ā
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. Sleuthās 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 lodgerās breakfast on the table she prepared to leave the room. āI suppose Iām not to do your room till you goes out, sir?ā
And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply. āNo, no!ā he said. āI 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 experimentāupstairs. If I go out at allā he waited a moment, and again he looked at her fixedly āāI shall wait till night-time to do so.ā And then, coming back to the matter in hand, he added hastily, āPerhaps you could do my room when I go upstairs, about five oāclockāif that time is convenient to you, that is?ā
āOh, yes, sir! Thatāll do nicely!ā
Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did not faceāeven in her inmost heartāthe strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken her. She only repeated to herself again and again, āIāve got upset āthatās what Iāve done,ā and then she spoke aloud, āI must get myself a dose at the chemistās next time Iām out. Thatās what I must do.ā
And just as she murmured the word ādo,ā there came a loud double knock on the front door.
It was only the postmanās knock, but the postman was an unfamiliar visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunting started violently. She was nervous, thatās what was the matter with her,āso 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 husbandās daughter.
āBunting!ā she called out sharply. āHereās a letter for you.ā
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 nothingāin fact, doing worse than nothingāwasting his time reading all about those horrid crimes.
She sighedāa 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 acquaintanceā¦
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 mistressās 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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