Twenty-two

NOT FROM CAPTAIN HASTINGS’ PERSONAL NARRATIVEIMr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust sat very still. His breakfast lay cold and untasted on his plate. Anewspaper was propped up against the teapot and it was this newspaper that Mr. Cust was readingwith avid interest.

Suddenly he got up, paced to and fro for a minute, then sank back into a chair by the window.

He buried his head in his hands with a stifled groan.

He did not hear the sound of the opening door. His landlady, Mrs. Marbury, stood in thedoorway.

“I was wondering, Mr. Cust, if you’d fancy a nice—why, whatever is it? Aren’t you feelingwell?”

Mr. Cust raised his head from his hands.

“Nothing. It’s nothing at all, Mrs. Marbury. I’m not—feeling very well this morning.”

Mrs. Marbury inspected the breakfast tray.

“So I see. You haven’t touched your breakfast. Is it your head troubling you again?”

“No. At least, yes…I—I just feel a bit out of sorts.”

“Well, I’m sorry, I’m sure. You’ll not be going away today, then?”

Mr. Cust sprang up abruptly.

“No, no. I have to go. It’s business. Important. Very important.”

His hands were shaking. Seeing him so agitated, Mrs. Marbury tried to soothe him.

“Well, if you must—you must. Going far this time?”

“No. I’m going to”—he hesitated for a minute or two—“Cheltenham.”

There was something so peculiar about the tentative way he said the word that Mrs. Marburylooked at him in surprise.

“Cheltenham’s a nice place,” she said conversationally. “I went there from Bristol one year. Theshops are ever so nice.”

“I suppose so—yes.”

Mrs. Marbury stooped rather stiffly—for stooping did not suit her figure—to pick up the paperthat was lying crumpled on the floor.

“Nothing but this murdering business in the papers nowadays,” she said as she glanced at theheadlines before putting it back on the table. “Gives me the creeps, it does. I don’t read it. It’s likeJack the Ripper all over again.”

Mr. Cust’s lips moved, but no sound came from them.

“Doncaster—that’s the place he’s going to do his next murder,” said Mrs. Marbury. “Andtomorrow! Fairly makes your flesh creep, doesn’t it? If I lived in Doncaster and my name beganwith a D, I’d take the first train away, that I would. I’d run no risks. What did you say, Mr. Cust?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Marbury—nothing.”

“It’s the races and all. No doubt he thinks he’ll get his opportunity there. Hundreds of police,they say, they’re drafting in and—Why, Mr. Cust, you do look bad. Hadn’t you better have a littledrop of something? Really, now, you oughtn’t to go travelling today.”

Mr. Cust drew himself up.

“It is necessary, Mrs. Marbury. I have always been punctual in my—engagements. People musthave—must have confidence in you! When I have undertaken to do a thing, I carry it through. It isthe only way to get on in—in—business.”

“But if you’re ill?”

“I am not ill, Mrs. Marbury. Just a little worried over—various personal matters. I slept badly. Iam really quite all right.”

His manner was so firm that Mrs. Marbury gathered up the breakfast things and reluctantly leftthe room.

Mr. Cust dragged out a suitcase from under the bed and began to pack. Pyjamas, sponge bag,spare collar, leather slippers. Then unlocking a cupboard, he transferred a dozen or so flattishcardboard boxes about ten inches by seven from a shelf to the suitcase.

He just glanced at the railway guide on the table and then left the room, suitcase in hand.

Setting it down in the hall, he put on his hat and overcoat. As he did so he sighed deeply, sodeeply that the girl who came out from a room at the side looked at him in concern.

“Anything the matter, Mr. Cust?”

“Nothing, Miss Lily.”

“You were sighing so!”

Mr. Cust said abruptly:

“Are you at all subject to premonitions, Miss Lily? To presentiments?”

“Well, I don’t know that I am, really…Of course, there are days when you just feel everything’sgoing wrong, and days when you feel everything’s going right.”

“Quite,” said Mr. Cust.

He sighed again.

“Well, goodbye, Miss Lily. Goodbye. I’m sure you’ve been very kind to me always here.”

“Well, don’t say goodbye as though you were going away for ever,” laughed Lily.

“No, no, of course not.”

“See you Friday,” laughed the girl. “Where are you going this time? Seaside again.”

“No, no—er—Cheltenham.”

“Well, that’s nice, too. But not quite as nice as Torquay. That must have been lovely. I want togo there for my holiday next year. By the way, you must have been quite near where the murderwas—the A B C murder. It happened while you were down there, didn’t it?”

“Er—yes. But Churston’s six or seven miles away.”

“All the same, it must have been exciting! Why, you may have passed the murderer in thestreet! You may have been quite near to him!”

“Yes, I may, of course,” said Mr. Cust with such a ghastly and contorted smile that LilyMarbury noticed it.

“Oh, Mr. Cust, you don’t look well.”

“I’m quite all right, quite all right. Goodbye, Miss Marbury.”

He fumbled to raise his hat, caught up his suitcase and fairly hastened out of the front door.

“Funny old thing,” said Lily Marbury indulgently. “Looks half batty to my mind.”