The facts of the burlgary at the vicarage came to us chiefly
through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the
small hours of Whit-Monday--the day devoted in Iping to the Club
festivities. Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the
stillness that comes before the dawn, with the strong impression
that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed. She did not
arouse her husband at first, but sat up in bed listening. She then
distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare feet coming out of the
adjoining dressing-room and walking along the passage towards the
staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev.
Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike a light, but
putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown, and his bath slippers,
he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite distinctly a
fumbling going on at his study desk downstairs, and then a violent
sneeze.
At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most
obvious weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as
noiselessly as possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing.
The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night
was past. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the
study doorway yawned impenetrably black. Everything was still except
the faint creaking of the stairs under Mr. Bunting's tread, and the
slight movements in the study. Then something snapped, the drawer
was opened, and there was a rustle of papers. Then came an
imprecation, and a match was struck and the study was flooded with
yellow light. Mr. Bunting was now in the hall, and through the crack
of the door he could see the desk and the open drawer and a candle
burning on the desk. But the robber he could not see. He stood there
in the hall undecided what to do, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white
and intent, crept slowly downstairs after him. One thing kept up Mr.
Bunting's courage: the persuasion that this burglar was a resident
in the village.
They heard the chink of money, and realised that the robber had
found the housekeeping reserve of gold--two pounds ten in half-
sovereigns altogether. At that sound Mr. Bunting was nerved to
abrupt action. Gripping the poker firmly, he rushed into the room,
closely followed by Mrs. Bunting. "Surrender!" cried Mr.
Bunting, fiercely, and then stopped amazed. Apparently the room was
perfectly empty.
Yet their conviction that they had, that very moment, heard
somebody moving in the room had amounted to a certainty. For half a
minute, perhaps, they stood gaping, then Mrs. Bunting went across
the room and looked behind the screen, while Mr. Bunting, by a
kindred impulse, peered under the desk. Then Mrs. Bunting turned
back the window-curtains, and Mr. Bunting looked up the chimney and
probed it with the poker. Then Mrs. Bunting scrutinised the
waste-paper basket and Mr. Bunting opened the lid of the
coal-scuttle. Then they came to a stop and stood with eyes
interrogating each other.
"I could have sworn--" said Mr. Bunting.
"The candle!" said Mr. Bunting. "Who lit the
candle?"
"The drawer!" said Mrs. Bunting. "And the money's
gone!"
She went hastily to the doorway.
"Of all the extraordinary occurrences--"
There was a violent sneeze in the passage. They rushed out, and
as they did so the kitchen door slammed. "Bring the
candle," said Mr. Bunting, and led the way. They both heard a
sound of bolts being hastily shot back.
As he opened the kitchen door he saw through the scullery that
the back door was just opening, and the faint light of early dawn
displayed the dark masses of the garden beyond. He is certain that
nothing went out of the door. It opened, stood open for a moment,
and then closed with a slam. As it did so, the candle Mrs. Bunting
was carrying from the study flickered and flared. It was a minute or
more before they entered the kitchen.
The place was empty. They refastened the back door, examined the
kitchen, pantry, and scullery thoroughly, and at last went down into
the cellar. There was not a soul to be found in the house, search as
they would.
Daylight found the vicar and his wife, a quaintly-costumed little
couple, still marvelling about on their own ground floor by the
unnecessary light of a guttering candle.
