Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (11 page)

“Not a dressing gown? What do you wear when you go to the bathroom?”

“I don't bother to put on anything over my pajama except in the winter.”

“All right. I'll go down and get some things this morning.”

She went back to the front door, and Aitkin rose from his seat in the hall.

“My cousin says he wears nothing over his pajamas when he goes to the bathroom, so your surmise that he was wearing that bloodstained coat is wrong.”

“You are jumping rather quickly to conclusions, Miss Pomeroy.”

“The minds of police officers are not difficult to read.”

“We police officers have to do our duty and must leave no stone unturned in doing it.”

“And I, as Mr Pomeroy's cousin, intend to leave no stone unturned in finding out to whom his raincoat—which you believe to be that bloodstained coat that you found—was sent.”

Though Ann had spoken so confidently about tracing her cousin's coat, she was not feeling very confident as she returned to her den. She had questioned Miles, but he knew nothing—neither addresses or names of any of these actor friends who had sponged upon his wife. Apparently the dead woman had used her husband's wardrobe as a supply depot for her impecunious friends, and the matter was only referred to between the couple when Miles missed a garment that he was attached to. Ann was still musing when the front-door bell rang again. She went to it to find a tall and rather seedy-looking man, whose chin needed the attention of a razor. His features seemed vaguely familiar to her.

“I have called to see Mr Miles Pomeroy,” he said.

“I'm afraid that no one can see him: he is ill in bed.”

“But I am his dead wife's brother. I read of her death in the paper.”

“Please come in. I am Miles' cousin. We can talk quietly in here,” she said, leading him into her den and closing the door. “I'm afraid that what you saw in the newspapers must have been a shock to you.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “The manner of her death was so tragic.”

Ann had been looking at him with curiosity. It was a weak face with marks of self-indulgence upon it—clearly a man of no strength of will—and yet it was not in any way a repulsive face. Ann resolved to take him into her confidence.

“Have you heard that the funeral is to take place today—at three o'clock, I believe.”

“I should like to attend. Where does the procession start from?”

“From the mortuary. Anyone will tell you where that is, or better still, you had better stay and lunch here and go to the funeral with my uncle.”

“That's very kind of you, but shan't I be in the way?”

“Of course not. At moments like this families must cling together.”

“I was shocked when I saw that her husband had been arrested: it was a preposterous thing to do.”

“Have you ever met Miles?”

“Yes, at their wedding. I gave my sister away.”

Ann had been abroad at the time of her cousin's wedding, and his parents had never discussed the marriage with her.

“It was a preposterous thing,” she said; “and what is worse, the police, or some of them, still believe that he was guilty.”

“But surely his innocence has been fully established by this time.”

“Yes, to all sensible people, but one cannot always include individual policemen in that description. I wonder if you could help me over one thing.”

“If I possibly can, I will. What is it?”

“Well, you will have read that a bloodstained raincoat was found hidden near the house, which was presumed to have been worn by the murderer. Some of the police are trying to prove that it is my cousin's coat. He swears it is not. He had one like it, but his wife gave it away some weeks ago. Unfortunately he doesn't know whom she gave it to. Did she by any chance send it to you?”

“No, I haven't heard from her for years, and certainly I never asked her for a coat.”

“According to Miles she used to get begging letters from actors who had been unlucky on the stage. Do you know the names of any of her friends of that kind?”

“Well, I know one or two men in the profession who might do such a thing. I could give you their names, but I don't know their addresses.”

“Well, their names might be of some use.”

“Clement Wickham—she knew him—and Arthur Rowton.”

Ann went to her writing desk and made a note of the names. “You've no idea at all where one could find them?”

“I might be able to find out. I heard that Clement was going to tour the North with a company, but Rowton I haven't heard of for six months. I'll see what I can do and send you any information I can get hold of.”

“I should be grateful. Now I'll go and tell Aunt and Uncle that you are here.”

R
ICHARDSON
had a friend in London—a friend who was very commonly called by the police as an expert witness on bloodstains and by dint of frequent appearance for the prosecution had established himself in the criminal courts and the estimation of the public as an authority whose opinion could not be gainsaid.

When Richardson handed in his first report on the case suggesting that the bloodstained coat should be handed over to Dr Manson for report, which suggestion had been approved, he had himself taken it to Wimpole Street. He was not surprised when a telephone message was handed to him requesting that he should himself go round to receive the expert's report. He called at the house in Wimpole Street, and, after explaining the object of his visit to the maid, she returned with a message that the doctor himself desired to see him.

“Well, here is the coat and here is my report, Mr Richardson, but one point that I have not included in the report may or may not be of interest to you, as it cannot appear in my report unless it is elicited by counsel in examination. It is this. I judge from these bloodstains that the coat was worn by the victim of the assault and not by the assailant.”

“Indeed, Doctor, that is a very important point. I scarcely like to ask you how you came to that conclusion.”

“That is not a very easy point to answer. It is by the position of the bloodstains. The blood has run down from the scalp to the collar and so on down the coat. You will not have to call me as a witness as to that: the practitioner who saw the body would himself agree. If the assailant had been wearing this coat and blood had spurted onto it, I should have expected quite a different disposition of the bloodstains. You might bear this in mind in your further investigations.”

“You know, of course, Doctor, that the murdered woman had bled a great deal. Her body was found in the bath, and her dressing gown, which apparently she was wearing when the blow was struck, was pretty well drenched in blood.”

“Then how does the question of this raincoat strike you?”

“That it can scarcely belong to this case at all, if it was the coat of a victim and not an assailant.”

“Exactly. You may go to the top of the class. I am telling you this because I think it may help you in your investigation.”

“Thank you, Doctor, but I fear that this is going to make my enquiry even more difficult. The assailant has not yet been traced, although he must have been more or less covered with blood.”

“That's a very common fallacy. In more cases than not the clothing worn by persons guilty of wounding, particularly when a blunt instrument has been used, has been found free from bloodstains altogether, or bearing only small spots. There is the well-known case of Gardner, whose throat was cut, and yet no blood-stains at all were found on the clothing of the man who was convicted of the murder. I wish that every police officer realized this, for many are led to magnify stains of red paint and rust on the clothing of a suspected person into bloodstains.”

“In this case you think that the woman may have been killed without any of her blood spurting onto the assailant's clothing?”

“Everything depends upon the relative position of the two persons. A murderer may attack his victim from behind and cut the throat to simulate suicide. In this case we cannot tell whether the blow was struck from behind, from the front or from either side, but in no case is it safe to assume that blood will be found on the assailant's clothing from a blow on the head.”

“Well, Doctor, I confess that what you have said is a little embarrassing. You know, of course, that the husband was arrested on the coroner's warrant and subsequently released largely because there was no circumstantial evidence of bloodstains on his clothing.”

“Did you never hear of the murder of Glasse in Ireland in 1873? In that case there were no bloodstains on the assailant's clothing, though the wounds on the head of the murdered man had been produced by a blunt weapon. In that case the prisoner was tried three times —the first two the jury disagreed since there was no blood on his clothes. On the third trial he was convicted, and this was followed by his confession of guilt. He said that there had been small stains on his clothing, but that he had known enough about blood to remove these with cold water before they had had time to dry.”

“But in this case, Doctor, the assailant had lifted the woman into the bath, and his clothing ought to have been drenched with blood.”

Dr Manson paused in thought. “Supposing that he dammed up the source of bleeding with the dressing gown before he lifted her body into the bath…”

“You've given me a lot to think about, Doctor. I shall go back and start again with all I've learned from you to help me.”

This was the day and hour of the funeral. Richardson left Dr Manson and directed his driver to make for Ealing Cemetery. He had plenty to think about: Who, other than the husband, had the interest or the opportunity for committing the crime, and, if it should be afterwards discovered in official quarters that he had acted precipitately in urging Miles Pomeroy's release, it would be good-bye to the reputation that he had so patiently been building up. The strongest point in Pomeroy's favour—that his clothing had been free from bloodstains—had now been blotted out by the expert explanation of Dr Manson. True, Milsom—for whose common sense he had a great respect and who had seen Pomeroy both just before and after the discovery of the body—had been convinced that the man was not acting a part.

There can be no sadder or more dreary ceremony than the last rites of a murdered woman without friends. The husband, of course, should have been present, but he was ill in bed and his wife had failed to make friends among her neighbours, and in fact had quarrelled with several that she did know. Richardson arrived too late for the funeral procession, but there was no difficulty in finding the position of the grave in the cemetery from the vast crowd of curious onlookers that had collected. Many of them would explain their presence by saying, “Well, it might have been me.” Close to the grave he saw an old man, the chief mourner, whom he guessed to be Pomeroy's father; with him was a seedily dressed person unknown to Richardson. The only other mourner was Edward Maddox. On the outskirts of the crowd he recognized Ann Pomeroy and made towards her.

“Your cousin isn't here,” he said in a low voice.

“No, he is ill in bed, and the doctor would not hear of letting him come out.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Nervous exhaustion, the doctor said it is.”

“Am I right in guessing that the elderly gentleman standing by the grave is Mr Pomeroy's father?”

“Yes; and do you know who the man with him is?”

“No.”

“He is the dead woman's brother.”

“Indeed. What is his profession?”

“He is an actor, but I fancy an actor without an engagement. If you would like to speak to him afterwards I will bring him up and introduce him.”

“Yes, I would like to speak to him. You know, of course, who the third man is?”

“No. I've been wondering.”

“He is the adopted son of the uncle who died in New Zealand—Edward Maddox.”

“I wonder why he came to the funeral? Ah, they're moving off. I'll go and fetch Mr Grant, if you'll wait here.”

But before Ann returned, Edward Maddox made his way towards Richardson. He shook hands.

“I'm glad you were able to let me know about the funeral. Doesn't it strike you as a curious thing that the husband shouldn't be here?”

“I understand that he is ill in bed,” replied Richardson coldly; “but this is her brother coming towards us now. Do you know him?”

“What, Arthur Grant?” He went forward to meet the newcomer. “Do you remember me? I'm Ted Maddox. I shouldn't have known you: you have changed.”

“You were only a boy when I left New Zealand.”

“You don't look as if things have been prospering with you. You know that Colter is dead and has left everything to Stella and me? Poor girl, she won't want hers, but I'll see that you are all right. Come straight back with me now to my hotel and tell me all about yourself.”

Grant allowed himself to be led away, and Richardson did not try to stop him.

“You've let him go without asking him any questions,” said Ann reproachfully.

“It doesn't matter. I can call at Maddox's hotel.”

“Mr Grant is going to put me in touch with the man who may have had that raincoat given to him. When I can clear that up, the police can have no further suspicions against Miles.”

Richardson did not think it worth while to tell her that the raincoat had ceased to have any significance. He was concerned now with the half-smoked cigar which Milsom had picked up at the door of the bungalow. He was anxious to satisfy himself whether or no it could have been Pomeroy who had left it there.

“Can you give me the address of that Mrs Trefusis who gave evidence at the inquest?”

Ann looked surprised at this unexpected question, but she had long ceased to marvel at the working of the police mind. She gave the address and wished him good-bye.