Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (6 page)

“Well then, if they refused to listen to the coroner he is bound to have reported the case to the home secretary and some action will be taken.”

Morden half rose from his seat as a hint that their conference was at an end. The two visitors took the hint. “We mustn't take up any more of your time,” said Milsom, opening the door to let Mitchell pass out. Then, half closing it, he turned to Morden, saying, “I fancy that that inspector of yours at Ealing will end by landing you in a mess. Why don't you send that Superintendent Richardson down to take over the job before the local men mess it all up?”

Morden laughed. “What you would really like to ask me is, ‘Why don't you turn out of that chair and let me sit in it?'”

“The country might do worse.”

“The country has got on pretty well for the last few centuries with square men in round holes,” observed Morden with a quiet smile, but as soon as he was alone this did not prevent him from following his practice of clearing up each case as it came along. He rang up the chief constable of the C.I.D.

“Have you had any report about a murder in one of those new building estates at Ealing, Mr Beckett—a man arrested for murder on the coroner's warrant?”

“I have a message on my table—just came in. Would you like me to come up?”

“Please do so and bring the superintendent with you.”

Mr Beckett looked into the superintendent's room. “The chief wants us both upstairs, Mr Witchard.”

“Why, what's up?”

“It's about that murder case down at Ealing—a man named Pomeroy. The message came through last night.”

“Some busybody from outside has been getting at the chief, I suppose: that's how time gets wasted in this building.”

The chief constable, a man grown grey in the service in which he had risen from the ranks by sheer merit, rose wearily from his desk and entered the lift. Morden received his two lieutenants with an amiable smile. They had brought with them two teletype messages, the only documents that had reached the Central Office thus far. Morden read the messages leisurely and asked how soon a report from the divisional detective inspector might be expected.

“It ought to have been in by now,” growled Beckett. “D. D. Inspector Aitkin has no method in his work.”

“He means well, but certainly he's not one of our fliers,” observed Morden. “I have just received a visit from two men who claim to have been present when the woman's body was found and to have attended the inquest. Both appear to be convinced of the husband's innocence. Their object in coming to me was to try to get the case transferred to Superintendent Richardson, but Richardson is superintendent of the group of divisions in which Ealing lies, is he not?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then tell him to take over the case personally and keep us informed of every step.”

The instruction was not needed, for Richardson had already taken over the investigation, with Divisional Detective Inspector Aitkin working under him. His first question to Aitkin was: “Have you yourself formed any impression of the case, Mr Aitkin? Do you believe as the jury did that Pomeroy was guilty?”

“I do, Superintendent.”

“On what grounds?”

“On several. First there was the quarrel at the house where they played cards on the previous evening and the evidence that for some time the two had been on bad terms.”

“But a husband may be on bad terms with his wife without resorting to murder.”

“Yes, but there had been this talk of separation; of Pomeroy getting a job in one of the foreign branches.”

“And so you think that the husband murdered her in the bathroom and then invited strangers into the house to find the body?”

“Yes, to divert suspicion from himself by acting surprised on finding the body.”

“On the other hand he may have thought that when once appointed manager of a foreign branch he would be quit of the woman without any resort to violence.”

“The only fingerprints found in the bathroom were his.”

“That's not surprising, since on finding the body he lifted the head out of the water, and, naturally, his hands became stained with blood. No, Inspector, I'm afraid it will take more than that to convince me.”

“Well, it would have had to be quick work on the part of a stranger, and in spite of all our enquiries we have no evidence of any stranger having been in the neighbourhood.”

“Well, I shall go down and have a look at the spot where that raincoat was found.”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“No, you've other work to get on with, and I would like to form my own opinion on the spot. I can easily find my way to that thicket you spoke of.”

It was one of those September days which come to remind humanity of the past glories of summer without the heat. The rough turf was spangled with cobwebs glistening with dewdrops, and there was already a tang of autumn in the air.

Richardson found the hiding place of the bloodstained coat without difficulty. He was on the lookout for footprints, and there was no dearth of them. All the world seemed to have been engaged in making footprints that morning. Fortunately they were not difficult to distinguish. Those of the inspector who had discovered the coat cried out for recognition; he had been wearing substantial boots, reminiscent in their build of the boots that he had worn when in uniform. But there was a crisscross of other footprints, doubtless because this was public ground and on the first news of the tragedy every curious person in the neighbourhood had flocked to the scene. While Richardson's keen eyes were fixed upon the ground he caught the sound of rustling among the saplings of the plantation: someone was moving cautiously among the branches. If his movements were to be spied upon he must at least discover the identity of the spy; if it was to be a game of hide-and-seek he would be cast for the part of the seeker. He fell back for a few paces before plunging into the thicket at the roadside and making a rapid detour to take the spy in flank. He could move in the undergrowth as silently as a cat, and he pressed on until he became aware of a figure moving obliquely through the saplings before him. He stopped to watch, and it was some time before he could make up his mind whether the figure was that of a boy or of a young woman. Clearly the person was searching for something, and that must be his concern. He advanced boldly, taking no thought for the noise he was making, and before he quite realized it he found himself in the presence of a girl in the early twenties. She was not in the least abashed by his appearance.

“Looking for something?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What have you lost?”

“I haven't lost anything.”

“Then why look for it?”

“Suppose I told you that I was a botanist looking for a rare plant.”

Richardson cast an appraising eye on the brambles. “I should say that you wouldn't find it here.”

“Have you lost anything?” she asked with cold politeness.

“If I were to tell you what brought me here you wouldn't believe me, and if I told you what has brought you here—namely, a morbid curiosity—you wouldn't be pleased.”

“It was not morbid curiosity, and if I told you what brought me, you wouldn't believe me.”

“Why beat about the bush? I'm an officer in the Criminal Investigation Department.”

“Ho! Ho! Hunting for clues. Well, that's what I'm hunting for, because Miles Pomeroy is my cousin, and you clever, cunning detectives are trying to fasten a crime on an innocent man.”

“Now we are really introduced, why not pool our discoveries? You may have heard my name—Superintendent Richardson of the C.I.D.”

“And I'm Ann Pomeroy—a writer. You may not have heard of me, because my writings have not yet set any river on fire.”

Richardson could not help feeling the antagonism which her tone intended to convey. He could not blame her after the jury's finding.

“Let me remind you that your cousin's misfortune came not from the police, but from the verdict of the coroner's jury. I, for one, am approaching the case with an entirely open mind.”

She appeared a little mollified. “I can quite see that from the police point of view things look black against my cousin.”

“Tell me this. Do you know him well, and did you see him often?”

“Yes, I live with his father and mother only a mile away. I saw him at least once a week. I can tell you,” she added passionately, “that this is killing his mother. I'm determined to prove his innocence if the police are too stupid to do it.”

“The police are not going to give the case up, if that's what you mean, and they're always glad of help from wherever it may come. You, for example, might tell me some details about your cousin and his wife.”

She brought to bear on him a pair of steady grey eyes set wide apart beneath an intellectual brow.

“I feel somehow that I can trust you with family secrets. My cousin wasn't happy in his home life. Perhaps you knew that already?”

“I think that was made clear at the inquest. What I should like to know is whether Mrs Pomeroy had any special friends or enemies—”

“Friends!” She hesitated a moment. “She had one friend who was the most dangerous kind of friend that such a woman could have.”

“You mean he was her lover?”

“Yes—a man who took advantage of her husband's daily absence to visit her at any hour.” She paused again, then added significantly, “Even at a very early hour.”

“You mean to imply…?”

“Yes,” she said, “I mean to imply that Dennis Casey should now be in my cousin's place.”

A
FTER ANOTHER
twenty minutes' conversation, Richardson left Ann Pomeroy in thoughtful mood and returned to the concrete road on which stood the bungalow. He was surprised to find how little curiosity seemed to have been excited by the murder, which must be known from one end of the villa settlement to the other. He was at that moment the only pedestrian in sight, although probably he was not unobserved from behind the lace blinds in the front windows on either side of the street. The breadwinners had departed in crowded trains to the metropolis, and soon after six o'clock they would be back again with their families.

The point that was occupying Richardson's thoughts at the moment was that in all England it would be difficult to find so unlikely a stage for a murder. Even in the light of the hints given to him by Ann Pomeroy it was hard to believe in so squalid a tragedy having defaced this prim setting, and yet murder had been done and he was there to probe the mystery to the bottom. If the girl had not been unconsciously embroidering the truth he had now a good deal to go upon. The man she suspected of being Mrs Pomeroy's lover was a journalist, Dennis Casey, who, from the nature of his occupation, left for the city at an hour later than Miles Pomeroy and could easily reach the bungalow by nine every morning when Pomeroy had departed for his bank. But if this was a habit, surely it could not have escaped the notice of neighbours. True, no neighbours were living in actual sight of the bungalow, but they were passing up and down the road at all hours and must have noticed so regular a visitor. In these residential estates gossip runs on winged feet.

Where ought his enquiries to begin? Ann Pomeroy had confided to him that Casey lodged in a two-storied house at the far end of the estate, occupied by a Mrs Coxon, also Irish, with three mischievous children, the eldest a boy named Patrick, and his two sisters, aged ten and eight respectively. It was now approaching the hour when these three young persons would be returning from school. He decided to strike up an acquaintance with them in the street on their way home. He knew the name of the road, and as he turned the corner he saw three children of the age he was looking for making for a gate on the opposite side. He crossed the road and, addressing the boy, asked to be directed to the house of Mrs Coxon.

“Why, she lives here. What did you want to see her for?”

“Someone told me that she lets lodgings.”

“She does, but she has a lodger and there's only room for one.”

“What a pity!”

“Did you want to lodge with us?” asked Nora, the elder girl.

“I think it would have been nice.”

“What a pity Mr Casey lives with us,” piped Mary, the little one.

“Well, then there's nothing to do but for me to go to the estate office and ask them what they can do for me. Will you show me the way?”

“Of course we will,” said the boy, “but we must be quick. Mother will be waiting dinner for us.”

From some hidden pocket Richardson produced a box of toffee and invited his young friends to partake. Nora, who was afflicted with an oversensitive conscience, said, “Mummy wouldn't like us to eat sweets just before dinner,” but she was quickly overruled by her companions. She slipped her hand into Richardson's, saying, “I wish you could be our lodger.” To this Mary added, “Mr Casey doesn't give us toffee.”

“That wouldn't matter if he wasn't a beast,” said the boy.

Mary became confidential. “Pat doesn't like him since he got that box on the ear.”

“Why did he give him a box on the ear?”

“Because I was stalking him,” said Pat defiantly.

“Why was that?”

“To see whether he went to Mrs Pomeroy's bungalow.”

“I bet Ann Pomeroy put you up to that,” said Nora; “you know you would do anything for her.”

“You would, Pat,” put in Mary. “You think that Ann is the most wonderful person in the world.”

“So she is!”

“Why should Miss Pomeroy want you to stalk Mr Casey?” asked Richardson.

“Because he's a dirty sneak. But Ann didn't tell me to stalk him: she said that I must never do such a thing.”

“And then of course you did it,” said Nora, tossing her little head.