The Dartmoor Enigma (28 page)

Very gently Richardson told her everything. He could see by her expression how she was fitting the information into the chain of facts already known to her.

“Then none of this money is mine,” she said, “if it was all embezzled.”

“But Mr. Sutcliffe, to whom it rightfully belongs, wishes you to accept some of it.”

“I won't accept more than just enough to keep me until I get work. Perhaps he'll be kind enough to recommend me for some employment.”

“I am going to see someone to-morrow morning who may make the kind of offer to you that you would accept. I will arrange for the lady to write to you, and you will settle the money business direct with Mr. Sutcliffe.”

At twelve o'clock next morning Richardson found himself on the front steps of Lady Penmore's house in Bath. Her welcome was plain-spoken.

“Well, Chief Inspector, who have you been arresting for this murder? Not my poor son, I hope, though he ought to have been put under arrest long ago, just to teach him obedience to the law and to his mother.”

“We have found the man who killed Instone, Lady Penmore.”

“Then I hope he will be suitably rewarded, for if ever a man wanted killing it was that scoundrel Instone.”

“I have your five-hundred-pound note in my pocket, Lady Penmore.”

“Do you expect me to fall on your neck and kiss you before you give it back to me?”

“No,” laughed Richardson, “but I do ask for one favour.” He told her about Instone's widow and her need for paid employment.

“Do you mean that there's a woman in England who's been left twenty-five thousand pounds and wants to give it up without going to law about it? Haven't you sent for the usual two doctors to certify her?”

“No; she's very far from being certifiable. She wants to do the right thing.”

“Strange woman; I should like to see her. Is she fond of dogs and cats and things?”

“I believe she is.”

“Then she'll fill an aching void. I've always wanted a kennel-maid who will keep my pets from telescoping.”

“Telescoping, Lady Penmore?”

“Yes; the canary fits into the cat and the cat fits into the dog, and there's no peace under this roof. I've always wanted a kennel-maid, but I never knew how to find one. Send her down to me.”

Richardson rose and began to thank her.

“Oh, that's how it's done. A little pretty talk and then one walks out of the house five hundred pounds to the good.”

Richardson pulled the envelope out of his pocket. “If I give you this, Lady Penmore, there is one proviso, that if it's wanted for the trial you will be ready to produce it in evidence.”

“Shall I be called as a witness?” she asked with glistening eyes. “I should love to tell a British judge and jury what I really think of them.”

On his return to London Richardson found his report ready for the decision of the Director of Public Prosecutions. The Assistant Director, a criminal barrister of great experience, listened patiently to his story and read all the supporting documents.

“I can give you a decision off-hand,” he said. “It is not a case in which we should have any chance of success and it would be a waste of public money. You shall have a decision in writing to that effect when I've explained the details to the Director.”

“And I can tell Frank Willis that there will be no prosecution?”

“Yes.”

By six o'clock Richardson found himself at the Bromley garage. There he imparted the good news.

“I suppose if I'd stood my trial,” said Willis, “it would have made Sutcliffe's innocence clear to the world.”

“In a sense, sir, it would, but many people would have said that he had no right to allow himself to be robbed of his clients' money.”

“You're quite right,” said Sutcliffe. “It was my duty to protect their money and I allowed that rascal to steal it. We've had a lively morning with the widow,” he added. “She wouldn't hear of retaining a penny of that money beyond her expenses for two weeks.”

“But after we'd gone down on our hands and knees to her, she agreed to accept some shares in our mine,” said Willis.

As he finished speaking the telephone bell rang. Sutcliffe went to it. He came back grinning. “So you haven't been idle, Mr. Richardson. The widow has rung up to say that Lady Penmore has offered her a job as kennel-maid on quite good terms and she's accepted it.”

“I think, sir, that she's the sort of woman who'll be much happier like that than if she were heiress to twenty-five thousand pounds.”

Richardson took leave of his new friends with the regret that he always felt when he brought a case successfully to its final conclusion.

THE END

S
IR
B
ASIL
H
OME
T
HOMSON
(1861-1939) was educated at Eton and New College Oxford. After spending a year farming in Iowa, he married in 1889 and worked for the Foreign Service. This included a stint working alongside the Prime Minister of Tonga (according to some accounts, he
was
the Prime Minister of Tonga) in the 1890s followed by a return to the Civil Service and a period as Governor of Dartmoor Prison. He was Assistant Commissioner to the Metropolitan Police from 1913 to 1919, after which he moved into Intelligence. He was knighted in 1919 and received other honours from Europe and Japan, but his public career came to an end when he was arrested for committing an act of indecency in Hyde Park in 1925 – an incident much debated and disputed.

His eight crime novels featuring series character Inspector Richardson were written in the 1930's and received great praise from Dorothy L. Sayers among others. He also wrote biographical and criminological works.

Richardson's First Case

Richardson Scores Again

The Case of Naomi Clynes

The Case of the Dead Diplomat

Who Killed Stella Pomeroy?

The Milliner's Hat Mystery

A Murder is Arranged

“There's one thing which I daresay you noticed—that pair of slippers half kicked under the bath were of men's size.”

“Yes, I noticed that, too, and they were sprinkled with blood.”

A man went calmly about his work while his wife lay dead in the house. After he is arrested and accused of the murder, doubt is cast regarding his guilt. Richardson is assigned the case.

Richardson delves into the murdered woman's strange background, and becomes convinced that the law is holding an innocent man. With dogged persistence and courage he pursues the sinister figure who dominated the terrible business. Will he, in the end, with the aid of an initialled handbag and an initialled hammer, bring the case to a successful end and finds the guilty person?

Who Killed Stella Pomeroy?
was originally published in 1936. This new edition, the first in many decades, features an introduction by crime novelist Martin Edwards, author of acclaimed genre history
The Golden Age of Murder
.

“Sir Basil Thomson's tales are always good reading, and he has the knack of being accurate about Scotland Yard…I find (Richardson) a most agreeable companion”
Dorothy L. Sayers

A
BIG
Sunbeam touring car was crawling along the concrete road of one of the new building estates bordering on Ealing. Its occupants were gazing at the fronts of the houses on either side of the road.

“I must explain that Christine is still under the spell of this new craze for modern houses, replete with all the gadgets which become your own property as soon as you have paid the first instalment to the building society,” said Herbert Mitchell to his friend Jim Milsom, who had undertaken to cart them round in his car on their house-hunting expedition.

They were friends of long standing. The Mitchells, who had been living in France from motives of economy, had lately been driven out by the persistent adherence of the French to the gold standard and the consequent high cost of living as compared with the cost in England.

“I'm not under the spell of these long rows of houses all exactly alike,” protested Christine. “I was thinking of a detached bungalow somewhere—”

“Oh, but think of the pleasure you would take in your neighbours if you lived in one of these. Think of the family washing gaily flapping from the clotheslines in the back gardens on either side of you. Think of five o'clock, when the fathers come home and turn on their wireless, all playing different tunes, and then, when the green timber begins to warp, and doors and windows stick fast, you have only to bang on the party wall to bring a hefty neighbour to your rescue.”

Mrs Mitchell laid a restraining hand on her driver's arm and pointed to a low building on their left. “There! Mr Milsom, that's the kind of bungalow I've been dreaming of.”

“But it has already been sold and occupied,” objected her husband.

“I know it has, but the architect is certain to have repeated his masterpiece somewhere else on the estate. Let's go and dig out the estate agent and take him by the throat—”

“I believe that we passed a little shanty labelled ‘Estate Agency' in the last street but one,” said Milsom. “I've plenty of room for turning the car. Shout when you see the notice board.”

The estate agent proved to be not a man, but a very forthcoming young woman. To her Mitchell explained what they were looking for. “I'm afraid,” said the young woman, “that you are too late. Eastwood was let six months ago, and the tenants are so pleased with it that they would never give it up.”

“Haven't you another detached bungalow built on the same plan?” asked Christine Mitchell.

“As a matter of fact I have. It is let at present, but when I last saw Mr Miles Pomeroy, the tenant, he told me that he might be going abroad and if so he would ask me to find him another tenant to take the lease off his hands. I'll ring him up and ask him whether you could go round and see it.”

She plied the telephone without success and looked at the clock. “I expect Mr Pomeroy has gone off to business, but Mrs Pomeroy ought to be there.”

“Couldn't we go round in the car and see it?”

The agent looked at her engagement book. “It's early. I'll lock up the office and take you round. No doubt Mrs Pomeroy will let us go over the house; if not I'm afraid that there'll be nothing doing, unless I can tempt you with one of our other houses.”

“My wife seems to have set her heart on that bungalow, Eastwood,” said Mitchell. “If we can't have that or its twin sister I'm afraid that we must look elsewhere.” The agent took the seat beside Jim Milsom and guided him through a network of turnings until at last they reached a bungalow even more seductive to Mrs Mitchell than Eastwood itself. It stood quite detached from its neighbours.

“Of course it won't always be so isolated,” said the agent. “According to the plan other houses are to be built at a little distance, but that need not worry you: it may be months before the company begins to build, and in the meantime you have a garden front and back, a garage and a lawn nearly big enough for a tennis court. Ah, we are in luck. There is Mr Pomeroy weeding his lawn. If you'll let me out of the car I'll go and ask him whether he would like to let.”

In three or four minutes she was back, followed by Pomeroy with his weeding spud in his hand. He was a man of between thirty and forty, with thinning hair and a studious look. His voice was pleasant.

“Miss Lane tells me that you would like to look over the bungalow with a view to taking it if I decide to let. I'm sure that my wife will be delighted to show you over it. She got up rather late this morning, and she may still be in the bathroom, but if you will wait for a few moments in the lounge I'll see how the land lies.” He led the way into the lounge.

When they were left to themselves Mrs Mitchell looked round her. “I think that his lounge is perfect,” she said. “I do hope that the lady will forgive us for calling at such an early hour—”

Her words were cut short by an almost animal roar from the back regions followed by a cry of, “Miss Lane, come quick!”

“What can have happened?” exclaimed Christine Mitchell, trembling. “Herbert, go and see whether they want help.”

But Jim Milsom was before him. He halted at the bathroom door, from which the voices proceeded. He heard Miss Lane's voice; she seemed to be a competent person in an emergency. “Pull up the waste and let the water out.”

“She's dead,” groaned the man.

“Can I help?” called Milsom. They did not appear to have heard him. Pomeroy's voice went on:

“She must have fallen and struck her head against the taps. Look, there's blood everywhere.”

“Never mind about that now. What you have to do is to telephone to your doctor to come at once.”

Pomeroy passed Jim Milsom in the passage without speaking; he went straight to the telephone in the lounge and dialled a number. “Is that Dr Green? This is Miles Pomeroy speaking. I want you to come round to the bungalow at once…Yes, it's very urgent…My wife's had an accident—she's fallen in her bath and hurt herself…You can? Thank you.”

He became suddenly aware of the Mitchells. “I'm sorry that you've come at such a moment. There's been an accident in the bathroom: my wife has been hurt.”

“Can't I help?” asked Christine.

“No thank you. Miss Lane is doing all she can. We can do nothing until the doctor comes.”

He left them and returned to the bathroom. Jim Milsom came into the lounge with Miss Lane.

“I can do nothing for her,” said the agent. “She's quite dead, poor dear! We can only wait until the doctor comes.”

“Well, aren't we rather in the way?” said Mitchell. “We had better go.”