Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (2 page)

Martin Edwards

www.martinedwardsbooks.com

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.”

“No,” said Milsom. “We can't leave Miss Lane to walk back to her office.”

“It is very kind of you. I should be glad to have a lift back as soon as we know what the doctor says. I don't think we shall be in the way. If you stay here I'll go back to Mr Pomeroy.”

“I'll tell you one thing,” said Milsom in a low voice when he was alone with the Mitchells: “I looked into that bathroom. It's a shambles—blood all over the bath. That couldn't have come from banging her head on the tap.”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Mitchell. “That comes of all the thriller trash you have to read as a publisher; things don't happen like that in real life.”

“Yes, but slipping in the bath and banging your head on the tap would make no more than a big bruise.”

Christine shuddered. “Well, I don't want this bungalow now.”

A motor horn sounded at the gate; a car swished up the short gravel drive. From the window they saw Dr Green—a man nearing forty, with a keen face and an air of decision. Pomeroy had heard the car and came hurrying through the lounge to meet him.

“I'm so glad you've come, Doctor,” he said. “I'll take you straight to the bathroom.”

In a very few moments Miss Lane returned to the lounge. “I'm afraid I may be kept for some minutes,” she said. “Dr Green has asked me to telephone for Dr Leach, the police surgeon.”

Milsom cocked his eye at the Mitchells. “Don't hurry, Miss Lane,” he said. “We can wait.”

The agent got through and sent the message. She came over to the Mitchells. “I'm so sorry that this has happened,” she said.

“But you couldn't help it.”

“I would have suggested your leaving me here, but Dr Green wouldn't listen to me. He says that in all these mysterious cases no one ought to leave until their statements have been taken by the proper authorities.”

“He does think that there is a mystery about the case then,” said Milsom.

“Yes, according to him the poor woman could not have come by that dreadful injury by a fall.”

Christine Mitchell knit her brow. “But who could have done it? Could it have been a burglar?”

“Of course this house is very isolated—Oh! Here comes Dr Leach. Excuse me.” Miss Lane hurried to the door and admitted a rather hard-boiled-looking person of middle age.

“Well, what's wrong here?” he asked. “I thought that you people in the garden suburb prided yourselves on your freedom from crime.”

“We hope there hasn't been a crime, Dr Leach. If you'll come this way I'll take you to Dr Green in the bathroom. He'll tell you how we found the body of Mrs Pomeroy.”

Having left the two doctors together she returned to the lounge with Miles Pomeroy. “The doctors sent us away; they said that in that tiny bathroom there wasn't room for us if they were to do their work, but Dr Leach was careful to say that no one must leave the house for the present.”

“That won't prevent me from going to the car for my cigarette case,” said Milsom, rising and going to the door. But he did not go to the car, for beside the steps he caught sight of the stub of a cigar. He picked it up and stowed it in an envelope. Then he made a perambulation of the house and garden, looking for any unusual feature, especially for scratches or heel marks on the stone window sills, for, he argued, no burglar could have got into such a house without leaving a mark. He smiled as he thought of the long face that his friend, Superintendent Richardson, would pull if he knew that he was treading on the ground that should have been sacred to the Criminal Investigation Department.

At that moment a taxi drew up as near to the gate as the other cars allowed. A young man alighted. Milsom went to meet him.

“Are you Mr Miles Pomeroy?” enquired the new arrival with a slightly patronizing air. There was a hint of a colonial accent in his speech.

“No, I'm not. Mr Pomeroy is in great trouble at this moment. Is your business with him pressing?”

“Well, as a matter of fact my business concerns Mrs Pomeroy, who is a sort of cousin of mine.”

“Then I'm afraid I've bad news for you. Mrs Pomeroy met with a fatal accident this morning.”

“Good God! Do you mean she's dead?”

“I'm afraid so. The doctors are with her now.”

“What an extraordinary coincidence. I've come all the way from New Zealand to break the news of a death, and now I find that she herself is dead.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “This has been a bit of a shock to me.”

“Well, I suppose you'd better come in and see Pomeroy.” Milsom led the way into the house. “That is Mr Pomeroy,” he said, pointing him out.

“I daresay you've heard of me. I'm Ted Maddox, Mr Colter's adopted son. I came to tell your wife about her uncle's death, but I've come at a bad moment. I'm sorry. Would you like me to go and come back to see you this evening?”

“Just as you like,” said Pomeroy in a dull voice.

The young man seemed quite ready to make his escape. Jim Milsom saw him to the gate.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“I haven't an address yet. I only landed this morning and came straight on here.” He produced a bulky envelope from his pocket and displayed the address, “Messrs Jackson, Burke & Company, Solicitors, Southampton Street, London, W.C.”

“This contains Mr Colter's will. I was charged to bring it over, but I thought it better to see Mrs Pomeroy first. I'll go on to Southampton Street now.”

When Milsom got back to the lounge the two doctors came in.

“I understand from Miss Lane,” said Dr Leach, “that you were merely visiting the house as likely tenants when the body was found and that you would like to get away.”

Dr Green was at the telephone, and Milsom, who was nearest to him, caught the words, “Is that the C.I.D. office? Dr Green speaking.”

“Now you two gentlemen,” said Dr Leach, pulling out a sheet of official foolscap from his attaché case—“I should like you each to give your name and full address on this paper and a short statement of what brought you here.”

When they had finished, it came to Miss Lane's turn, and her statement had perforce to be far more detailed since she was the second person to see the body. Dr Leach read her statement through and asked, “How long would it take you to get here from your office, if the police want to question you?”

“By car, less than five minutes; on foot, of course, longer.”

“Very well, then, you may go, all four of you. We can send for you if you're wanted.”

As the four were taking their seats in Milsom's car another car drove up and deposited the divisional detective inspector at the gate. He had brought with him a detective sergeant.

“Back to your office I suppose, Miss Lane?” asked Milsom, sitting at the wheel.

“Yes, please. I'm very sorry to have brought you all into this tragic business, but—”

“How could you have known what we were going to find?” asked Milsom. “As long as these local police people don't keep hunting us to give evidence, I don't mind. What sort of man is Pomeroy?”

“Oh, his family is well known here. They live in Ealing—most respectable people.”

“And his wife—the dead woman?”