Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (3 page)

“Oh, I never listen to gossip. If I did…”

Milsom understood. “If you did you could tell us a lot, I've no doubt. The extraordinary thing to me is to think that the husband could be quietly grubbing up weeds in his garden while his wife was being murdered in the house behind him.”

“Surely she must have screamed,” said Christine.

“Or she must have known the murderer,” said Milsom.

“One thing I feel sure of,” said Miss Lane: “it was not Mr Pomeroy; he would never have done such a thing.”

“Or, if he had, he wouldn't have invited us into the house to find the body,” observed Milsom. “The type of man that I take him to be could never have acted so cool a part. He would have been straining every nerve to do a bunk.”

Having deposited Miss Lane at her office, Milsom turned to Christine. “Any more bungalows this morning?”

“No thank you, Mr Milsom. I've seen enough bungalows to last me a lifetime.”

T
HE TWO
police officers were received at the door by Dr Leach.

“We've got a job for you, Mr Aitkin,” he said to the divisional detective inspector, “and I fancy that it's going to take you all your time.”

“A case of murder, Doctor?”

“Yes, it's a murder all right, but you'd better come through and see for yourself.”

The two disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Dr Green and Pomeroy in the lounge. After making a cursory examination of the bathroom and scribbling a number of notes, the inspector gave the order to remove the body into the bedroom. There they laid it on the bed and covered it with a sheet.

“Get to work in the bathroom and look for fingerprints or other identification marks left by the murderer,” said Inspector Aitkin to his sergeant. Then he turned to Dr Leach. “Who was the first person to find the body?” he asked.

“Why, the husband. He found it and called to the agent, Miss Lane. I don't think that the other three people saw the body at all.”

“What other three people?”

“Here are their statements with their names and addresses.”

Aitkin read the statements carefully. “H'm,” he grunted. “It may not be a very complicated case after all. I'll take charge of these statements. We may have to get these people down for the inquest. You're quite satisfied, Doctor, that that wound on the head could not have been caused by a fall on the taps?”

“Quite.”

“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.”

“Well, Sergeant Hammett is going over the bloodstains in the bathroom. Is it possible that the body was put into the bath after the blow was struck in order to make it appear that it was an accident?”

“A blow like that would have caused a lot of bleeding. Before I could accept that theory you'd have to show me another room with a trail of blood.”

“It won't take us two minutes to go through all the rooms. Come along.”

There were only two other bedrooms, a small sitting room and the kitchen, and all of these were entirely clear of bloodstains.

“Well then, you can concentrate your attention on the bathroom. You'll have nothing else to distract you,” said Dr Leach.

Sergeant Hammett emerged from the bathroom as they approached. “This bathroom is crawling with fingerprints, Inspector. I haven't tested the walls for hidden prints, but there are quite a dozen prints made with bloody fingers. Everything points to there having been a struggle in this room: the bath mat, a brush and those slippers have all been kicked under the bath.”

“You've found nothing with which the blow could have been struck?”

“Nothing, and I looked everywhere.”

“You'd better have a good look round the garden outside. Now, Doctor, I shall have to take a statement from the husband. I suppose we can take it in the lounge.”

“Yes, you'll find him there with Dr Green.”

The inspector pulled out from his attaché case some sheets of official stationery.

“I must take a statement from you, Mr Pomeroy. Please sit down there and reply to my questions. Your name is Miles Pomeroy, I think. And you are by profession…?”

“A clerk in the Union Bank.”

“Your age?”

“Thirty-six.”

“How old was your wife?”

“Thirty-two.”

Now, Mr Pomeroy, will you give me an account of what happened this morning. When did you last see your wife alive?”

“At half-past eight this morning.”

“Did you breakfast together at that hour?”

“No, I breakfasted alone at eight. I had taken her a cup of tea at half-past seven.”

“You say you last saw her at half-past eight?”

“Yes, she called to me and asked me to go to the town and buy her a grapefruit as she had no appetite for breakfast. I went, and I called in also at the newspaper shop for the
Daily Mail
. Then I came back, put the grapefruit in the dining room and called to my wife to say it was there.”

“Did she answer you?”

“No, but I assumed that she was in the bathroom, and I went out to do some weeding in the garden, where Miss Lane found me.”

“Where do you keep your slippers?”

“Ah! You found them in the bathroom, I suppose. The fact is that my wife was in the habit of using them in preference to her own.”

“Now, Mr Pomeroy, I must give you the usual caution: that anything you say may afterwards be used in evidence. What terms were you on with your wife?”

“Oh, the usual terms of husband and wife.”

“Affectionate terms?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you at home today? Is your bank closed?”

“No, but I wasn't feeling very well this morning, and I telephoned to ask for a day's sick leave.”

“What were you doing yesterday evening?”

“We attended a bridge party together.”

“Where?”

“At the house of some friends of ours, the Claremonts.”

“At what time did you get home?”

“Oh, it was a little past midnight. We walked home.”

“You had no quarrel?”

“Oh dear no. We don't quarrel over games.”

“Do you occupy the same bedroom?”

“No, neither of us sleep very well, and for some months we have used separate rooms.”

“Well, Mr Pomeroy, I must ask you to stay here at the disposal of the coroner. You must on no account leave the neighbourhood.”

“Certainly, but I suppose I can go to the bank daily as usual?”

“Yes.”

Dr Green came forward. “If you don't want me any longer, I feel that I ought to be seeing my patients.”

“Certainly, Doctor. We'll let you know when you're wanted for the inquest. I'd like a word with you, Dr Leach,” the inspector said to the police surgeon in a lower voice.

Pomeroy took the hint and showed Dr Green to the door.

“Everything points rather strongly to the husband,” said the inspector, “but I can't very well detain him without charging him, and I shall have to consult higher authority before doing that.” As Pomeroy rejoined them he said, “You must have noticed, Mr Pomeroy, that there were a number of fingerprints on the wall of the bathroom. Would you have any objection to going through the formality of allowing me to take your fingerprints?”

“I fancy that the prints you noticed in the bathroom must all be mine. I had to put my hands on the wall when I was lifting my wife's body; but by all means take my fingerprints if you have the materials here.”

Inspector Aitkin motioned to his sergeant, who took from his attaché case a slip of zinc, a bottle of printing ink, and a tiny roller of rubber with which to spread the ink evenly over the zinc.

“Now sir,” said Inspector Aitkin, “leave your muscles quite loose; it won't take a minute.” Bringing the inked plate to the edge of the table and laying beside it a folded sheet of paper, Aitkin rolled each of Pomeroy's fingertips on the plate and transferred the ink to the appropriate space on the paper. Having completed the right hand, he poured a few drops of benzine on a cloth and wiped off the ink. “Now sir, your left hand.” The operation was repeated. Aitkin had now a complete record of the rolled prints; there remained only to take a simultaneous print of the four fingers of each hand. This having been completed, Sergeant Hammett stowed away the apparatus in his attaché case while his inspector led the way to the bathroom. He pulled out a magnifying lens and compared the imprints on the wall with the prints he had just taken.

“Yes, Mr Pomeroy, you were right. These impressions were left by your fingers.”

“If you don't want me any more just now, I'd like to go and tell my mother what's happened.”

“Certainly, but you understand that you must not go anywhere without telling us where you can be found? “Yes, I quite understand that.”

“I must be off too, Inspector, if you can spare me,” said Dr Leach. “You and Hammett have work to do, I expect.”

Left to himself, Aitkin returned to the bathroom and was busy applying his reading glass to the marks on the walls when Sergeant Hammett appeared at the door.

“I've just found this in that little ornamental pond behind the house,” he said; “I got it out with the garden rake.” He held up a coal hammer still wet from immersion.

“Be careful how you handle it,” said Aitkin; “those brown stains on it will turn out to be bloodstains unless I'm much mistaken, and the question will arise whether they were made some time before immersion and, of course, whether the blood is human. Happily that is not a matter on which we shall be called to give evidence. What we have to verify first is how the murderer, whoever he may have been, got into the house.”

“The windows were all securely fastened; so was the back door: I've seen to that.”

“How does the front door open?”

“Apparently only with a latchkey. The man, if he was a stranger, could only have got in by having the door opened to him by someone from inside—of course Pomeroy would have had his own latchkey. Have you made up your mind, sir, in which room the murder was committed?”

“There's not a shadow of doubt about that. It was here in this bathroom. The woman was standing when the blow was struck: you see the blood spurted up to the ceiling.” He pointed to one or two splashes on the whitewash.

“She wasn't wearing her nightdress at the time. Here it is hanging on this peg and only a few drops of blood on it, so she must have been wearing nothing but her dressing gown when the murderer came in. It seems to me that the woman was just going to step into her bath when the doorbell rang or when someone came in with a latchkey, and she slipped on her dressing gown, which is drenched with blood, as you see.

“Now the next thing to do is to verify Pomeroy's statement that he bought a grapefruit and a newspaper in the town this morning.”

“There is a grapefruit on the table in the dining room.”

“But we don't know whether it was bought this morning.”

“No sir, but I'll find out.”

“And while you're about it get hold of the milk and the bread roundsmen and ask them if they noticed any stranger about. While you're away I will go carefully round the house.”

Aitkin's more minute search on the outside of the house produced nothing. The weather had been dry for some days and it was useless to search for footprints, but Aitkin did establish the fact that behind the garden lay a tract of undergrowth which ran down to the public road. This was thick enough to conceal any person approaching the bungalow from behind, or escaping from it into the public road. Clearly this undergrowth had been used for this purpose, for brambles had been trampled down or brushed aside. He had just completed a survey of this waste ground when something brown attracted his attention. A clumsy attempt seemed to have been made to conceal it by dragging or kicking the brambles into a kind of knot, but Aitkin was wearing stout boots and he found it easy to hook out the object with his toe. It was a raincoat which had seen wear. Some attempt had been made to fold it into as small a compass as possible, but it was discoloured by stains which Aitkin recognized at once as having been made by fresh blood: the stains were still red. He spread out the garment on the ground and found that it was one of those coats that are manufactured largely by machinery. One can buy them by the dozen in any clothier's, and it is the exception for any of them to bear a label indicating the shop where it was sold. All that this particular coat bore was the heraldic sign of a white horse, but coats of this brand are sold everywhere, and it would be useless to attempt to find the shop that had any record of the purchaser. Aitkin returned to the bungalow carrying the coat and hung it up on a peg in the entrance lounge to await Pomeroy's return. His sergeant was the first to appear. He reported that he had questioned the roundsmen who delivered milk and bread, and that they had seen no stranger hanging about the bungalow that morning. They said that Mr Pomeroy himself had opened the door to them.

“Did you find out where he bought the grapefruit?”

“Yes, the people at the shop knew him personally as a customer. He was there just before nine.”

“And the newspaper?”

“That was not so sure. The woman at the news agent's wasn't certain that she'd seen him this morning. Did you have any luck in your search, sir?”

“Yes,” said Aitkin, going to the coat pegs. “I found this. You see the blood has not had time to turn brown. It's a common kind of coat.”

“Yes, in more than half the houses in this settlement you'd find a coat like that, but that's the coat the murderer must have been wearing.”

“Yes, and if it belongs to Pomeroy it would be sufficient to account for the absence of bloodstains on the clothes he is wearing.”