Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (9 page)

“High time, too. If they'd delayed it another day I'd have heaved a brick through the window of the Home Office as the suffragettes used to do when they were peeved.”

“You felt sure from the first, then, that Pomeroy was innocent?”

“I would have staked my life on it. You had only to see the poor devil. He had a hell of a time from that wife of his, but if all the husbands in the country who are nagged by their wives resorted to cracking them on the head in the bathroom, there wouldn't be prisons enough to hold them.”

“As you know, I did not take over the case until the third day after the murder. You seem to have been in the house from the beginning. What I want is a detailed account from you giving me exactly what happened.”

Richardson listened intently to his friend's statement, jotting down a note or two in pencil while he talked. He could not help admiring the power of vivid narrative which Milsom displayed.

“There!” said the narrator. “I believe that I've coughed up everything, and with you sitting glaring at me without winking for ten minutes I think I've earned another sherry. But surely your sleuths have found out if any stranger was on the estate that morning?”

“That's not so easy as it sounds. The main road into Ealing runs along the back of the estate, and hundreds of cars go past from daylight till long after dark. Even a car parked at the roadside might pass unnoticed for an hour or more.”

“And of course your inspector Aitkin started off all wrong from the first by thinking that it was Pomeroy. Now tell me your own views.”

Richardson had a natural respect for the intelligence of his friend Milsom, and knew that he could be trusted to be discreet. He related briefly the result of his enquiries up to this point. Milsom listened attentively and at the end clapped his detective friend on the knee, saying, “Otway's your man. Follow him up for all you are worth.”

“I mean to find out something more about him,” said Richardson.

“T
HE MOMENT
is now come for me to make a confession,” said Milsom. “When those doctor-men's eyes were glistening with stupidity on the morning the body was found, and they were insisting that no one should leave the house on pain of incarceration in a police cell, I slipped out to the car to get my cigarette case, and, cuddling up to the bottom step of that bungalow, I found this.” He moved to his writing table and took from the drawer an envelope containing the stub of a cigar.

“But this may have been thrown down by one of the doctors as he entered the house.”

“That is what I thought, but this was dead and cold. It must have been lying there for hours after life became extinct.”

“You ought to have handed this over to the police long ago.”

“No doubt I ought, but as I've already hinted to you, I thought your inspector Aitkin a prize idiot: that is what determined me to keep it for you. I carried the corpse to a tobacconist in whom I have confidence. He conducted a careful post-mortem and pronounced the defunct to have been rolled in Havana to the pleasing drone of a Spanish thriller read aloud to some hundreds of workmen as they rolled and pasted the tobacco leaves. I went even further. I buttonholed each of those medical men and offered them a cigar. This little civility was a pleasing illustration of character. Dr Green grinned, raised his hand to put the temptation aside and said that he'd never smoked one in his life. Dr Leach looked regretful, but said that if he came in smelling of cigar smoke, sooner or later he would lose his job. Therefore, I argued, this was an unknown person, probably the miscreant himself.”

“What about Pomeroy? He had been to a bridge party the night before. Cigars would certainly have been included among the refreshments.”

“Not cigars rolled in Havana, my dear sir. I know the brand that pass for cigars in Ealing—tuppence is what they cost, but you can purchase them for even less. They look like cigars when viewed from a distance; it is only when you come to use the senses of touch and smell that you recognize them for what they are.”

“Still, you can't say positively that Pomeroy didn't have a good cigar offered to him that night. It is all your conjecture. If it was left by the murderer it proves that he wasn't a common tramp who had strayed off the high road; neither was he very well known to Mrs Pomeroy, otherwise he would not have sacrificed a good two and a half inches of his smoke by throwing it away before he went in.”

“You see, my friend, it's always worth coming to me when you're in a difficulty. I provide you with a clue while you wait. To my mind that's another strand in the rope that will dangle Otway, who is just the kind of bloke who would smoke a good cigar at the expense of a fellow traveller.”

“You're going a little too fast for me. Granted that Otway had a police record in New Zealand; that he hung onto Maddox and learned that the dead woman was to share a legacy with him—but for the life of me I can't see how that can be construed into a motive for killing her.”

“When you burrow a little further into the case you'll find the motive all right.” Richardson had risen. “You're not going?”

“Indeed I am. I ought to have been back in Ealing an hour ago. I'm going to see Pomeroy, who will have had time to get to his father's house by now.”

“You'll ring me up and tell me the result of your interview with him?”

“I can't promise to do that, but I daresay I'll be seeing you again soon.”

“Well, do try and find something for me to do in this case. It's ages since I did any sleuthing, and I'm getting cold in the collar.”

The house of Pomeroy's father had been pointed out to Richardson. It was a prewar construction of the ordinary suburban type—ugly, solidly built and comfortable. The class that lived in these houses was often referred to as the backbone of the country; it consisted of unadventurous people who lived regular lives, paying their way with some difficulty, but departing this life without owing a penny even to the rating authority. Ann Pomeroy herself opened the door in answer to Richardson's ring. She switched on the hall light in order to recognize her visitor.

“I wondered who it was,” she said. “You've come at a rather emotional moment. My cousin Miles has just come home, and naturally my aunt and uncle are very much moved. Come into my den and tell me what I can do for you.”

She took him into a little room opening out of the hall. Richardson noticed that there were pictures and flowers wherever there was room for them; that it was walled with bookshelves; that the writing table was just such as one would expect in the den of a woman who wrote. Ann Pomeroy was a type new to him.

“Sit down, Mr Richardson, and tell me how I can help you.”

“I'm afraid you cannot. My only object in calling was to see Mr Miles Pomeroy as soon as he was liberated.”

“I can bring him in here to see you, but my aunt and uncle are not in a fit state to receive visitors. I could leave you here together.”

“Thank you very much. I will wait here.”

He heard her light step on the tiled floor; heard her open a door of what must be the sitting room; heard her close it softly behind her and the hum of voices from within. Then the door opened, and he heard a man's step crossing the hall. He rose as Miles Pomeroy came in, and noted the ravages that his misfortune had worked in his face.

“I am Superintendent Richardson,” he said. “I should not have troubled you to see me at such a moment had it not been for the necessity for clearing you entirely from any suspicion. Shall we sit down?”

“I will answer any question you put to me, though I've told the whole story more than once.”

“I'm not going to worry you by asking you to tell it again. All that you have told the police has been verified. My object in seeing you is to ask a few questions about your late wife's relations. I understand that she had an uncle living in New Zealand.”

“Yes, a Mr Colter, a sheep farmer near Wellington. I'd quite forgotten until you reminded me of it that on the morning of my wife's death a young man called at the bungalow to say that the uncle was dead. He said he was the adopted son of Mr Colter.”

“I gather that you had never seen him before.”

“No.”

“Had you ever seen the uncle, Mr Colter?”

“No, I've never been to New Zealand.”

“And Mr Colter never came to England?”

“Yes, he had paid more than one visit to London, but my wife lived with him in New Zealand for some years. She came over to study for the stage.”

“Did she ever get an engagement?”

“No, she married me instead.”

“Has she any relations in England?”

“Yes—a brother, but as far as I know there had been no communication between the two of late years.”

“She knew Ted Maddox, of course?”

“Yes. He was the son of a neighbouring sheep farmer, and Colter adopted him with the view of making him his manager and afterwards, perhaps, his heir. My wife used to say that when her uncle died it would be found that he had left everything to this boy and had forgotten her altogether. He had never really forgiven her for coming to England to train for the stage.”

“I suppose that Maddox was younger than your wife?”

“Yes, five or six years younger.”

“Were they good friends, do you know?”

“We did not often talk of him, but on the rare occasions when he was mentioned she said that he was on his good behaviour at first, but that it was not long before he began to give himself airs and to regard himself as the future heir to the old man. This had something to do with her becoming restless and wanting to leave New Zealand.”

“Do you know whether she had heard from her uncle recently?”

“She never showed me her letters. Occasionally I noticed a letter with the New Zealand stamp, but I never questioned her about it, because I noticed that it always made her more irritable than usual.”

“Where did she keep her letters?”

“In a locked suitcase.”

“Do you know whether the police opened the suitcase when they made their search?”

“I don't know what they did after my arrest,” he answered bitterly.

“Have you a telephone in the house?”

“Yes, my cousin has one; it is just behind you on her desk.”

“Would she allow me to use it, do you think?”

“Of course she would.”

Richardson swung round and asked for Ealing Police Station. The answer came at once.

“Ealing police speaking.”

“Can I speak to Inspector Aitkin?”

“Hold on a minute.” He heard the retreating footsteps, followed by the sound of heavy boots approaching the instrument. “Inspector Aitkin, C.I.D., speaking.”

“Superintendent Richardson here. When you searched the Pomeroy bungalow, did you open a locked suitcase in the bedroom?”

“No sir. It was marked with the initials of the dead woman, and I thought that it contained only female wearing apparel.”

“That's a pity, but still you have the keys of the house still, so it's not too late.”

“Yes, they're here waiting for Pomeroy to call for them.”

“Good! Then please go round to the bungalow, take that locked suitcase and bring it to me here. I'm speaking from Mr Pomeroy senior's house, and Mr Pomeroy is with me. You know the address?”

“Oh yes. I'll bring the suitcase right away.”

At that moment the door opened to admit Ann Pomeroy.

“I must apologize for using your telephone, Miss Pomeroy,” said Richardson.

“I didn't come about that: I came to see whether you had not asked all the questions you want to, because I think that my cousin has had about enough for today.”

Richardson smiled. “I think that you may safely leave that to me, Miss Pomeroy. I'm not in the habit of using what they call the third degree with people whom I question.”

Pomeroy gave her a wan but reassuring look. “We are getting on very well together, Ann. We've sent for Stella's suitcase to look at her correspondence.”

Ann drew herself up. “I can tell you in advance what you'll find—correspondence which proves my theory to be correct.”

“You mean…?”

“That the suitcase is packed with love letters from that man Casey. I'm sorry to hurt your feelings, Miles, but things have become so desperate that we have to face facts.”

“I think that you had better be here when we open the suitcase, Miss Pomeroy. It ought to be here in a few minutes.”

“While we are waiting I'm going to bring in some coffee and sandwiches. I'm sure that you must be hungry, Miles.”

She hurried away before her cousin could protest and returned bearing a tray which must have been prepared in advance, since she returned almost instantly. To please her Miles Pomeroy felt that he could not decline the sandwiches and was surprised to find himself eating with appetite, and insisted on Richardson sharing the meal with him. They even reached the point of discussing the news in the evening paper. Miles Pomeroy, a keen Conservative, was launching out upon the political news when Richardson reminded him with a smile that, whatever they might feel inwardly, police officers had no politics, except, perhaps, at the moment of a general election.

The front-door bell rang, and Miles went out to open it; he returned carrying the suitcase for which they had been waiting. He signalled to Richardson to go to the front door, where he found Detective Inspector Aitkin standing.

“Where's the key?” he asked.

“We never found the key, sir. If the dead woman had one, she must have hidden it away in some unexpected place; we've searched the house for it.”

“I suppose you could find a locksmith?”

“Yes sir, but if the woman died intestate and without children, the husband would succeed to all her property and would have a right to break it open.”