“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.”
Chapter Five
AFTER 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 cro
ssed 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.
They had reached the estate office, and Richardson dismissed them to their dinners with well-earned thanks, inwardly recording Pat Coxon as one of the witnesses that could profitably be questioned alone when an opportunity presented itself. He was in time to catch Miss Lane in her office before she left for her midday meal. He introduced himself as a police officer from New Scotland Yard who had been sent to investigate the murder at the bungalow.
“I fear that I’ve called at a very inconvenient hour,” he said; “you must have been on the point of closing down the office for lunch.”
“That doesn’t matter at all. Sit down and ask me any question you like. My lunch will have to wait, but I think I’ve given all the information I have to Inspector Aitkin.”
“I haven’t very much to ask you. I think you told Inspector Aitkin that Mr Pomeroy had intimated that he would like to dispose of the remainder of his lease. Did he come to the office to tell you this, or did you meet casually in the road or elsewhere?”
“It was quite a casual meeting when I was on the way to this office.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know that I can remember his exact words. He passed the time of day and then asked me casually whether I thought that I could find a tenant for his bungalow if he decided to leave the neighbourhood. I expressed my surprise and asked him whether his wife found it too isolated a house, as she was alone all day. He said, ‘No, she likes the bungalow, but we may have to leave.’”
“I believe that when you mentioned this conversation to Mrs Pomeroy a day or two later she was surprised and told you that it was the first she had heard of it. Can you remember what she said?”
“Yes. She said, ‘Oh, that’s it, is it? He wants to get me away from my friends.’ I didn’t pursue the conversation because we were getting onto dangerous ground. You see, it was common knowledge that she had one particular friend of whom her husband disapproved.”
“You mean Mr Casey?”
Miss Lane nodded meaningly. “I don’t want to be mixed up in this business at all, but I might tell you confidentially, as you are a police officer, that more than once when I’ve been on the way to this office in the morning I have seen Mr Casey leaving the Pomeroys’ bungalow after Mr Pomeroy had gone to business.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Lane, and now I mustn’t keep you any longer from your lunch. I may tell you that I’ve already had a hint of what you’ve told me from someone else. I’m thinking of calling on Mrs Coxon, where Casey lodges.”
“You’ll find her a talkative woman but not an ill-natured one. If I can be of any further use don’t hesitate to come and see me again.”
They parted with mutual good will. Richardson liked this kind of business-like woman with a sense of duty. She would make an excellent witness in any court of law. He stood aside to watch her lock up the office, mount her bicycle and ride away.
It was not often that he allowed the claims of the inner man to interfere with his work, but since the sacred hour of the midday meal had rendered futile all direct enquiries, he determined to follow the fashion and call at some retired eating place in Ealing to satisfy his hunger. He chose a restaurant which advertised its dining room on the first floor. The place was divided into three separate rooms with wide communication doors between them. It was crowded, but Richardson found that he was to share a table for two in the window of the third room. A harassed waitress brought the menu, which announced that Canterbury lamb with green peas was to be had. His fellow luncher at that table was in conversational mood. He listened to Richardson giving his order and remarked, “If you’ve ever been in New Zealand, sir, you’ll know what Canterbury lamb is before it crosses the ocean in cold storage. It’s a very different commodity when they haven’t had to sweep the snow off it in the cold-storage chamber. It’s a wonderful country, New Zealand.”
“So I’ve heard. I suppose you know it well.”
“I do. But you must never judge New Zealand from Auckland: you’ve got to get south before you can judge of the country.”
“I’ve often thought that I’d like to go out there, but my profession ties me to this country.”
“You ought to come out. When I come over here I wonder how anyone can stick in a little overpopulated island like this is: I miss the sense of freedom and fresh air that we have out there.”
“You were born there, I suppose.”
“Yes, born and bred a New Zealander. I was too young to come over for the war, otherwise I’d have joined the contingent and helped to win it.”
“So you’ve just come over on a holiday.”
“No, what brought me over was a good deal more than that. I came to see a cousin who lives in these parts. I had sad news for her—the death of a relation; it was the kind of news that it is best to give personally. It was a strange coincidence. I had come to break the news to her, and when I called at her house I found that she too was dead.”
“Do you mean that she died suddenly?”
“I do. There could be no more sudden death than hers—she was murdered.”
“You don’t mean that it was Mrs Pomeroy?”
“Yes. I suppose that everyone in these parts has heard of the murder. ‘The Bungalow Murder,’ as the newspapers call it.”
“Oh yes, it’s been in all the papers.”
“And what makes it worse is that it was the husband who did it.”
“The husband has been arrested on the coroner’s warrant, but nothing has been proved against him so far.”
“Well, there can’t be much doubt about it, can there? No one else could have any object in doing it, nor any opportunity.”
Richardson looked at his fellow luncher with a new interest. He said rather coldly, “There are people who don’t believe in the husband’s guilt, and it’s a good English maxim that a man is not to be considered guilty until the case has been prov
ed against him. I think you said that Mrs Pomeroy was your cousin.”
“Yes.”
“Then I think that I ought to introduce myself. I am a police officer from New Scotland Yard, and I’ve been sent down here to investigate the case.”
“A police officer! Don’t the police believe him guilty then?”
“He hasn’t been proved to be guilty.”
The man laughed. “Isn’t that like you police officers, always erring on the cautious side. As you are a police officer you might save me a journey to the police station by telling me when the funeral is to be. I couldn’t leave without attending her funeral, could I?”
“I quite understand. If you will tell me where you are staying I will see that you receive notice of the funeral.”
“I’m staying at the Palace Hotel. My name is Maddox—Edward Maddox.”
Richardson took out his pencil and wrote, “Edward Maddox. Palace Hotel.”
“Had your cousin any other relations in New Zealand?”
“No, only this uncle.”
“Her uncle? And you came all the way from New Zealand to break the news of her uncle’s death?”
“Well, yes, and to bring his will to his solicitors in Southampton Street.”
“Who are they? I know most of the solicitors in Southampton Street. Some are good and some are the other thing.”
“These people call themselves Jackson, Burke and Company.”
“Oh, they’re all right: it’s an old established firm. I suppose that your cousin was her uncle’s heiress?”
“Not the sole heiress.” He changed the subject of the conversation rather abruptly, a fact that was not lost upon Richardson. “Will they let the husband out of prison to attend the funeral? Funny if they did.”
“I can’t tell you that, but I’ll let you know the time and place as soon as it is decided.”
They had finished their meal, and Richardson had no desire to protract their conversation. With a brief, “Well, I must be getting along,” he took his leave and walked back to the villa estate, glancing once behind him to see whether he was being followed. He calculated that by this hour his new-found friends, the three Coxon children, must have returned to school and he would find their mother alone. And so he did.
Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? Page 5
