Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? Read online

  “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 off
ice 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?”

  “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.”

  Chapter Two

  THE 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.”