Who Killed Stella Pomeroy?

by Basil Thomson

  She was as Miss Lane had described her, talkative but without malice. In five minutes she was entirely won over by Richardson and ready to help him in any way that lay in her power. He had presented himself as a friend of her three children—“very intelligent children, if I may say so.”

  “Intelligent is what they are.”

  “You see I am calling upon all the friends and acquaintances of the Pomeroys in the hope of getting a clear view of what led to the estrangement between Pomeroy and his wife.”

  “I suppose that my boy Patrick told you what he thought about the case.” Richardson smiled. “I can see that he did. You see, he’s quite daft about Mr Pomeroy and his cousin, Ann. He thinks there’s nobody in the world like that girl Ann. You see he’s mad about drawing, and she encourages him and says that there are fortunes to be made out of drawing for the newspapers, and he’s just beside himself to know that Mr Pomeroy is in prison.”

  “Yes, all Mr Pomeroy’s friends must be feeling the same about that.”

  “To think that such a thing should have happened here in the settlement—first the murder and then Mr Pomeroy arrested for it. Such a nice man, but you never know what people will do in a fit of temper.”

  “Would you say that Mr. Pomeroy had a hasty temper?”

  “No, when you put it like that, I shouldn’t say he had—not like my lodger, Mr. Casey, for instance. He can flare up when anything crosses him. For instance, that time when he had a quarrel with Mr Pomeroy it was Mr Casey who was saying the dreadful things and Mr Pomeroy said never a word, but just up and told him at the end never to come to his house again.”

  “And did he go there again?”

  “Ah, there it is, you see. Men are like children. Tell them not to do a thing and the next thing you know is they’re mad to do it. Just like my Nora. You tell her cake’s bad for her and bread and butter is good, and it’s the cake she’s wanting, but on the day there’s no butter in the house it’s the bread and butter she’s after.”

  “And so Mr Casey did go to the house, I suppose, when Mr Pomeroy was not at home.”

  “That’s right, but you mustn’t believe all the gossip that flies about the estate. Mrs Pomeroy, God rest her soul, was restless in this little place—found it too dull, I suppose. Many’s the time she’s said to me, ‘I tell you, Mrs Coxon, that if something doesn’t happen soon I shall be going out of my mind.’ And now look what has happened. It was a judgment.”

  “But she had friends and relations here—Mr Pomeroy’s cousin, for instance, Miss Ann.”

  “Well no, they weren’t friends—they weren’t the kind that mixes. And as for Mr Pomeroy’s mother, well, I’m not one to believe in gossip, but everyone knows she wanted him to marry Ann.”

  “She thought that Miss Ann Pomeroy would make a more suitable wife, perhaps.”

  “She did, and maybe she was right. Miss Ann didn’t approve of Mrs Pomeroy’s friendship with Mr Casey, and she gave him a piece of her mind one day—she’s an outspoken young lady, Miss Ann—and my boy Pat took his cue from her.”

  “And got a box on the ear for his pains.”

  “He did. I can see you made real friends with my children: they told you all their secrets.”

  “I hope we shall become better friends still,” said Richardson, rising to take his leave.

  Mrs Coxon followed him into the entrance hall. “Ah!” he said, “I mustn’t be running away with your lodger’s hat. This is mine.”

  Mrs Coxon laughed. “No, you’ve got the wrong one, but you’d have found it out if you’d tried it on. You’d never have got Mr Casey’s hat onto your head: he’s a smaller man than you. You can tell. That’s his overcoat hanging up—it would never fit you. He’s a funny man about his overcoats. Sometimes there’s two or three hanging here, and sometimes they’re all left up in London and he hasn’t one to put on when it’s raining; but there he’s Irish like meself.”

  “I may be in this neighbourhood a little while, and I hope to see more of your children, Mrs Coxon.”

  “There’s pleased they’ll be. They talked of nothing but the gentleman who’d given them toffees.”

  Chapter Six

  ONE OF THE most difficult tasks of the detective officer must always be to sift the grain of truth from the chaff of gossip, and as Richardson made his way to the police station in Ealing after further enquiries, he was busy sifting the modicum of grain from the mass of ill-natured scandal that was flying up and down the concrete roads of the new estate. One thing seemed to be fairly certain. The man Casey was in the habit of paying visits to the murdered woman against the wishes of her husband, and this might give some colour to the view held by some that the husband had discovered the liaison and had avenged himself on his wife. On the other hand, as far as he was able to judge, Pomeroy was not hasty or vindictive, whereas Casey might be assumed to be both, and though Casey might have more motive for killing the husband than the wife, it might well have been the act of a man subject to fits of sudden rage. At any rate there seemed to Richardson to be insufficient grounds for holding Pomeroy in prison, and it was clearly his duty to report this to his chief at Scotland Yard with the least possible delay.

  He found a C.I.D. sergeant of the division on the doorstep of the police station looking up and down the road. On sight of him the man made a signal, and Richardson quickened his pace.

  “There’s a message just come through for you from C.O., sir. Mr Aitkin replied that you were out on an enquiry but might be expected here at any moment.”

  “Are they holding the line?”

  “No sir, but Mr Aitkin understood that it was urgent.”

  Richardson ran up the steep stairs two steps at a time. Inspector Aitkin hurried out to meet him on the landing.

  “The assistant commissioner himself has been on the line asking for you,” he said. “I told him that you would ring up as soon as you came in. Shall I call him up?”

  “Please do.”

  “You’re through, sir,” said Aitkin, putting the receiver into Richardson’s hand.

  “Richardson speaking, sir, from Ealing Police Station.”

  “I’ve been waiting for a report from you, Mr Richardson.”

  “I’ve been so busy with enquiries, sir, that I’ve had no time to write a report, but I have enough evidence to show that the man Pomeroy ought to be set at liberty.”

  “That is why I’ve had to ring you up. The coroner has been to the Home Office to report that his jury ran away with him and returned a verdict on quite insufficient evidence. The Home Office has asked me to report by telephone whether that is also the conclusion of the police.”

  “Yes sir, it is. I hope to let you have my report this evening.”

  “You might tell me now whether you have come to any conclusion about the case.”

  “No sir. I’m following up one or two lines of enquiry, but it is too early yet to say that I have formed any definite theory.”

  “Very good, Mr Richardson. Carry on, and let me have in writing only your opinion as to the innocence of Pomeroy.”

  “Very good, sir,” replied Richardson, hanging up the receiver. He turned to Inspector Aitkin. “When Pomeroy is released where do you think he will go?”

  “He won’t go back to that bungalow if I know him. He’ll be more likely to go to his father’s house in Rosewear Road. He used to live there before he took that bungalow. Why, do you want to see him?”

  “Yes, I do. You might arrange to find out whether he goes there. It’s a quarter to four now. If they telephone to Brixton Prison he ought to be out early this evening, but I may not see him until tomorrow morning. I’ve got an enquiry to make in London, and if I want to catch them before closing I must hurry up. Putting Pomeroy out of the question, have you formed any theory about the murder?”

  “There’s no one else that I can see but Pomeroy, unless it was a passing tramp who came in to steal and the woman tried to stop him. To me it seems quite a motiveless murder.”

 
“Yes, and that goes against all our training, which is to look first for the motive. That is why I’m running off to town. Quite by chance I met a man at luncheon who told me that the murdered woman had come into money, and if that is true it may alter the whole complexion of the case. I got from him the name and address of solicitors in Southampton Street who know about this legacy, and I want to catch them before they close. I shall be back again between six and seven, I hope.”

  As soon as Richardson was out of the building Inspector Aitkin remarked to his sergeant, “Of course, it’s not for me to criticize higher authority, but we shall all look foolish if we have to rearrest Pomeroy for the murder of his wife. He could have been the only man who was on the premises at the time.”

  “Yes,” said Sergeant Hammett. “I’ve thought all along that it was just a typical case of a jealous husband.”

  Richardson reached Southampton Street in time to find the offices of Messrs Jackson & Burke still open. The principals had gone home, but Mr Wilson, their managing clerk, received him. When Richardson exposed his business with them the clerk shook his head.

  “I fear that you’ll have to call tomorrow, sir,” he said; “I feel that I ought not to divulge anything about this will without the sanction of my principals.”

  “Unless I can get some information from you, I shall have to report that the course of justice is being obstructed,” observed Richardson with a smile.

  “What is it that you wish to know?” asked Wilson.

  “I wish to know the effect of the will which Mr Edward Maddox seems to have deposited with you.”

  “Oh, you mean the will of Frederick Colter, who died recently in New Zealand. He chose to have his will proved in this country, and the first steps have already been taken to obtain probate. You understand that he had property in this country as well as in New Zealand?”

  “I know that Mrs Pomeroy was his heiress, but, as no doubt you have seen in the newspapers, Mrs Pomeroy is dead.”

  “Yes, murdered if we are to believe what the newspapers say, and as you are the officer investigating the murder I think I should be justified in giving you a resume of the will. Frederick Colter left his personal property half to his niece Stella, the wife of Miles Pomeroy, and half to his adopted son, Edward Maddox, on certain conditions. According to a codicil they were to found a training centre for young men about to emigrate to New Zealand. He specified that Maddox should bring his will to our firm, and this he did.”

  “What effect would her death before the will was proved have upon the provisions of the will?”

  “Mrs Pomeroy’s share would go to her next of kin, who, probably, would not be legally bound to contribute towards the training centre for emigrants.”

  “There was no proviso in the will that in the event of her death Maddox should succeed to the whole property subject to the proviso?”

  “No.”

  “You say that you are taking steps to obtain probate?”

  “Undoubtedly probate will be obtained, when there has been time to communicate with the various beneficiaries.”

  “One more question. Can you give me the date when Maddox brought the will to you?”

  “It was a few days ago—on the thirteenth, to be exact. He was showing a good deal of agitation. He explained that he had been down to Ealing to see his co-heiress and had found that she was dead. He said that he had called here at nine o’clock but had found that our office was not yet open. That would be so: we do not open before nine thirty.”

  “At what hour did he call on you the second time?”

  “Just before lunch.”

  Richardson had found out what he wanted to know, namely, whether Maddox would benefit by the death of his co-heiress if she died before the will was proved. He would not, and so the motive that Richardson was hunting for was lacking. This line of enquiry seemed to be closed, but he had not yet finished with Ted Maddox, and, being in London, he made the Palace Hotel his next call.

  At the desk there seemed to be doubts about the place where Mr Edward Maddox would be found. A page was sent round the reception rooms, calling his name as he went, and drew the first covert in the smoking room, which was decorated with a bar, and there Maddox was found gossiping with a kindred spirit. Seeing his tall visitor following the page, he came forward to shake hands and led him to a seat in the passageway, where there could be no eavesdroppers.

  “Being in this neighbourhood, Mr Maddox, I called to tell you that Mr Pomeroy, the husband of that unfortunate lady, is to be released.”

  “Released! Why, has any fresh evidence been found to clear him?”

  “I fancy it was rather the absence of evidence against him that procured his release. The coroner himself visited the Home Office expressly to obtain his release.”

  “Well, they always told me in New Zealand that British justice was the quickest and fairest system in the world. From the lawyer point of view that may be so, but if you ask me I should say that it was weak kneed. You have laid your hands on the only man who could have committed the crime, and then you look him over and decide that he has a nice honest face and you let him go, without finding anyone else to take his place in gaol. That’s what it comes to, isn’t it?”

  “My particular object in calling here today, Mr Maddox, was to ask you whether you came over alone or whether any friend from New Zealand travelled with you.”

  The young man became alert. “I don’t know the reason for your question, but I’ll answer it all the same. I travelled alone in the Aorangi.”

  “I suppose you made friends on board like everyone else on a long voyage?”

  “Well, I couldn’t take my exercise on deck with a gag on.”

  “Exactly, and you were an object of some interest, no doubt—a young man who has inherited a considerable fortune does not go unnoticed.”

  “If you mean that I bragged about it, you’re wrong. I may have mentioned it to one or two, but I can’t see what that has to do with you.”

  Richardson decided quickly that, he must seek his information rather from the ship’s officers than from the young man himself, but he was sure from the resentful tone that he had evoked unpleasant memories of the voyage.

  “I’m sorry if I seem to have asked too many questions, but I’m only complying with my instructions. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  It was but a step from the hotel to the steamboat office, where he learned that the captain of the Aorangi was at home on leave for a few days, but that the purser of the boat happened to be in the office at that moment, if Richardson would like to see him. The clerk carried the official visiting card into a room behind the counter and emerged almost instantly to invite Richardson to follow him.

  He found two men in this room: the one seated at a mahogany writing table, clearly one of the superior officers of the company; the other a weather-beaten man of between thirty and forty—obviously the purser. The manager at the writing table received his visitor cordially and glanced at his card.

  “This gentleman,” he said, “is the purser of the Aorangi, but if your business is of the usual kind I hope that you’ll allow me to be present. Confidence men have a special interest for me. I don’t know which I admire more, their flair for the possible victim, or their power of acting. The part I should like to see played is that of the old Irishman who has come into an unexpected fortune. Please sit down.”

  “It is not confidence men this time, Mr Drury. I want to get some information about a passenger named Edward Maddox, who travelled from New Zealand.” The purser’s expression at the mention of the name was instructive; it called forth memories.

  “That young man was a card. When he first came on board he had come into a little money; but as the voyage continued the fortune grew and grew, until we found that we had a real live millionaire to deal with, and I can tell you that the men, from the chief steward downward, were badly disappointed when he slipped ten bob into their hands.”

  “Did he make any fr
iends on board?”

  “Oh, just the usual type that one meets on board ship who hang round passengers reputed to be rich.”

  “You don’t mean the ordinary confidence man?”

  “No, for a wonder we had none of them on board. But there was one flashy-looking card who stuck pretty close to Maddox; in fact, they left the ship together.”

  “Name of Otway?”

  “Yes, but how did you know that?”

  “It was only a guess. When I call at a hotel about anyone I always ask for the register and make a note of the name preceding and following that of the person I’m enquiring about.”

  “Then Otway is staying at the Palace, and you may be sure that Maddox is footing the bill. Otway never paid for anything on board; he always got his pal to stand him what he wanted.”

  “I suppose you can’t give me any special information about Otway?”

  “All I can tell you is that he booked his ticket at Wellington, and unless there’s any special reason, we don’t ask any questions. I do remember one thing, however. This fellow Otway came down on the morning we sailed to have a look at his cabin. I’d given him the upper berth. When he went down the gangway he was stopped by a police officer in plain clothes. I didn’t overhear what they said, but when I asked the policeman afterwards what it was all about, he said that it was only to know whether Otway was leaving the country. Very evasive he was, like they always are in New Zealand.”

  Richardson had one more visit to make before he returned to Ealing. When Charles Morden had given him his instructions he had said with a dry smile, “You may not be surprised when I tell you that you owe this job to an old friend. You can guess whom I mean—Mr Milsom. He may be an important witness in the case because he was actually present when the body was discovered.”

  It was to Jim Milsom that he paid his next visit. He guessed that at this hour Milsom would be found either at his club or at his flat. He chose the flat, for after the dull yet exacting routine of a publisher’s office he judged that repose was what the doctor would order. He was right. The door of the flat had scarcely closed upon him when he heard the clink of a decanter on glass.