Who Killed Stella Pomeroy?

by Basil Thomson

  It was an impassioned love letter of a man who knew something of the art of love making. The last sentences in the missive interested Richardson.

  We shall have to find another hour for my visits. They have made me exchange duties with Kane from the 14th, which means that I must travel up by the same train as the Nuisance. What hour do you suggest?

  Ann laid her hand on her cousin’s sleeve. “I think that you had better go back to Aunt, or she will wonder what has become of you.” She led him to the door and closed it behind him; then she came hack to Richardson, her eyes shining with triumph.

  “You see, I was right. That man Casey was Stella’s lover; he did call at that hour in the morning when her husband had left for town. He was to change his hours of duty on the fourteenth, therefore it is almost certain that he called on the thirteenth to make new arrangements. There must have been a sudden quarrel.”

  “I can’t allow myself the luxury of jumping to conclusions, Miss Pomeroy. I must go away and think things over, but I am infinitely obliged both to you and Mr Pomeroy for the help you have given me.”

  Chapter Eight

  IT WAS LATE in the evening when Richardson found himself mounting the stairs to Inspector Aitkin’s room at the police station. Detective inspectors, whether competent or otherwise, can lay no claim to regular hours of duty, and so, as Richardson expected, he found Aitkin in his room.

  “You’ve been busy this evening, sir. Did you get any result from those letters?”

  “I did, and it’s that that has brought me here so late. There were letters in that suitcase that pointed strongly to a man named Casey having been on compromising terms with Mrs Pomeroy. Do you know the man? He lodges with a Mrs Coxon and is a journalist.”

  “Oh yes, everybody on the estate knows Casey. He’s the sort of Irishman who takes a delight in rubbing people up the wrong way. He comes over here to make his living and never stops running this country down and boosting his own poor little island. He’s a hasty-tempered little devil, and he’s had to defend himself with his fists more than once.”

  “Well, among those letters we found some that proved that he used to call on Mrs Pomeroy at the very hour at which the murder must have been committed that morning.”

  “Come, come! That’s serious. Wouldn’t we be justified in sending for him and putting him through the hoop?”

  “I think we’ll have to see him on some excuse or other, but we must be careful about how we do it: we don’t want to have another mistaken arrest.”

  “Did you find any begging letters from one of the dead woman’s actor friends asking for cast-off clothing?”

  “No, no begging letter of any kind.”

  “Well, until we have evidence of where Pomeroy’s raincoat went to, it will take a good deal to persuade me that his arrest was mistaken.”

  “According to those letters Casey now has to catch the same morning train as Miles Pomeroy.”

  “That would be the eight thirty, so if we are to see him we’d better lose no time but see him tonight. Shall I have him brought down here?”

  “Yes, I suppose that will be better than seeing him in a house with a lot of children, but will he come unless you let him think that he’s under arrest?”

  “Oh yes. If I go, he’ll come all right. He’s not one who would like to get into the bad books of the police.”

  “You’d better take my car to save time. While you’re gone I’ll draft out my report on the case.”

  Richardson’s pen travelled rapidly over the paper; his reports were always regarded by his colleagues at headquarters as marvels of clear narration. He was surprised to find how quickly Inspector Aitkin had accomplished his mission when he heard his voice on the stairs.

  “You’ll find them a little steep, Mr Casey. I think we shall find the superintendent in this room.”

  The door was flung open. Inspector Aitkin cried, “Mr Dennis Casey, sir.”

  The new arrival was a slim Irishman with wavy dark hair and good eyes and teeth. There was nothing about his manner to show that he resented being brought down to be questioned, or that he feared the result of the interrogation. He was quite at his ease. Richardson opened the conversation at once.

  “Sit down, Mr Casey. In the course of my enquiry into the death of Mrs Stella Pomeroy at the bungalow, it has come to my knowledge that you were in the habit of calling upon her at a rather early hour—eight thirty, to be precise.”

  “Eight forty-five, to be more precise still.”

  “Well, we’ll say eight forty-five. That was after her husband had left for the station.”

  “That’s quite correct. That was the most convenient hour both for her and for me.”

  “That was the hour at which the unfortunate woman met her death on the thirteenth.”

  “Then I suppose that it is fortunate for me to be able to prove that I was not there on that day.”

  “Very fortunate, if you can prove it.”

  Casey’s manner changed. “I’ve told you that I can prove it, but I’m not called upon to do so at the bidding of a policeman, for all that he is dressed in plain clothes. Bring your charge of murder against me, and I’ll make you look foolish for the second time in this case. First it was Pomeroy that you had to release. I am number two, and I suppose when you have to drop me you’ll bring in a third guilty man. What a case it will make for the newspapermen in Fleet Street.”

  “You are not helping us, Mr Casey. We happen to know that the dead woman was a very intimate friend of yours. Surely you have a strong motive for desiring to see her murderer brought to justice.”

  “I see what has happened. Even the poor girl’s private correspondence is not sacred from the eyes of the police. I don’t envy you your job, Mr.—I didn’t catch your name.”

  Richardson pursued his questions without noticing the last remark. “You were changing the hour for your visit on the fourteenth. This was to be your last visit, eight forty-five on the thirteenth.”

  “I have told you that I did not go on the thirteenth, and at the proper time I shall have witnesses to prove it.”

  “When did you first hear of the death of Mrs Pomeroy?”

  “At about one-thirty the same day: it came through the wire at the office.”

  “And it was a bad shock to you?”

  “Well, of course it was.” For the first time Richardson detected a trace of emotion in Casey’s features.

  “As you were not changing your hours until the fourteenth, why didn’t you go on the thirteenth, according to your practice? You see we’ve not yet found any trace of a stranger being near the house on the morning of the thirteenth, and we thought that you might be able to help us.”

  “I’ve told you already that I didn’t go to the bungalow that morning.”

  “You may as well tell me why not. You don’t want to make the case any more obscure than it is.”

  “Very well, I’ll tell you. I was coming towards the bungalow when I caught sight of Pomeroy, in a disreputable suit of old clothes, making for the town. It meant, of course, that he was not going to business that morning, so I followed him to see what he was going to do. He went into a fruiterer’s and came out with a parcel, then to a tobacconist’s and newspaper shop, and then he turned for home. I realized that it would be no good for me to call at the house that morning, and so I went to the station and caught an earlier train. This I can prove.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr Casey. That is all I need trouble you with this evening.”

  When the man’s footsteps had died away Aitkin broke out reproachfully, “You never made him try on that raincoat, sir. I had it here, all ready.”

  “No, I could not have forced him to put it on if he’d objected, which he would have done. The story he tells is quite a likely one, and we have no evidence that would contradict it.”

  “Then if Casey wasn’t at the house and we can hear of no stranger who was, I shall feel, as I always have felt, that we did wrong in not holding onto P
omeroy.” Richardson pulled out his diary. “I see that on the thirteenth it was fine and sunny in the morning. Casey wouldn’t have been wearing a raincoat, and, according to his story, Pomeroy was wearing what looked like a suit of cast-off clothes for working in his garden.”

  “I have it! Quite a number of men stick on an old raincoat instead of a dressing gown over their pajamas to go to the bathroom. I’ll go to the bungalow in the morning and see whether Pomeroy has a dressing gown. If not he might very well have been wearing that raincoat that’s in the other room.”

  “That’s possible, but we can do no more tonight.” As Richardson’s footsteps died away on the stairs Aitkin’s spirits rose: he felt that he had scored the last point. His triumph was to be short-lived. He heard footsteps returning up the stairs. It was Richardson with one of his interminable questions.

  “Didn’t you tell me that you had examined all the male clothing in that bungalow without finding bloodstains on any of the garments? Surely you must remember whether there was a dressing gown.”

  “Yes sir, there was—an affair in blue silk with a silk cord round the waist. It did not look as if it was used every day—seemed to be kept for state occasions, and it was right at the back of the wardrobe.”

  “Well, I’ll leave the question of the dressing gown to you when you see Pomeroy in the morning.”

  “I’ll make it my first job,” said Aitkin.

  True to his word he was at the bungalow early next morning. Pomeroy not having returned from his father’s house, the police were still in possession of the key.

  Aitkin let himself in and went into Pomeroy’s dressing room to make a second survey of his clothing. His recollection had been accurate. The blue silk dressing gown was hanging in its place at the back of the wardrobe. This was to be the day of the funeral of the murdered woman. Surely, thought Aitkin, the husband would attend and would require a black coat and tie such as were hanging in the wardrobe. Would he come down in person for the clothes or send for them? He decided that he was not called upon to wait on the chance of someone coming; he would go to the father’s house.

  When he rang the bell it was Ann Pomeroy who came to the door. “Ah, it’s you, Inspector. What can I do for you?”

  “I called to see Mr Miles Pomeroy, as I still have the key of his bungalow and he may want some clothing from it for the funeral today.”

  “Mr Pomeroy is ill in bed, and the doctor won’t let him attend the funeral.”

  “Is it anything serious?”

  “After what he’s gone through it’s not surprising that he’s had a reaction and that he doesn’t feel equal to seeing police officers. I can take the key and give it to him.”

  “Well, I wanted to ask him a question.”

  “I’ll take any message to him, but I cannot let you see him.”

  “It’s quite a small question—to ask him what he was in the habit of wearing when he went to the bathroom.”

  On her way up to her cousin’s room Ann puzzled over the question. She decided to be diplomatic and not to worry him needlessly by saying that the police were at the door. She upped to be sure that he was awake and then went in and put her question.

  “Would you like me to go down to the bungalow and bring up any clothes—a dressing gown, for instance?”

  “The dressing gown doesn’t matter particularly, but I’d like some other things if you’re going down—clean pajamas, and so forth.”

  “Not a dressing gown? What do you wear when you go to the bathroom?”

  “I don’t bother to put on anything over my pajama except in the winter.”

  “All right. I’ll go down and get some things this morning.”

  She went back to the front door, and Aitkin rose from his seat in the hall.

  “My cousin says he wears nothing over his pajamas when he goes to the bathroom, so your surmise that he was wearing that bloodstained coat is wrong.”

  “You are jumping rather quickly to conclusions, Miss Pomeroy.”

  “The minds of police officers are not difficult to read.”

  “We police officers have to do our duty and must leave no stone unturned in doing it.”

  “And I, as Mr Pomeroy’s cousin, intend to leave no stone unturned in finding out to whom his raincoat—which you believe to be that bloodstained coat that you found—was sent.”

  Though Ann had spoken so confidently about tracing her cousin’s coat, she was not feeling very confident as she returned to her den. She had questioned Miles, but he knew nothing—neither addresses or names of any of these actor friends who had sponged upon his wife. Apparently the dead woman had used her husband’s wardrobe as a supply depot for her impecunious friends, and the matter was only referred to between the couple when Miles missed a garment that he was attached to. Ann was still musing when the front-door bell rang again. She went to it to find a tall and rather seedy-looking man, whose chin needed the attention of a razor. His features seemed vaguely familiar to her.

  “I have called to see Mr Miles Pomeroy,” he said.

  “I’m afraid that no one can see him: he is ill in bed.”

  “But I am his dead wife’s brother. I read of her death in the paper.”

  “Please come in. I am Miles’ cousin. We can talk quietly in here,” she said, leading him into her den and closing the door. “I’m afraid that what you saw in the newspapers must have been a shock to you.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “The manner of her death was so tragic.”

  Ann had been looking at him with curiosity. It was a weak face with marks of self-indulgence upon it—clearly a man of no strength of will—and yet it was not in any way a repulsive face. Ann resolved to take him into her confidence.

  “Have you heard that the funeral is to take place today—at three o’clock, I believe.”

  “I should like to attend. Where does the procession start from?”

  “From the mortuary. Anyone will tell you where that is, or better still, you had better stay and lunch here and go to the funeral with my uncle.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but shan’t I be in the way?”

  “Of course not. At moments like this families must cling together.”

  “I was shocked when I saw that her husband had been arrested: it was a preposterous thing to do.”

  “Have you ever met Miles?”

  “Yes, at their wedding. I gave my sister away.”

  Ann had been abroad at the time of her cousin’s wedding, and his parents had never discussed the marriage with her.

  “It was a preposterous thing,” she said; “and what is worse, the police, or some of them, still believe that he was guilty.”

  “But surely his innocence has been fully established by this time.”

  “Yes, to all sensible people, but one cannot always include individual policemen in that description. I wonder if you could help me over one thing.”

  “If I possibly can, I will. What is it?”

  “Well, you will have read that a bloodstained raincoat was found hidden near the house, which was presumed to have been worn by the murderer. Some of the police are trying to prove that it is my cousin’s coat. He swears it is not. He had one like it, but his wife gave it away some weeks ago. Unfortunately he doesn’t know whom she gave it to. Did she by any chance send it to you?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from her for years, and certainly I never asked her for a coat.”

  “According to Miles she used to get begging letters from actors who had been unlucky on the stage. Do you know the names of any of her friends of that kind?”

  “Well, I know one or two men in the profession who might do such a thing. I could give you their names, but I don’t know their addresses.”

  “Well, their names might be of some use.”

  “Clement Wickham—she knew him—and Arthur Rowton.”

  Ann went to her writing desk and made a note of the names. “You’ve no idea at all where one could find them?”

  “I migh
t be able to find out. I heard that Clement was going to tour the North with a company, but Rowton I haven’t heard of for six months. I’ll see what I can do and send you any information I can get hold of.”

  “I should be grateful. Now I’ll go and tell Aunt and Uncle that you are here.”

  Chapter Nine

  RICHARDSON had a friend in London—a friend who was very commonly called by the police as an expert witness on bloodstains and by dint of frequent appearance for the prosecution had established himself in the criminal courts and the estimation of the public as an authority whose opinion could not be gainsaid.

  When Richardson handed in his first report on the case suggesting that the bloodstained coat should be handed over to Dr Manson for report, which suggestion had been approved, he had himself taken it to Wimpole Street. He was not surprised when a telephone message was handed to him requesting that he should himself go round to receive the expert’s report. He called at the house in Wimpole Street, and, after explaining the object of his visit to the maid, she returned with a message that the doctor himself desired to see him.

  “Well, here is the coat and here is my report, Mr Richardson, but one point that I have not included in the report may or may not be of interest to you, as it cannot appear in my report unless it is elicited by counsel in examination. It is this. I judge from these bloodstains that the coat was worn by the victim of the assault and not by the assailant.”

  “Indeed, Doctor, that is a very important point. I scarcely like to ask you how you came to that conclusion.”

  “That is not a very easy point to answer. It is by the position of the bloodstains. The blood has run down from the scalp to the collar and so on down the coat. You will not have to call me as a witness as to that: the practitioner who saw the body would himself agree. If the assailant had been wearing this coat and blood had spurted onto it, I should have expected quite a different disposition of the bloodstains. You might bear this in mind in your further investigations.”

  “You know, of course, Doctor, that the murdered woman had bled a great deal. Her body was found in the bath, and her dressing gown, which apparently she was wearing when the blow was struck, was pretty well drenched in blood.”