Who Killed Stella Pomeroy?

by Basil Thomson

  “Then how does the question of this raincoat strike you?”

  “That it can scarcely belong to this case at all, if it was the coat of a victim and not an assailant.”

  “Exactly. You may go to the top of the class. I am telling you this because I think it may help you in your investigation.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but I fear that this is going to make my enquiry even more difficult. The assailant has not yet been traced, although he must have been more or less covered with blood.”

  “That’s a very common fallacy. In more cases than not the clothing worn by persons guilty of wounding, particularly when a blunt instrument has been used, has been found free from bloodstains altogether, or bearing only small spots. There is the well-known case of Gardner, whose throat was cut, and yet no blood-stains at all were found on the clothing of the man who was convicted of the murder. I wish that every police officer realized this, for many are led to magnify stains of red paint and rust on the clothing of a suspected person into bloodstains.”

  “In this case you think that the woman may have been killed without any of her blood spurting onto the assailant’s clothing?”

  “Everything depends upon the relative position of the two persons. A murderer may attack his victim from behind and cut the throat to simulate suicide. In this case we cannot tell whether the blow was struck from behind, from the front or from either side, but in no case is it safe to assume that blood will be found on the assailant’s clothing from a blow on the head.”

  “Well, Doctor, I confess that what you have said is a little embarrassing. You know, of course, that the husband was arrested on the coroner’s warrant and subsequently released largely because there was no circumstantial evidence of bloodstains on his clothing.”

  “Did you never hear of the murder of Glasse in Ireland in 1873? In that case there were no bloodstains on the assailant’s clothing, though the wounds on the head of the murdered man had been produced by a blunt weapon. In that case the prisoner was tried three times —the first two the jury disagreed since there was no blood on his clothes. On the third trial he was convicted, and this was followed by his confession of guilt. He said that there had been small stains on his clothing, but that he had known enough about blood to remove these with cold water before they had had time to dry.”

  “But in this case, Doctor, the assailant had lifted the woman into the bath, and his clothing ought to have been drenched with blood.”

  Dr Manson paused in thought. “Supposing that he dammed up the source of bleeding with the dressing gown before he lifted her body into the bath…”

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Doctor. I shall go back and start again with all I’ve learned from you to help me.”

  This was the day and hour of the funeral. Richardson left Dr Manson and directed his driver to make for Ealing Cemetery. He had plenty to think about: Who, other than the husband, had the interest or the opportunity for committing the crime, and, if it should be afterwards discovered in official quarters that he had acted precipitately in urging Miles Pomeroy’s release, it would be good-bye to the reputation that he had so patiently been building up. The strongest point in Pomeroy’s favour—that his clothing had been free from bloodstains—had now been blotted out by the expert explanation of Dr Manson. True, Milsom—for whose common sense he had a great respect and who had seen Pomeroy both just before and after the discovery of the body—had been convinced that the man was not acting a part.

  There can be no sadder or more dreary ceremony than the last rites of a murdered woman without friends. The husband, of course, should have been present, but he was ill in bed and his wife had failed to make friends among her neighbours, and in fact had quarrelled with several that she did know. Richardson arrived too late for the funeral procession, but there was no difficulty in finding the position of the grave in the cemetery from the vast crowd of curious onlookers that had collected. Many of them would explain their presence by saying, “Well, it might have been me.” Close to the grave he saw an old man, the chief mourner, whom he guessed to be Pomeroy’s father; with him was a seedily dressed person unknown to Richardson. The only other mourner was Edward Maddox. On the outskirts of the crowd he recognized Ann Pomeroy and made towards her.

  “Your cousin isn’t here,” he said in a low voice.

  “No, he is ill in bed, and the doctor would not hear of letting him come out.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Nervous exhaustion, the doctor said it is.”

  “Am I right in guessing that the elderly gentleman standing by the grave is Mr Pomeroy’s father?”

  “Yes; and do you know who the man with him is?”

  “No.”

  “He is the dead woman’s brother.”

  “Indeed. What is his profession?”

  “He is an actor, but I fancy an actor without an engagement. If you would like to speak to him afterwards I will bring him up and introduce him.”

  “Yes, I would like to speak to him. You know, of course, who the third man is?”

  “No. I’ve been wondering.”

  “He is the adopted son of the uncle who died in New Zealand—Edward Maddox.”

  “I wonder why he came to the funeral? Ah, they’re moving off. I’ll go and fetch Mr Grant, if you’ll wait here.”

  But before Ann returned, Edward Maddox made his way towards Richardson. He shook hands.

  “I’m glad you were able to let me know about the funeral. Doesn’t it strike you as a curious thing that the husband shouldn’t be here?”

  “I understand that he is ill in bed,” replied Richardson coldly; “but this is her brother coming towards us now. Do you know him?”

  “What, Arthur Grant?” He went forward to meet the newcomer. “Do you remember me? I’m Ted Maddox. I shouldn’t have known you: you have changed.”

  “You were only a boy when I left New Zealand.”

  “You don’t look as if things have been prospering with you. You know that Colter is dead and has left everything to Stella and me? Poor girl, she won’t want hers, but I’ll see that you are all right. Come straight back with me now to my hotel and tell me all about yourself.”

  Grant allowed himself to be led away, and Richardson did not try to stop him.

  “You’ve let him go without asking him any questions,” said Ann reproachfully.

  “It doesn’t matter. I can call at Maddox’s hotel.”

  “Mr Grant is going to put me in touch with the man who may have had that raincoat given to him. When I can clear that up, the police can have no further suspicions against Miles.”

  Richardson did not think it worth while to tell her that the raincoat had ceased to have any significance. He was concerned now with the half-smoked cigar which Milsom had picked up at the door of the bungalow. He was anxious to satisfy himself whether or no it could have been Pomeroy who had left it there.

  “Can you give me the address of that Mrs Trefusis who gave evidence at the inquest?”

  Ann looked surprised at this unexpected question, but she had long ceased to marvel at the working of the police mind. She gave the address and wished him good-bye.

  Mrs Trefusis was one of those ladies who spent the late afternoons in giving or attending tea-parties, not from love of the beverage, but for the opportunity it gave of displaying cherished articles of clothing and, it must be confessed, of exchanging confidences about neighbours. On this day it was not surprising that she had chosen to be hostess, for there was the funeral of the murdered woman to be discussed together with the identity of the murderer. The maid who answered the doorbell took Richardson’s card by the corner and looked doubtful.

  “There’s a lot of ladies here, sir. Do you wish to see the mistress alone?”

  “If you please.”

  When the drawing room was opened there was a clatter of feminine tongues. In the hush that followed the presentation of his card he heard a hoarse whisper. “It’s the big detectiv
e man from Scotland Yard.”

  “Have him in here,” exclaimed a jocular voice.

  “No, I’ll have to go out to him.”

  “I’ve been wondering when one of you gentlemen would call upon me,” was her greeting to Richardson in the hall. “Up till now I’ve had no one but the reporters. Come into the dining room: we shall be quite to ourselves there.”

  She motioned him to a chair and sat down, prepared to enjoy herself.

  “I’ve called to ask you a very simple question, Mrs Trefusis. You will remember that on the night before the murder of Mrs Pomeroy you were present at a bridge party attended by Mr and Mrs Pomeroy.”

  “Am I ever likely to forget that party?”

  “Well, this is a small detail, but I hope that you will remember it. Were cigars provided for the guests?”

  “Good gracious! What a question! Yes, and very good cigars too; so my husband said, and he’s a good judge.”

  “Can you remember whether all the four gentlemen smoked a cigar?”

  “Oh yes. They were the best Havana cigars, so my husband told me.”

  “And Mr Pomeroy accepted one with the rest?”

  “Yes. Why, is that cigar a clue against him?” she added with her eyes glistening. “You know, last night we were discussing whether my husband and Mr Claremont should go to the funeral, and we decided against it, because one doesn’t like to be mixed up in affairs like this and with all this suspicion against Mr Pomeroy. You see, people forget all the details; all that sticks in their memory is that you were mixed up in a murder case, and that isn’t very nice, is it?”

  “But Mr Pomeroy has been released.”

  “Yes, and I ask myself why, when the evidence was so strong against him. You know, I can talk to you confidentially as you’re a police officer. That woman deliberately stole Mrs Meadows’ ring that night when the lights went out, and of course Mr Pomeroy knew she had. It wasn’t the first time by many that he had had to suffer from her kleptomania.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Trefusis. I don’t think I need detain you any longer.”

  “Stop! I hear my husband’s latchkey. Jack, come in here a moment.” A burly Englishman blocked the door. “Come in and shut the door behind you. This gentleman is from Scotland Yard. He wants to know whether all of you men accepted a cigar when we played bridge at the Claremonts’ that night.”

  “Yes, I think so—all four of us. But to make sure we’ll ring up Claremont.”

  Richardson tried to interpose, but the number had already been called, and he listened to the conversation. “I know I took one and jolly good it was, but what about Pomeroy? You’re sure he took one?…He was smoking it when he left the house? Thanks, old man, that’s all we wanted to know.” He rang off.

  “Claremont says yes.”

  “Thank you,” said Richardson. “I only wanted to make sure.”

  “You’ll let us know if it turns out to be very important, won’t you?”

  Richardson laughed. “I’m afraid, Mrs Trefusis, that it is only a very minor point, but in cases like this, one cannot afford to neglect anything. Good-bye.”

  Mrs Trefusis’ last endeavour to detain him took a despairing form. “If you encounter any other difficult point you won’t fail to come and consult us, will you?”

  But Richardson appeared to be afflicted with sudden deafness and merely waved his hand.

  Although this might have been held to bear against the theory that the cigar had been dropped by a stranger, Richardson did not allow himself to be depressed until he had carried the investigation further. He returned to the police station and asked Aitkin whether he had still in his possession the key of the bungalow.

  “Yes, fortunately I have. I took it to the father’s house, meaning to give it up to Pomeroy, but he was ill in bed, so I kept it until he should come to ask for it.” He unlocked his desk and produced a key. “Would you like me to come to the bungalow with you?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you why when we get there.”

  “Hammett and I have been having a day of it. You’d think that half the population of this suburb had been in the neighbourhood of that bungalow from before daylight on the morning of the murder, and that the other half had been walking round it stealthily all night. All these informants could swear to having seen prowlers about.”

  “That always happens.”

  “I know, but think of the time it wastes.”

  “Yes, but think of what one might lose if you shooed them all away without listening to them.”

  “These informants didn’t come forward at all until they heard what we were in search of. Our first quiet enquiries in that direction drew blank, and, after all, we ought to be glad that people are so ready to help us out of our difficulties.”

  Each visit to that bungalow seemed more depressing than the last, but Richardson did not allow himself to be unduly depressed. He explained the object of their visit in the fewest words.

  “I want you to hunt through the building for the stub of a cigar. My own impression is that what we ought to find is a short stub. You see, a stub was picked up by one of those visitors to the bungalow just under the outside doorstep, and I have just learned that Pomeroy smoked a cigar on the way home on the night before the murder.”

  “Well, why look for the stub indoors if it was picked up outside the building?”

  “Because if a stub was picked up inside as well as outside it would prove that some stranger had come to the house late that night or in the early morning.”

  Thinking inwardly that he was about to waste his time on a fruitless search, Aitkin took off his coat and set to work.

  “If we don’t find one it won’t be conclusive,” observed Richardson almost to himself, “because cigar stubs smell, and cigar smokers often throw their stubs down the drain.”

  He had hardly finished speaking when Aitkin returned carrying an ash tray which he had found in Pomeroy’s dressing room. In this was found the shortest cigar stub that Richardson had ever seen.

  Chapter Ten

  AS ANN POMEROY walked back from the funeral she was pondering in her mind why Richardson should have wanted Mrs Trefusis’ address, and she arrived at a conclusion. The famous detective from Scotland Yard hoped to strengthen the evidence against her cousin Miles that he had left the bridge party strongly incensed against his wife over the episode of the ring. She knew enough of Mrs Trefusis to be sure that any story from her would lose nothing in the telling. The minds of the big men at Scotland Yard worked strangely. They had those letters written by Casey, they had the knowledge that he was in the habit of calling at the bungalow at the actual hour at which the murder must have been committed, and yet they seemed to have taken no action but to have swallowed whole the story that he told them to prove his alibi.

  She heard her name called in a child’s voice behind her and stopped. Pat Coxon ran up breathless.

  “I saw you at the funeral, Miss Ann, and then suddenly I missed you and they told me that you had left the cemetery so I ran all the way after you, because I’ve something to show you.”

  He dived his hand into his trouser pocket and dragged out a handful of the conglomeration that is to be found in the pockets of schoolboys, lightly cemented together with melted toffee. From this he extracted a coin.

  “Do you know what this is, Miss Ann?”

  “It looks like a foreign coin.”

  “It isn’t foreign, it’s Irish.”

  “How do you know that it’s Irish?”

  “Because Mr Casey showed me one. And where do you think I found this?” he asked, lowering his voice significantly. “I found it in the brambles outside the Pomeroys’ bungalow when I was looking for clues.”

  “Well, you are a clever detective, Pat. I hunted thoroughly and found nothing, and so did the police.”

  Pat’s face assumed a look of serious importance. “I’ve decided to become a detective when I’m grown up,” he said; “but don’t be afraid. I’ll go on with my drawing in my s
pare time.”

  “You may find it very useful to be able to draw in your detective work. Leave the shilling with me for the moment, Pat, and then we’ll go together to the big man from Scotland Yard and tell him where you found it.”

  “I know him. He gave us some toffee one day and asked us a lot about Mr Casey. I think he has suspicions against him, like us, Miss Ann.”

  “I’ll let you know when we can go to see him. This find of yours may prove to be very useful. In the meantime don’t tell anyone about it. I won’t ask you in now, but I promise that you shall go with me as soon as I can get Mr Richardson to see us.”

  Pat raced off, well pleased with the prospect of becoming, perhaps, an important witness in a case that was reported with illustrations in the newspapers.

  Now that the funeral was over Ann felt a great relief from strain and was able to devote herself to neglected work for an hour or two. True to her promise to Pat that he should be present when she had her interview with Superintendent Richardson, she rang up the police station to know at what hour she could see him on the following morning, which happened to be a Saturday, when Pat would not be at school.

  “The superintendent is here now, miss,” was the answer. “Perhaps you would like to speak to him yourself. Hold on, and I’ll put you through.”

  The conversation was a short one. “I have something here that I think you ought to see, Mr Richardson. I am Ann Pomeroy. Shall I come up to the police station with it tomorrow morning, and at what hour?”

  “Not at all; I will come down to see you at your home at about ten o’clock.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  There remained now only to make sure that Pat should be there. She knew that there was a telephone in the Coxons’ house, but it belonged to Mr Casey, and with an ironical smile she called the number. A voice with a Dublin accent replied, and adopting her most mellifluous tone she declared her identity and asked the speaker to give a message to the boy Pat, telling him to call upon her at a quarter to ten the following morning.