“Do you corroborate the evidence of the last witness?”
“Yes sir.”
“Were you at the wheel of your car?”
“I was.”
“Are you quite sure that you did not collide with the deceased and knock him down?”
“Quite sure. I was going at a foot’s pace and I should have felt the shock.”
Dr Henry Travers was the next witness.
“You were called by telephone to the barn in the grounds of Hatch Court? What did you find?”
“The dead body of a man aged between forty and fifty; I examined the body and found a bullet wound in the head. The body was cooling; death had occurred from three to four hours before I saw it.”
“Did you telephone to the police?”
“I did, and Inspector Miller came from Oldbury.”
“John Miller,” called the coroner, and a man in the uniform of a police inspector stood up.
“You were called by telephone to see a man who had been found shot through the head?”
“I was.”
“You concluded that he had been murdered?”
“Yes, because I found neither pistol nor rifle in the barn, nor any bullet hole in the walls or roof.”
“How do you account for the body being there?”
“It must have been brought there in a vehicle, most probably a car. The shoes were clean as if they had only just been put on.”
“Was a car seen by anyone?”
“Yes, by Peter Bury, the deaf gardener. He was sheltering from the storm in a tool shed and thought he saw a big car enter the barn. It was not until the storm was over that he found the little car belonging to Mr Powell in the barn and thought that the big one must have been a hallucination due to the lightning.”
“Has the body been identified?”
“Not yet, sir. I searched the pockets very carefully and made an inventory of everything I found in them. Besides the objects carried by smokers I found the sum of £10 16s. 9d. in notes and silver.”
“Did you notice anything of special importance in the things you found in the pockets?”
“Only that everything appeared to be brand new; even the notecase showed no sign of wear.”
“Were there no visiting cards?”
“Yes sir, quite a number with name and address complete and the telephone number in the corner.”
“Did that enable you to communicate with the deceased’s friends?”
“No sir. I telephoned to the address given on the cards, but the operator informed me that there was no such number and no such address.”
“Did you find any other document likely to help in identification?”
“Yes sir, a passport in the same name—John Whitaker.”
“The passport is being verified?”
“Yes sir, we are taking every possible step to have the body identified. My chief constable has been in telephonic communication with Scotland Yard and has asked for help. No doubt a senior officer will be detailed from the Yard to take charge of the enquiries.”
“In that case, gentlemen of the jury, I shall have no option but to adjourn the inquest until the police have had time to complete their enquiries. The inquest is adjourned. You will be notified in due course by my officer when it will be reopened.”
Inspector Miller spent a few minutes in going round among the witnesses and saying a word or two to each. As he was leaving the building a tall, good-looking man, who had been waiting by the door, stood up and addressed him.
“I must introduce myself, Mr Miller—Chief Inspector Vincent from the Yard. I was told to lose no time in coming down here and I was fortunate enough to arrive in time to hear a good part of the evidence given at the inquest.”
“I’m very glad you’ve come, Mr Vincent. You see the difficulty that I am up against. This man was shot either in some other locality or in a car— ‘taken for a ride,’ in fact, as they say in America.”
“Do you think that the man was deliberately trying to hide his identity, or that his assailants were doing that for him and for themselves?”
“So far there has been nothing to give the answer to that question. Until we know his identity it is useless to speculate about the motive for the murder.”
“May I ask what steps you have already taken for establishing his identity?”
“The usual steps—searching the list of missing persons in the police publications. I have a mass of papers at the office, which of course are at your service. My car is here.” He made a signal to the uniformed driver of his car and, though the distance to police headquarters was barely half a mile, they jumped in.
“I brought a sergeant down with me,” said Vincent. “We shall find him at your office.”
“Is he the man who usually works with you?”
“Yes. Detective-Sergeant Walker.”
“Then I feel sure that he is a live wire.”
Miller had been taking stock of his companion and had decided that he belonged to a type of detective that was new to him. To begin with, his accent was not that of the ordinary police officer. It was what, for want of a better adjective, was described as an educated accent. Miller was curious to know what had brought a man of university education into the police, but of course he could not put so personal a question to an officer of this rank. He did go so far as to ask him whether he knew Superintendent Richardson. Vincent at once rose to the bait.
“You have deprived him of a step in rank. He is now my chief constable, and he is one of the few promoted from the ranks whose promotion has given lively satisfaction throughout the whole service. I, myself, am proud to be working under him.”
They had reached the police station. Inspector Miller invited Vincent into his room where they found Sergeant Walker awaiting them.
“There, Chief Inspector, that pile of papers is for you to look through. You will find reports from a number of my officers about missing persons, but so far they have produced nothing.”
“When was the body found?”
“Only the day before yesterday—Saturday. You will see that we have wasted no time.”
“The persons I should like to see first are those two young men who found the body. Where are they to be found?”
Miller looked a little crestfallen. “The fact is, Chief Inspector, that I allowed them to continue their journey to Cornwall, after taking their addresses, of course. They promised to return on receipt of a telegram if they were wanted. You will find their statements on the top of those papers and I don’t think that they are able to give any further information. That is why I let them go.”
“Have you found any further trace of the big car which the deaf gardener thought he had seen during the thunderstorm?”
“No. He appears to have been the only man in the village who saw it and I doubt whether his evidence can be relied upon. You know the type of witness who comes forward with a story, and then when he finds that the police attach importance to it he embroiders it with all kinds of detail drawn from his imagination.”
“I know the type, but I think that he must be the first witness that I interview. The question is whether I should see him here or, less formally, on his own ground at Hatch Court. I think that Hatch Court would be best because I could make an inspection of the barn at the same time.”
“It’ll take us no time at all to get to Hatch Court if you will jump into the car again, Mr Vincent. Would you like your sergeant to come with us?”
“Yes, because he’s accustomed to taking down notes as we go. What has the owner of Hatch Court to say to the irruption of police on to his premises?”
“Mr Howard? Oh, he’s given us a free hand. We needn’t even trouble to ask for him. As long as he knows in due course what conclusion we come to, he’ll ask no questions.”
“So much the better. The only member of the staff we want to see is that deaf gardener and we can see him in the barn itself.”
They had no difficulty in finding Peter Bury— in
deed, since the thunderstorm and his supposed hallucination he seemed to have been doing little more than watch the barn from some secret hiding place for some other strange occurrence. Miller beckoned to him to approach. He shambled towards the two police officers with a hesitating gait.
Vincent called him into the barn and, using his two hands as a megaphone, shouted: “I want you to take us to where you were standing when you saw that car outside the barn.” He had to repeat the question in a louder tone before intelligence dawned in the old man’s face. He touched Vincent on the arm, making a gesture towards the garden. Vincent followed him.
Arrived outside a little tool shed, the old gardener conducted his part of the conversation in dumb show, intimating that they were standing on the very spot from which he saw the car swing round into the barnyard. Then he found his voice.
“An old friend of mine once got struck by lightning and had to go all doubled up for the rest of his life. I’ve been shy of lightning ever since. That’s why I was sheltering.”
Vincent’s voice rang out: “Did—you—see—the car—go—into—the barn?”
“I saw it swing round from the lane into the yard and I said to meself: ‘You’ll never get a car as big as that into the barn, if that’s what you’re after.’ And then the lightning flashed again and I took cover.”
“And when you came out from your cover you found a little car in the barn.”
“That’s right, though how I could have made such a mistake beats me—taking a little car for a big one.”
“Thank you, Peter. If we want you again we’ll come and find you.” Turning to Miller, Vincent said: “Now let us go to the barn.”
The floor of the barn was covered deep in dust. It showed clearly the wheel marks of a small car, and Miller pointed out a shallow depression in the dust which he said had been made by the dead body and a medley of footprints all round it.
“As you see, there are no marks here of any big car having entered. These wheel marks were made by the car belonging to those two young men.”
“Yes, and of course the footprints explain themselves. Now, assuming that Peter Bury did see a big car stop outside the barn, let us reconstruct the scene. The car drew up here, but in that heavy storm all wheel marks would naturally be washed away. Peter Bury would not have seen what happened when the car stopped, but obviously two men must have been required to carry the dead body into the barn; their proceedings were masked by the car. Then what happened? The men returned to their seats, the car swung round in this direction in the act of turning to leave the yard. It was rather a sharp turn for a big car to get round without manoeuvring.” Vincent appeared to be talking to himself rather than to his companion, whom he left and walked rapidly over to the low wall of the yard. Miller could not help admiring the quickness and agility of his movements. It was as if he was on wires. He stopped at the low wall and stooped. “Yes, here we are,” he said over his shoulder; “it was too sharp a turn for a big car. Look at this streak of black. That is car varnish from one of the wings. The driver was in a hurry—he didn’t stop to back—stripped the wing clean of varnish and, no doubt, made a biggish dent in it. That will be something to go by in hunting for the car.”
“None of the servants saw a big car,” objected Miller, “and, as you see, their windows look out this way.”
“They do, but have you ever seen a house full of maids in a thunderstorm? They run to cover, preferably under a bed or in a linen closet. The storm was a stroke of luck for our murderers.”
Vincent was silent as they walked back to Miller’s car. When they had taken their seats he asked: “Have you made any enquiries at garages down the Bath Road about a car with a dinted offside wing? Garage hands notice these things.”
“Not yet,” replied Miller half apologetically. “We had so little to go upon.”
Vincent relapsed into another silence and then he said: “If the man was shot in the car there must be a bullet mark somewhere at the level of a man’s head. That theory might be worth pursuing.”
Miller was spared from answering this remark by the sight of a small car drawn up before the police headquarters.
“Hallo!” he said. “What’s this?”
He was not long left in doubt. A young man, whom Vincent recognized as having been one of the witnesses at the inquest, jumped out of the car and made a sign to Miller to pull up.
“We have something that will interest you, Inspector, and we brought it back from a garage a few miles down the road for you to see.”
“What is it?”
“A car window with what looks like a bullet hole clean through it.”
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
All Rights Reserved
First published in 1936 by Eldon Press as Death in the Bathroom
Cover by DSP
Introduction © 2016 Martin Edwards
ISBN 978 1 911095 78 1
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? Page 22