Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (7 page)

They had reached the estate office, and Richardson dismissed them to their dinners with well-earned thanks, inwardly recording Pat Coxon as one of the witnesses that could profitably be questioned alone when an opportunity presented itself. He was in time to catch Miss Lane in her office before she left for her midday meal. He introduced himself as a police officer from New Scotland Yard who had been sent to investigate the murder at the bungalow.

“I fear that I've called at a very inconvenient hour,” he said; “you must have been on the point of closing down the office for lunch.”

“That doesn't matter at all. Sit down and ask me any question you like. My lunch will have to wait, but I think I've given all the information I have to Inspector Aitkin.”

“I haven't very much to ask you. I think you told Inspector Aitkin that Mr Pomeroy had intimated that he would like to dispose of the remainder of his lease. Did he come to the office to tell you this, or did you meet casually in the road or elsewhere?”

“It was quite a casual meeting when I was on the way to this office.”

“What did he say?”

“I don't know that I can remember his exact words. He passed the time of day and then asked me casually whether I thought that I could find a tenant for his bungalow if he decided to leave the neighbourhood. I expressed my surprise and asked him whether his wife found it too isolated a house, as she was alone all day. He said, ‘No, she likes the bungalow, but we may have to leave.'”

“I believe that when you mentioned this conversation to Mrs Pomeroy a day or two later she was surprised and told you that it was the first she had heard of it. Can you remember what she said?”

“Yes. She said, ‘Oh, that's it, is it? He wants to get me away from my friends.' I didn't pursue the conversation because we were getting onto dangerous ground. You see, it was common knowledge that she had one particular friend of whom her husband disapproved.”

“You mean Mr Casey?”

Miss Lane nodded meaningly. “I don't want to be mixed up in this business at all, but I might tell you confidentially, as you are a police officer, that more than once when I've been on the way to this office in the morning I have seen Mr Casey leaving the Pomeroys' bungalow after Mr Pomeroy had gone to business.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Lane, and now I mustn't keep you any longer from your lunch. I may tell you that I've already had a hint of what you've told me from someone else. I'm thinking of calling on Mrs Coxon, where Casey lodges.”

“You'll find her a talkative woman but not an ill-natured one. If I can be of any further use don't hesitate to come and see me again.”

They parted with mutual good will. Richardson liked this kind of business-like woman with a sense of duty. She would make an excellent witness in any court of law. He stood aside to watch her lock up the office, mount her bicycle and ride away.

It was not often that he allowed the claims of the inner man to interfere with his work, but since the sacred hour of the midday meal had rendered futile all direct enquiries, he determined to follow the fashion and call at some retired eating place in Ealing to satisfy his hunger. He chose a restaurant which advertised its dining room on the first floor. The place was divided into three separate rooms with wide communication doors between them. It was crowded, but Richardson found that he was to share a table for two in the window of the third room. A harassed waitress brought the menu, which announced that Canterbury lamb with green peas was to be had. His fellow luncher at that table was in conversational mood. He listened to Richardson giving his order and remarked, “If you've ever been in New Zealand, sir, you'll know what Canterbury lamb is before it crosses the ocean in cold storage. It's a very different commodity when they haven't had to sweep the snow off it in the cold-storage chamber. It's a wonderful country, New Zealand.”

“So I've heard. I suppose you know it well.”

“I do. But you must never judge New Zealand from Auckland: you've got to get south before you can judge of the country.”

“I've often thought that I'd like to go out there, but my profession ties me to this country.”

“You ought to come out. When I come over here I wonder how anyone can stick in a little overpopulated island like this is: I miss the sense of freedom and fresh air that we have out there.”

“You were born there, I suppose.”

“Yes, born and bred a New Zealander. I was too young to come over for the war, otherwise I'd have joined the contingent and helped to win it.”

“So you've just come over on a holiday.”

“No, what brought me over was a good deal more than that. I came to see a cousin who lives in these parts. I had sad news for her—the death of a relation; it was the kind of news that it is best to give personally. It was a strange coincidence. I had come to break the news to her, and when I called at her house I found that she too was dead.”

“Do you mean that she died suddenly?”

“I do. There could be no more sudden death than hers—she was murdered.”

“You don't mean that it was Mrs Pomeroy?”

“Yes. I suppose that everyone in these parts has heard of the murder. ‘The Bungalow Murder,' as the newspapers call it.”

“Oh yes, it's been in all the papers.”

“And what makes it worse is that it was the husband who did it.”

“The husband has been arrested on the coroner's warrant, but nothing has been proved against him so far.”

“Well, there can't be much doubt about it, can there? No one else could have any object in doing it, nor any opportunity.”

Richardson looked at his fellow luncher with a new interest. He said rather coldly, “There are people who don't believe in the husband's guilt, and it's a good English maxim that a man is not to be considered guilty until the case has been proved against him. I think you said that Mrs Pomeroy was your cousin.”

“Yes.”

“Then I think that I ought to introduce myself. I am a police officer from New Scotland Yard, and I've been sent down here to investigate the case.”

“A police officer! Don't the police believe him guilty then?”

“He hasn't been proved to be guilty.”

The man laughed. “Isn't that like you police officers, always erring on the cautious side. As you are a police officer you might save me a journey to the police station by telling me when the funeral is to be. I couldn't leave without attending her funeral, could I?”

“I quite understand. If you will tell me where you are staying I will see that you receive notice of the funeral.”

“I'm staying at the Palace Hotel. My name is Maddox—Edward Maddox.”

Richardson took out his pencil and wrote, “Edward Maddox. Palace Hotel.”

“Had your cousin any other relations in New Zealand?”

“No, only this uncle.”

“Her uncle? And you came all the way from New Zealand to break the news of her uncle's death?”

“Well, yes, and to bring his will to his solicitors in Southampton Street.”

“Who are they? I know most of the solicitors in Southampton Street. Some are good and some are the other thing.”

“These people call themselves Jackson, Burke and Company.”

“Oh, they're all right: it's an old established firm. I suppose that your cousin was her uncle's heiress?”

“Not the sole heiress.” He changed the subject of the conversation rather abruptly, a fact that was not lost upon Richardson. “Will they let the husband out of prison to attend the funeral? Funny if they did.”

“I can't tell you that, but I'll let you know the time and place as soon as it is decided.”

They had finished their meal, and Richardson had no desire to protract their conversation. With a brief, “Well, I must be getting along,” he took his leave and walked back to the villa estate, glancing once behind him to see whether he was being followed. He calculated that by this hour his new-found friends, the three Coxon children, must have returned to school and he would find their mother alone. And so he did.

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.”

O
NE 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.