Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (8 page)

“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 friends 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.

“You're just in time for a spot of sherry, my friend, and by the look of you, you need it badly. Sleuthing must always be dry work, but to a trained sleuth like you it must dry every inch of the oesophagus, if that is what the anatomists call the bally pipe through which you take your nourishment. Say the word: sherry or a whisky and soda?”

“A very small glass of sherry, thank you.”

“Tut tut! When these glasses are full to the brim they scarcely hold enough to drown a mosquito.”

“I was not quite sure whether you were still in the publishing business, Mr Milsom.”

“What do you take me for? When I gave my word to my uncle that I'd stick to the job I stuck to it. Of course I don't pretend to publish
belles-lettres
or that kind of tripe. Detective fiction is my line, and there I can claim to be a judge. I can tell you that no one is more surprised than my uncle to find that I'm sticking to it. What he doesn't know is that when I read the manuscript of a thriller a sort of halo of light glows about the guilty man at his first entry in chapter three —it's natural intuition.”

“How is your uncle?”

“The old boy's in the pink, and so is that young rascal Geoffrey, who's been entered for Rugby, if you please. But you didn't come here to talk about the old boy. I've been expecting you for days to tell me how you're getting on with that case in Ealing.”

“Well, Pomeroy is being released this evening.”