Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? by Basil Thomson

footprints, and there was no dearth of them. All the world seemed to have been engaged in making footprints that morning. Fortunately they were not difficult to distinguish. Those of the inspector who had discovered the coat cried out for recognition; he had been wearing substantial boots, reminiscent in their build of the boots that he had worn when in uniform. But there was a crisscross of other footprints, doubtless because this was public ground and on the first news of the tragedy every curious person in the neighbourhood had flocked to the scene. While Richardson’s keen eyes were fixed upon the ground he caught the sound of rustling among the saplings of the plantation: someone was moving cautiously among the branches. If his movements were to be spied upon he must at least discover the identity of the spy; if it was to be a game of hide-and-seek he would be cast for the part of the seeker. He fell back for a few paces before plunging into the thicket at the roadside and making a rapid detour to take the spy in flank. He could move in the undergrowth as silently as a cat, and he pressed on until he became aware of a figure moving obliquely through the saplings before him. He stopped to watch, and it was some time before he could make up his mind whether the figure was that of a boy or of a young woman. Clearly the person was searching for something, and that must be his concern. He advanced boldly, taking no thought for the noise he was making, and before he quite realized it he found himself in the presence of a girl in the early twenties. She was not in the least abashed by his appearance.
    â€œLooking for something?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat have you lost?”
    â€œI haven’t lost anything.”
    â€œThen why look for it?”
    â€œSuppose I told you that I was a botanist looking for a rare plant.”
    Richardson cast an appraising eye on the brambles. “I should say that you wouldn’t find it here.”
    â€œHave you lost anything?” she asked with cold politeness.
    â€œIf I were to tell you what brought me here you wouldn’t believe me, and if I told you what has brought you here—namely, a morbid curiosity—you wouldn’t be pleased.”
    â€œIt was not morbid curiosity, and if I told you what brought me, you wouldn’t believe me.”
    â€œWhy beat about the bush? I’m an officer in the Criminal Investigation Department.”
    â€œHo! Ho! Hunting for clues. Well, that’s what I’m hunting for, because Miles Pomeroy is my cousin, and you clever, cunning detectives are trying to fasten a crime on an innocent man.”
    â€œNow we are really introduced, why not pool our discoveries? You may have heard my name—Superintendent Richardson of the C.I.D.”
    â€œAnd I’m Ann Pomeroy—a writer. You may not have heard of me, because my writings have not yet set any river on fire.”
    Richardson could not help feeling the antagonism which her tone intended to convey. He could not blame her after the jury’s finding.
    â€œLet me remind you that your cousin’s misfortune came not from the police, but from the verdict of the coroner’s jury. I, for one, am approaching the case with an entirely open mind.”
    She appeared a little mollified. “I can quite see that from the police point of view things look black against my cousin.”
    â€œTell me this. Do you know him well, and did you see him often?”
    â€œYes, I live with his father and mother only a mile away. I saw him at least once a week. I can tell you,” she added passionately, “that this is killing his mother. I’m determined to prove his innocence if the police are too stupid to do it.”
    â€œThe police are not going to give the case up, if that’s what you mean, and they’re always glad of help from wherever it may come. You, for example, might tell me some details about your cousin and