Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? by Basil Thomson Page A

his wife.”
    She brought to bear on him a pair of steady grey eyes set wide apart beneath an intellectual brow.
    â€œI feel somehow that I can trust you with family secrets. My cousin wasn’t happy in his home life. Perhaps you knew that already?”
    â€œI think that was made clear at the inquest. What I should like to know is whether Mrs Pomeroy had any special friends or enemies—”
    â€œFriends!” She hesitated a moment. “She had one friend who was the most dangerous kind of friend that such a woman could have.”
    â€œYou mean he was her lover?”
    â€œYes—a man who took advantage of her husband’s daily absence to visit her at any hour.” She paused again, then added significantly, “Even at a very early hour.”
    â€œYou mean to imply…?”
    â€œYes,” she said, “I mean to imply that Dennis Casey should now be in my cousin’s place.”

Chapter Five
    A FTER ANOTHER twenty minutes’ conversation, Richardson left Ann Pomeroy in thoughtful mood and returned to the concrete road on which stood the bungalow. He was surprised to find how little curiosity seemed to have been excited by the murder, which must be known from one end of the villa settlement to the other. He was at that moment the only pedestrian in sight, although probably he was not unobserved from behind the lace blinds in the front windows on either side of the street. The breadwinners had departed in crowded trains to the metropolis, and soon after six o’clock they would be back again with their families.
    The point that was occupying Richardson’s thoughts at the moment was that in all England it would be difficult to find so unlikely a stage for a murder. Even in the light of the hints given to him by Ann Pomeroy it was hard to believe in so squalid a tragedy having defaced this prim setting, and yet murder had been done and he was there to probe the mystery to the bottom. If the girl had not been unconsciously embroidering the truth he had now a good deal to go upon. The man she suspected of being Mrs Pomeroy’s lover was a journalist, Dennis Casey, who, from the nature of his occupation, left for the city at an hour later than Miles Pomeroy and could easily reach the bungalow by nine every morning when Pomeroy had departed for his bank. But if this was a habit, surely it could not have escaped the notice of neighbours. True, no neighbours were living in actual sight of the bungalow, but they were passing up and down the road at all hours and must have noticed so regular a visitor. In these residential estates gossip runs on winged feet.
    Where ought his enquiries to begin? Ann Pomeroy had confided to him that Casey lodged in a two-storied house at the far end of the estate, occupied by a Mrs Coxon, also Irish, with three mischievous children, the eldest a boy named Patrick, and his two sisters, aged ten and eight respectively. It was now approaching the hour when these three young persons would be returning from school. He decided to strike up an acquaintance with them in the street on their way home. He knew the name of the road, and as he turned the corner he saw three children of the age he was looking for making for a gate on the opposite side. He crossed the road and, addressing the boy, asked to be directed to the house of Mrs Coxon.
    â€œWhy, she lives here. What did you want to see her for?”
    â€œSomeone told me that she lets lodgings.”
    â€œShe does, but she has a lodger and there’s only room for one.”
    â€œWhat a pity!”
    â€œDid you want to lodge with us?” asked Nora, the elder girl.
    â€œI think it would have been nice.”
    â€œWhat a pity Mr Casey lives with us,” piped Mary, the little one.
    â€œWell, then there’s nothing to do but for me to go to the estate office and ask them what they can do for me. Will you show me the way?”
    â€œOf course we will,” said the boy,