The Dartmoor Enigma (29 page)

“No,” said Milsom. “We can't leave Miss Lane to walk back to her office.”

“It is very kind of you. I should be glad to have a lift back as soon as we know what the doctor says. I don't think we shall be in the way. If you stay here I'll go back to Mr Pomeroy.”

“I'll tell you one thing,” said Milsom in a low voice when he was alone with the Mitchells: “I looked into that bathroom. It's a shambles—blood all over the bath. That couldn't have come from banging her head on the tap.”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Mitchell. “That comes of all the thriller trash you have to read as a publisher; things don't happen like that in real life.”

“Yes, but slipping in the bath and banging your head on the tap would make no more than a big bruise.”

Christine shuddered. “Well, I don't want this bungalow now.”

A motor horn sounded at the gate; a car swished up the short gravel drive. From the window they saw Dr Green—a man nearing forty, with a keen face and an air of decision. Pomeroy had heard the car and came hurrying through the lounge to meet him.

“I'm so glad you've come, Doctor,” he said. “I'll take you straight to the bathroom.”

In a very few moments Miss Lane returned to the lounge. “I'm afraid I may be kept for some minutes,” she said. “Dr Green has asked me to telephone for Dr Leach, the police surgeon.”

Milsom cocked his eye at the Mitchells. “Don't hurry, Miss Lane,” he said. “We can wait.”

The agent got through and sent the message. She came over to the Mitchells. “I'm so sorry that this has happened,” she said.

“But you couldn't help it.”

“I would have suggested your leaving me here, but Dr Green wouldn't listen to me. He says that in all these mysterious cases no one ought to leave until their statements have been taken by the proper authorities.”

“He does think that there is a mystery about the case then,” said Milsom.

“Yes, according to him the poor woman could not have come by that dreadful injury by a fall.”

Christine Mitchell knit her brow. “But who could have done it? Could it have been a burglar?”

“Of course this house is very isolated—Oh! Here comes Dr Leach. Excuse me.” Miss Lane hurried to the door and admitted a rather hard-boiled-looking person of middle age.

“Well, what's wrong here?” he asked. “I thought that you people in the garden suburb prided yourselves on your freedom from crime.”

“We hope there hasn't been a crime, Dr Leach. If you'll come this way I'll take you to Dr Green in the bathroom. He'll tell you how we found the body of Mrs Pomeroy.”

Having left the two doctors together she returned to the lounge with Miles Pomeroy. “The doctors sent us away; they said that in that tiny bathroom there wasn't room for us if they were to do their work, but Dr Leach was careful to say that no one must leave the house for the present.”

“That won't prevent me from going to the car for my cigarette case,” said Milsom, rising and going to the door. But he did not go to the car, for beside the steps he caught sight of the stub of a cigar. He picked it up and stowed it in an envelope. Then he made a perambulation of the house and garden, looking for any unusual feature, especially for scratches or heel marks on the stone window sills, for, he argued, no burglar could have got into such a house without leaving a mark. He smiled as he thought of the long face that his friend, Superintendent Richardson, would pull if he knew that he was treading on the ground that should have been sacred to the Criminal Investigation Department.

At that moment a taxi drew up as near to the gate as the other cars allowed. A young man alighted. Milsom went to meet him.

“Are you Mr Miles Pomeroy?” enquired the new arrival with a slightly patronizing air. There was a hint of a colonial accent in his speech.

“No, I'm not. Mr Pomeroy is in great trouble at this moment. Is your business with him pressing?”

“Well, as a matter of fact my business concerns Mrs Pomeroy, who is a sort of cousin of mine.”

“Then I'm afraid I've bad news for you. Mrs Pomeroy met with a fatal accident this morning.”

“Good God! Do you mean she's dead?”

“I'm afraid so. The doctors are with her now.”

“What an extraordinary coincidence. I've come all the way from New Zealand to break the news of a death, and now I find that she herself is dead.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “This has been a bit of a shock to me.”

“Well, I suppose you'd better come in and see Pomeroy.” Milsom led the way into the house. “That is Mr Pomeroy,” he said, pointing him out.

“I daresay you've heard of me. I'm Ted Maddox, Mr Colter's adopted son. I came to tell your wife about her uncle's death, but I've come at a bad moment. I'm sorry. Would you like me to go and come back to see you this evening?”

“Just as you like,” said Pomeroy in a dull voice.

The young man seemed quite ready to make his escape. Jim Milsom saw him to the gate.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“I haven't an address yet. I only landed this morning and came straight on here.” He produced a bulky envelope from his pocket and displayed the address, “Messrs Jackson, Burke & Company, Solicitors, Southampton Street, London, W.C.”

“This contains Mr Colter's will. I was charged to bring it over, but I thought it better to see Mrs Pomeroy first. I'll go on to Southampton Street now.”

When Milsom got back to the lounge the two doctors came in.

“I understand from Miss Lane,” said Dr Leach, “that you were merely visiting the house as likely tenants when the body was found and that you would like to get away.”

Dr Green was at the telephone, and Milsom, who was nearest to him, caught the words, “Is that the C.I.D. office? Dr Green speaking.”

“Now you two gentlemen,” said Dr Leach, pulling out a sheet of official foolscap from his attaché case—“I should like you each to give your name and full address on this paper and a short statement of what brought you here.”

When they had finished, it came to Miss Lane's turn, and her statement had perforce to be far more detailed since she was the second person to see the body. Dr Leach read her statement through and asked, “How long would it take you to get here from your office, if the police want to question you?”

“By car, less than five minutes; on foot, of course, longer.”

“Very well, then, you may go, all four of you. We can send for you if you're wanted.”

As the four were taking their seats in Milsom's car another car drove up and deposited the divisional detective inspector at the gate. He had brought with him a detective sergeant.

“Back to your office I suppose, Miss Lane?” asked Milsom, sitting at the wheel.

“Yes, please. I'm very sorry to have brought you all into this tragic business, but—”

“How could you have known what we were going to find?” asked Milsom. “As long as these local police people don't keep hunting us to give evidence, I don't mind. What sort of man is Pomeroy?”

“Oh, his family is well known here. They live in Ealing—most respectable people.”

“And his wife—the dead woman?”

“Oh, I never listen to gossip. If I did…”

Milsom understood. “If you did you could tell us a lot, I've no doubt. The extraordinary thing to me is to think that the husband could be quietly grubbing up weeds in his garden while his wife was being murdered in the house behind him.”

“Surely she must have screamed,” said Christine.

“Or she must have known the murderer,” said Milsom.

“One thing I feel sure of,” said Miss Lane: “it was not Mr Pomeroy; he would never have done such a thing.”

“Or, if he had, he wouldn't have invited us into the house to find the body,” observed Milsom. “The type of man that I take him to be could never have acted so cool a part. He would have been straining every nerve to do a bunk.”

Having deposited Miss Lane at her office, Milsom turned to Christine. “Any more bungalows this morning?”

“No thank you, Mr Milsom. I've seen enough bungalows to last me a lifetime.”