Murders in the Blitz

by Julia Underwood

‘Yes, that is odd. Never mind. Keep asking questions and I’m sure he’ll turn up before long.’

  Eve told the inspector about the contraband sugar distributed by Malcolm in the course of his rounds. Reed didn’t seem at all bothered by this.

  ‘Oh, he’s one of those, is he?’ he said with his customary dour delivery and a shake of his head. ‘Out for the main chance. There’s a lot of it about; that and the deserters. Did you know that there’re thousands of them out there?’

  ‘Crikey, are there? How do they manage to live?’ Eve asked. ‘Don’t they need an Identity Card and a ration book?’

  ‘Oh, there are plenty of those floating around, stolen or forged. The villains are getting really good at it and it’s a lucrative business. The deserters just find a place to hide and hope to see out the war out, or they turn to crime. Most of them would rather be in prison than in the Army; less risk of being killed. Anyway, the forces don’t want them back once they’ve got a criminal record.’

  All this came as a complete surprise to Eve. The general public had not been made aware that desertion was so rife. Probably to stop others coming up with the same idea, she thought. They couldn’t have too many men copping out of conscription or there’d be no-one left to fight the Germans.

  Inspector Reed reached for his phone. ‘Carry on, Miss Duncan. I suggest you go and visit the mother. You say she wasn’t at home? Did you say the neighbour told you she’d been moved to a hospital or nursing home? Try to see where she’s gone; she may know something.’

  Eve left his office, worry nagging at her. She didn’t want to distress Malcolm’s mother by telling her he was missing, especially if she was ill enough to be in hospital. What could she say to reassure her? Eve had to find the woman first and she wasn’t even sure what her surname was.

  She drew the dairy manager’s list out of her handbag and studied it. Malcolm Miller, that was the lad’s surname. Miller was a fairly common name. She hoped it wouldn’t take her too long to track Malcolm’s mother down. Perhaps she had better try the inquisitive neighbour, Mrs Williams, first. If anyone knew where Mrs Miller had been taken it would be her.

  Eve strolled back to Arminger Road and knocked on Mrs Williams’s door. It was opened, after a short delay, by a transformed vision. Mrs Williams was obviously on her way out to somewhere where she wanted to look her best. Her dark hair had been coaxed into stiff, gleaming waves, giving her head the look of a shiny ploughed field. The pinafore had been discarded and replaced by a tight- fitting frock over what was presumably a substantial underpinning of corsetry. A riot of makeup plastered her plain face, including a liberal application of lipstick, eye shadow and mascara that she must have saved up since before the start of the war as there was none available in the shops nowadays.

  Eve tried to sustain a neutral expression and not show the amazement that was threatening to overwhelm her face.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Williams. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. I’m on my way out. There’s a whist drive at the Church Hall; so long as there’s not a raid. Always being disturbed by raids, we are. There’s nothing I can help you with, I’m sure. And besides,’ she shrugged elaborately, as if to realign the straps of her underwear, ‘I don’t see why I should help you; you’re working with the police. I don’t speak to coppers and I don’t see why I should talk to you. My Bert always said...’

  Eve had no wish to hear what her Bert had always said and forestalled Mrs Williams’s revelations. ‘I can see you’re about to go out, Mrs Williams. I have just one quick question. Do you by any chance know where Mrs Miller has gone? What nursing home she went to?’

  Mrs William’s face softened an iota. ‘Poor Dot. That boy should be shot, sending her off like that. He’s supposed to be looking after her. That’s why he’s not in the Forces, you know.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Williams, I’ve heard. But do you know where she’s gone?’

  ‘Some place in Fulham. She did tell me, in case I might visit some time. But I don’t see how I can, what with me war work and everything, and looking after the house and all the queuing you have to do nowadays to get so much as a morsel of food...’

  Once more Eve interrupted the voluble diatribe.

  ‘Yes, I know it must be difficult, but do you know where she is exactly?’

  ‘Wait a minute and I’ll pop inside. I’ve got it written down somewhere. Somewhere in Fulham...’ She continued to speak, but her voice faded as she disappeared into the house.

  Eve was left standing on the doorstep for another five minutes before Mrs Williams reappeared with a used envelope in her hand.

  ‘Here it is. I wrote it on the back of the electricity bill. It’s terrible how much it costs nowadays. And the gas too. I’m putting shillings in the meter every five minutes. My Bert would never have believed it possible.’

  Eve held out her hand and the envelope was thrust into it.

  ‘Can I keep this or shall I write it down?’

  ‘You can keep it, dearie. I won’t be going. I don’t have the time, you see, what with all the things I have to; all my responsibilities and the terrible trouble I’ve had with my knees...’

  By now Eve had left, but the garrulous catalogue of excuses followed her to the corner of the street. Having made her escape she paused to look at the straggling scribble on the envelope – St.Brabas, Flhm Pk Rd. - it read in a wavering, uneducated hand. Eve hoped she could make sense of the abbreviations, but at least it was some sort of an address. She’d need to catch a bus to get there, but it shouldn’t take long. It was after five and she hoped it wasn’t too late to visit Mrs Miller; didn’t they put patients to bed early in those places?

  It didn’t take long to get to Fulham Park Road and, by walking briskly up the street from the bus stop she soon found the imposing Victorian building with wrought iron gates that was Saint Barnabas Nursing Home. A quietly spoken young nun in a spotless apron greeted her at the door and reassured Eve that it was not too late to visit.

  ‘You’ll find Mrs Miller in the Day Room with some of her friends.’ She pointed along the gloomy corridor to a room near the end from which leaked the sound of the wireless. It was the early evening news, turned up rather loud, with the familiar voice of the newsreader telling of a battle near a place called Tobruk, somewhere in North Africa.

  Eve worried. What was she going to tell the poor woman? She didn’t want to distress her unnecessarily, but she had to find out if Malcolm’s mother had any idea where he might have got to. She straightened her shoulders and approached the brightly lit room.

  A group of men and women were seated in armchairs in a rough circle around the wireless, a large modern affair in a shiny walnut casing. The blackout curtains were already secured at the tall windows and a gas fire was fending off the evening chill. The mixed odour of warm wool, carbolic and toast filled the air. The group’s attention was so fiercely directed towards the wireless that they did not notice Eve coming into the room. During a pause in the newsreader’s narrative Eve cleared her throat with more force than was normal, to make herself heard, and several heads turned towards her. The faces showed little surprise or alarm, only mild curiosity.

  ‘Oh, hello dear. Are you looking for someone?’ one of the men asked.

  ‘Good evening. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Mrs Miller.’

  ‘Here I am, dear.’ A head turned slightly towards Eve. It was obvious that this movement caused the owner of the head considerable discomfort.

  Eve had expected an elderly woman, but the woman that she introduced herself to could not have been much over forty. She supposed that made sense as Malcolm was only 21; she must have had him young soon after the end of the Great War. She had obviously once been a pretty woman and full of life. But illness had diminished Mrs Miller and her fleshless bones appeared to have melted into the many cretonne-covered cushions supporting her in her chair. Even the slightest movement seemed to cause her pain. Pity and guilt assaulted Eve for
disturbing this poor sick creature.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs Miller, but I need to talk to you for a moment. It’s about your son, Malcolm.’ Eve spoke as gently as she could.

  ‘Oh, dear. What’s he been up to now?’

  The rest of the group had moved away slightly to give Eve and Dot Miller some privacy.

  ‘I’m very sorry, but he seems to be missing. I’m helping the police look for him and we thought you might have some idea where he might be.’

  A fleeting frown crossed the woman’s face. ‘Oh, don’t worry dear, he’s always doing this kind of thing. I could never keep track of him when he was a lad. He was often up to no good. Disappeared for days sometimes, he did, off with his friends. It was even worse after his dad died. He’ll turn up like a bad penny sooner or later. He always does.’

  ‘But he disappeared in the middle of his milk round. Left his horse and float to wander the streets.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like him. He needs his job. I haven’t got money to support him. Not now I can’t work no more.’

  ‘We thought you might know where he had got to. Where he might go if he wanted to skive off.’

  ‘No, sorry, love. I don’t know all his secrets,’ Mrs Miller lowered her voice. ‘I know I shouldn’t tell you this, but I think he’s got mixed up with some of them black market folk that’s around now. He’s always been a bit bent, my Malcolm, ever since he was a lad. Could never resist an opportunity to nick something or turn someone over. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got into trouble with that lot.’

  She didn’t seem to be particularly distressed by this possibility. Apparently Mrs Miller had washed her hands of her wayward son. She may well resent being hived off into this home, thought Eve, although it looked comfortable and the residents seemed to get on well together.

  As if reading her thoughts, Mrs Miller went on, ‘I like it here. It’s quite cosy and we get fed well. The nuns are nice too, who’d have thought it? I’m not even religious. We’re all being moved in a day or two, evacuated to the country, away from the bombs. I can’t wait. They say it’s a lovely spot. Northamptonshire somewhere.’

  ‘I’ve never been there,’ said Eve as she stood up to leave. ‘I hope you’re all very happy with the move.’

  She murmured her thanks to Mrs Miller and prepared to say goodbye.

  ‘Let me know what you find out, dear, about Malcolm. Ask him to come and see me if you like, though I don’t expect he will. He certainly won’t come to Northampton. Never mind, lovie.’

  A moment of compassion caused Eve to lightly caress the sick woman’s arm and Mrs Miller clasped her hand in a firm grip. She appeared to feel the need to impart some reassurance.

  ‘Don’t you worry, love. He’ll turn up. Like I said, he always does.’

  Chapter Five

  Mrs Miller’s words turned out to be prophetic as once again, early the next morning, Eve answered the bell to find the excitable young constable jigging up and down on her doorstep.

  A heavy air raid had disturbed the previous night and Eve and Pete spent most of it on the tube station platform. A fight for territory broke out amongst some other shelterers, which Pete had felt obliged to quell even though he was officially off duty, so they didn’t manage to get much sleep. As a result Eve greeted the eager boy bleary-eyed and bad-tempered.

  ‘Oh, God! What do you want?’ she snarled.

  ‘Come quick, miss,’ he said, trying to catch his breath, ‘they’ve found him, that milkman chap. He’s dead.’ The lad’s eyes widened with the thrill of vicarious horror.

  ‘You’ll have to give me a minute. I won’t be long,’ said Eve, sighing with resignation. Her curiosity spurred her on.

  The lad lingered on the step, not sure what to do next.

  ‘Go on. You can go back to the station. I don’t need your help to cross the Green.’

  She watched as the lad scurried back to his base. Eve then sawed off a doorstep-thick slice of bread and, after slathering it with jam, she washed it down with a cup of weak tea. Her supply had disappeared rapidly this month and she was reduced to using the sawdust at the bottom of the tea caddy. Tea wasn’t rationed yet, but the grocer still only let you buy a limited amount. He was probably stockpiling it so that he had plenty when the inevitable rationing did come into force. She would have to talk to Pete and Charlie about it and get them to bring some of their own tea when they visited. She flung on her clothes, grabbed Jake’s lead and ran.

  Within ten minutes she was standing in Inspector Reed’s office and Jake was under the front desk in the foyer, being pampered by the desk Sergeant.

  ‘Ah, yes, Miss Duncan. Good morning.’ said the inspector, remarkably jovial considering the news he was imparting. ‘Well, we’ve solved the mystery of your milkman. Someone seems to have murdered him.’

  Eve’s heart sank. Inevitably, she knew, she would be the one to break this news to Mrs Miller. How would the poor woman cope?

  ‘Oh dear. What happened, sir?’

  ‘The doc says he’s been stabbed. It looks as if he was dumped in the rubble of a bombed out building to make it appear as if he was killed in a raid. But as you know we haven’t had any bombs fall hereabouts for a few days until last night, so that little plan didn’t work. In fact that particular building was bombed months ago – you’d think he would have known that. Bad luck for the killer because if we’d had a raid here in Shepherd’s Bush on last Sunday night, and he’d chosen the spot better, we might never have found him; the milkman, I mean.’

  ‘Who discovered the body, sir?’

  ‘Some lads poking about in the rubble for souvenirs. Must have given them a hell of a shock. Perhaps that’ll keep them off the bomb sites. We keep telling them how dangerous they are, what with unexploded bombs and so on.’

  ‘They just want to collect bits of shrapnel and shell cases.’

  ‘Well, they can pick those up off the street. They’ll cop it if half a house falls on top of them; these damaged buildings are very unstable. Well, come on, Miss Duncan, let’s go and see the body.’ He swept his cap off the desk, stuck it on his head and strode from the room. Eve followed.

  The body had been deposited in the rubble of the extensive bomb site in Coningham Road, where several buildings had been destroyed last September, in the first month of bombings. Anyone who knew the area would be aware that the milkman dumped there could not have been killed recently by enemy action. It must simply have been a convenient place to leave the corpse.

  Accompanied by a couple of constables with orders to search the site for a murder weapon, the Inspector and Eve arrived at the place where the body had been discovered. The site was roughly corralled by string and a barrier of pieces of scrap timber, to prevent curious spectators from trampling all over the place. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement, from which rose soft, speculative murmuring. Eve noticed one of the milkmen amongst them, the burly one; she seemed to remember his name was Jack. She nodded to acknowledge him, but he ignored her.

  Eve and Inspector Reed crossed the makeshift barrier and, trying not to turn their ankles on the roughly heaped stone, bricks and timber littering the place, they approached the people surrounding the body. The shadow of the remains of one wall of the original structure loomed over the scene, casting a gloomy pall over the proceedings. Some effort had been made earlier to clear the bomb site, but once everything useful had been salvaged it was abandoned, as other newly damaged buildings took priority for the clean-up crews.

  Malcolm was lying on his back, his face a pale mask of shock, as if the attack had taken him completely by surprise. Perhaps it had been someone he knew well, thought Eve, and he was amazed when they attacked him. He looked so vulnerable and young. Malcolm still wore his long white United Dairies apron, liberally stained with blood on the front, and his peaked cap lay amongst the broken bricks not far from his body. His limbs were contorted at awkward angles and he had clearly bled copiously before he died because the white dust a
round him was dyed to a dried reddish brown. The killer must have struggled to carry him here as Malcolm had been a tall man, even though he still had the slimness of youth. Judging by the amount of spilled blood, the murderer would have been covered in it as well. It was probably only because it was so early in the morning that he had not been seen carrying the body. Perhaps he had used the milk float to bring the body here. But they were several streets away from Pennard Road, where the horse and float were found.

  Eve shuddered, trying not to be squeamish. This was not the first dead body she had seen, but she could not help being affected by seeing such a young, healthy man dead before his time. She knew that in wartime many young men were killed by violence, but this death seemed so senseless. Malcolm may not have been very likeable and he certainly seemed to have aroused intense animosity in his colleagues, but did he deserve to die?

  The doctor was packing up his bag; he seemed impatient to leave, having already waited for the inspector to arrive. The dim dampness of the site certainly did not encourage lingering.

  ‘I’ve done all I can here. He wasn’t dead when he arrived here, hence all the bleeding. It looks as if a long knife was used. Something like a big carver, or even a bayonet could have done it. It must have been at least ten inches long, but I can’t be more accurate until I’ve done the post mortem. I need to get him back to the mortuary first. There’ll have to be an inquest of course.’

  The inspector nodded his agreement, ‘Yes, George, get on with what you have to do. I’ll speak to you later.’

  An ambulance, in the form of a converted delivery van, was standing by on the street and soon the two constables had loaded the body onto a canvas stretcher and were carrying it to the vehicle. Eve watched as they put it on board and the ambulance was driven away to the mortuary.

  Inspector Reed turned to Eve. ‘I don’t think there’s much more we can do here. I’ll talk to the lads who found him and see if they saw anything, but I think it’s unlikely. The doctor thinks he’s been dead for well over twenty four hours so they won’t have spotted the murderer. Nothing’s ever that easy,’ he shrugged. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d go and give his mother the news. I’m sorry, Eve, but I can’t spare anyone else to go and do it and certainly no-one with the feminine touch.’ He tempered these words with a grim smile. Eve was grateful that, for once, he had addressed her by her first name. She dreaded the task of informing Mrs Miller of her son’s death, but somehow she felt that it would not come as a complete surprise. She seemed to already expect that her wayward boy would meet a sticky end.