by M J Porter
The Custard Corpses
A delicious 1940s mystery
M J Porter
M J Publishing
Copyright © 2021 M J Porter
Copyright ©2021, Porter, M.J, Amazon edition
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
Cover design by Flintlock Covers
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-914332-89-0
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-914332-90-6
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-914332-88-3
This book is dedicated to my forebears who made Erdington their home and who I never knew.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Thank you for reading The Custard Corpses. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review. Than
The Automobile Assassination
Historical Notes
Meet the author
Acknowledgement
Prologue
He looked at the man through narrowed eyes, noting the fine weave on his suit, his knee-high brown riding boots with wry amusement. Really, he thought Lord Fitzpatrick was quite mad.
“I’ll pay you handsomely for this. I know of no other with the skills to bring to life the painting and pose as I require it.” Fitzpatrick spoke with the condescension due to one of his class when talking to someone they deemed inferior and yet from whom they still wanted something.
He licked his lips in anticipation. Yes, it was a strange and bizarre request, but was that a good enough reason to turn down work that could ensure he never had to slave away as a bookkeeper again? That he’d no longer be under the command of Mr Ashley and his stringent and ridiculous demands; that he could live his life as he wanted, as he’d always dreamed.
The temptation was huge, but could he? The client said he had the required talent, but did he? He’d never been allowed to apply the hours to practise his art in the past. His doodles, as his father had always named them derisively, had never achieved any great acclaim.
At least not until now.
And how did Lord Fitzpatrick even know of his skills? It wasn’t as though he exhibited his work to more than the few people whose judgements he could tolerate. It was a strange request and yet, still appealing. Perhaps the fewer questions he asked, the better it would be in the long run.
For just the time it took to blink, he considered the legality of what he was doing. Would it get him in trouble with the local constabulary? He shrugged the thought aside. It was little different to those macabre Victorian photographs he’d seen proudly on display in the houses of his father’s friends and enemies, so why not?
“I’ll do it,” he confirmed, detecting the other man’s impatience in the way he rubbed his hand over his face, and paced around the small space of his front room. He imagined such circumstances would make any man wary, uneasy, and that was even before the grief was considered.
A sly grin lit the other’s face, delight at accomplishing what he wanted in the snap of his sharp eyes. Lord Fitzpatrick’s arrogance shone from his eyes as he raked in the small dwelling that was his home. The disdain was evident in the sneer of Fitzpatrick’s tight lips. Once more, he felt a slither of unease, but the deed was done now, the agreement made. He’d always been a man of his word. Always.
“Come, tonight. I’ll have the car pick you up. Bring everything that you might need. Everything. You’ll need to complete the work in one sitting. I’ll ensure there are food and drink laid on for you.”
“Until tonight.” He only just stopped himself from bowing to Fitzpatrick. But no, he didn’t need to show that level of respect, not knowing what he knew. Neither, he realised, did he appreciate being spoken to as though he was little more than a beast of burden there to carry out a duty and then to be dismissed to a warm barn.
Again, another thread of fear. He should have been going to the police, reporting what he’d been asked to do, but the thought of such a considerable amount of money was too great a temptation.
Instead, he took the time to prepare what he needed; the brushes, the colours, the canvasses and other items, his sketchbook as well. He didn’t know how long the task would take him, but he did know he wouldn’t be leaving until it was complete. Belatedly, he turned to grab a few items of clothing, his razor and his toothbrush. He would need them.
He turned to look around his small home. It was tiny and cramped, the scent of dampness impossible to completely drive away, no matter that he kept the fire burning brightly even in the summer months. It cost him a vast amount of his meagre salary earned from being a bookkeeper. But no more. Once his task was completed, he need never come here again.
He found a smile tugging at his tight lips at the thought of his suddenly much brighter future, at the idea of accomplishing so much more than his doubting father had ever believed him capable.
He would turn his back on this house and this life, and he need never look back. Never. It would be as though these thirty years of his life had never existed.
Freedom from the drudgery of day to day work, that’s all he’d ever wanted, and now it was to be his.
From outside, he heard the unusual sound of a rumbling motor engine, and he quickly scanned the front room, just to check he had everything he needed ready and waiting. Content that he did, as his eyes swept over the three bags he’d prepared, one full of paints and brushes, he collected his possessions and opened the door wide.
It was dark outside, with nothing more than the chink of light through curtains to show him a final glance of his home. The cold weather ensured everyone stayed inside no matter the unusual arrival of a car on the quiet street. No one wished to find trouble when they could ignore it inside their snug front rooms. The fire kept the cold at bay until they needed to use the outdoor toilet or make their way up to their freezing bedroom, blankets piled high on hard beds, the floor cold to a naked foot.
He nodded to the chauffeur, noting his smart clothing, neat hairstyle and unshaven face. This man had freedom of sorts, but still, he was in the employ of his master and must run to follow his wishes, no matter the time of day. There was no expression on his face, just cool efficiency in concise movements.
Soon, well soon, he’d have the same expensive clothes, made to last and to look smart. Perhaps, he considered, he might even invest in an expensive motor car. How he’d love to drive along the lanes at high speeds, scaring those consigned to the verges, carts and horses, as he flew passed.
He slammed the door sharply behind him, only belatedly thinking to lock it. His thoughts were already on the future and not the pa
st. He looked down at the keys in his hand, considering what he should do with them. But despite his dreams for the following days and all those after them, he knew better than to count the money before he had it in his hand.
He pocketed the keys in his ancient overcoat. If Fitzpatrick stinted him, or if he was caught, he would need somewhere to hide away. He would need the house at his back.
But, he hoped, as the rumble of the engine thrummed through his body, that he’d never see this street again, never endure the knowing looks of the matriarchs at his unmarried state at such an age, never shudder to see the grey of his white washing when he’d made a mistake with it, never have to endure the snide remarks from the children who all repeated what their parents said in private, only in front of him.
No, he’d not miss this place. Not at all.
Chapter 1
Erdington, October 1943
Sam bit back the cry of pain, coming to an abrupt stop. The pavement was shaded with the colour of the advancing night, but even so, he knew where the uneven step was. He really shouldn’t have kicked it. Not again. Would he never learn?
He blinked the tears from his eye and lifted his right hand to rub it over the ache of his lower back. All these years, and still it hurt. It would never stop. He knew it, and yet sometimes, he forgot, all the same, only to be rudely reminded when he overbalanced or attempted to take a step that was just too wide.
There was a reason he was here and not on one of the many front lines of this terrible war, the second in his lifetime. There was a reason he was here while his son, John, fought in his place.
His breath rasped through his suddenly tight chest, and yet the thin shard of light from behind the tightly closed curtains encouraged him on. Inside, there was companionship, and it drove him onwards, made him quest to be a better man. Despite the fact he knew it wasn’t true.
“Come on,” he urged himself, and although it was going to ache, he forced his legs to move, left, then right, then left, and his hand reached up to push the welcoming door open.
Appetising smells greeted him, and he dredged a smile to his face, turning to hang his hat on the waiting peg and to shrug the overcoat from his thin shoulders, revealing his policeman’s uniform beneath. The blue so dark; it was almost black. He hooked his gas mask above his overcoat. There in case he should require it. But no bombs had fallen for half a year now. He hoped none ever would again. No voice was raised in greeting to his noisy arrival. It never was.
With the door closed and locked behind him, he slipped his feet from his black shoes, using one foot to force down the ankle and then doing the same in his socked-feet. It was better than being forced to bend when his back was so painful, even if it was destroying the back of his shoes, as his wife complained whenever she witnessed it. He’d taken to hiding his work shoes behind the boots he wore to the allotment. Better that Annie did not see them.
Opening the door that led into the heart of his home, he paused, just watching her for a heartbeat.
“Evening, love.” He bent to place a kiss on his wife’s head, refusing to notice the thinning brown hair, the streaks of grey making up more and more of it as the years passed. A skeletal hand reached up to grip his, and he squeezed tightly, settling beside her at the table.
A single lamp afforded the only light in the small kitchen, a warm fire burning in the hearth in the sitting room as he settled beside her. His wife didn’t so much as look at him, and he considered that she didn’t want to see the ruin of her husband.
Time hadn’t been kind to either of them and yet he couldn’t help but be grateful for the years they’d had together. It could have been so different. So many of his brothers-in-arms lost fighting over two decades ago. They would have loved to live long enough to see the ravages of time etched into their skin and their characters, to grow weary with aches and pains, to learn the experiences that only time could afford.
A flurry of movement from Annie, and a plate was placed on the table before him, the lid swept aside. The steam took only a moment to clear, and he suppressed his rumbling stomach. It was a meal as any other day, not particularly appetising, and yet, food all the same. He was grateful for the potatoes, harvested from their garden, and the gleaming orange carrots, if not for the small sausages. Gravy pooled around the meat, and he closed his eyes, imagining a feast fit for a king, before meticulously cutting, eating and savouring every mouthful.
His wife didn’t speak, and neither did he. No doubt, she was as caught up in her thoughts as he was in his.
He considered reaching for his newspaper, but instead, his eyes were fixed by the bright image that lay open on the magazine discarded on the table before him. The Picture Post. Was there ever a magazine more filled with stories that titillated while offering little or no actual facts?
Not that he ever complained. Not anymore. If she enjoyed the stories and bright images of the adverts, then why should he? Anything that distracted her from the constant worry about their son. Anything.
Now, he found a smile tugging on his lips, and his mind cast him back to when his son had been a small boy. John had delighted in such simple antics as that on display. The custard advert enticed all parents to part with their hard-earned ration coupons. He couldn’t see that a liberal dollop of the sugary, creamy mixture would help any child become an athlete, professional cricket player or ballerina, but what did he know? He was just an old man, with a job that kept him busy and an ache in his heart where his youth had once been.
Sam reached for the folded newspaper, the smirk still playing on his lips.
“Don’t.” His wife’s voice shocked him, sounding more formidable than he’d heard for the last few years, ever since their son had left to fight Britain’s fresh battles against the might of Hitler and Germany.
He lifted his eyes to find hers boring into his.
“Don’t,” and now there was more softness, but it was too late. His eyes had alighted on what she’d been trying to keep from him.
Once more, he felt an unbidden tear form in the corner of his eye as he gazed at the hazy black and white photograph. Not that he didn’t know it intimately. He did. He’d stared at that image, and others besides, until they were emblazoned on his very soul, overriding even the final images of his lost comrades from the Great War, the war to end all wars. How wrong they’d been.
He swallowed, the burn making it feel as though it were cardboard and not the remnants of his dinner that he evacuated from his mouth.
“Again?” he felt the need to say something.
“Again,” she replied, and there was understanding and sorrow in that look, and he didn’t want any of it. He didn’t want to add to her fears and worries with his own.
“It was a long time ago,” he tried to reassure, reaching for her hand and encasing it within his. It was no longer soft but instead forged in iron, the wiry strength surprising him, even though it shouldn’t, not after all this time.
“It rolls around too quickly, these days,” a hint of a smile on her thin lips, blue eyes glistening with sorrow, and he realised that she was trying to reassure him. He hated it that she felt the necessity.
“And still, there’s no closure for the family.”
“No. But they’re not alone in that. Not anymore.” Her voice trailed off as she spoke, and he turned to gaze into the glow from the table lamp, allowing it to haze in front of him. She was right in that, as well. Many would never hold the knowledge of what exactly happened to their loved ones. Yet, there was a world of difference between adults and children. It was the fact he’d been a child that cut the deepest.
His mind returned to that terrible day. How could it not? He’d been a young man, wounded and broken after his time at The Front, but at least he’d still breathed. Not like the splayed body found in the undergrowth close to the church hall, eyes forever staring. Somehow, the rigour mortis of a smile on that cherubic face, so that anyone could be forgiven for thinking the boy was merely caught in the act of playing hid
e and seek.
But the face had been blue and white, the eyeballs rimmed with the grey haze of death that he’d come to know so well during his time in the trenches before his injury had ensured he need never revisit the place.
In the faded light of the lamp, he watched the scene, as though he’d been a bird, able to watch from above. His eyes alighted, not on the corpse, but rather on his Chief Inspector, the man who’d made him who he was today, and yet who’d been broken by the failure to solve the death of the boy.
Sam found a soft smile playing around his lips. Fullerton had been a meticulous man, with his long mackintosh and tightly wedged police hat covering the tendrils of greying hair showing beneath it and in the sideburns that snaked down to meet the dark moustache quivering over his lips. Many would have been forgiven for thinking he had no compassion for the corpse. But no, he’d had more than most, but he had desired to solve the case, to bring the perpetrator to justice. It was a source of unending disquiet that it had never been possible.
It had marked him from that day he’d found Robert’s body to the day of his death.
It hadn’t been Sam’s first case, far from it, but it had felt like it. He’d learned so much, and yet it had never been enough. Not for young Robert McFarlane and his family.
He swallowed once more, his keen memory fastening on the scene. Or rather, on the way that the body had been presented. The murderer hadn’t killed young Robert beside the church hall behind the High Street. In fact, they’d never found the place the murder had truly taken place, only where the body had been found.
Sam thought of Mrs McFarlane, her tear-streaked face, her shaking shoulders. Her oldest son, taken from her, just as her husband had been by the enemy’s bullets during the Great War. There’d been so much grief and loss in the years during and after the war, if not dead on some far-flung battlefield, then carried away by the terrible Spanish influenza. It had all seemed never-ending. And then, the spark of an untainted future when all had seemed calmer, taken between one breath and the next.
