The Custard Corpses: A delicious 1940s mystery (The Erdington Mysteries)

by M J Porter

  Higham nodded, her eyes focused on something inside the box.

  “What have you found?” he asked.

  “Just this,” and she pulled out a frayed newspaper.

  “What’s this doing in here?” she asked, and Sam shook his head as she unravelled it, and they both glanced at the date, and Sam gave a cry of surprise.

  It was the Weston Mercury once more; only the cover showed an image of what must have been where Anthony’s body was found. It was grainy, and no matter how closely he held it to his face, Sam still couldn’t quite make out all the details on the old, dry paper. He could see a group of three police officers standing smartly to attention, with a tree behind them, the domed hats they wore making him appreciate the new directive to wear peaked caps instead. The words above the picture were stark. ‘Seven-year-old child murdered in Weston. Suspects sought.” The newspaper hadn’t used an image of Anthony’s body but rather the location. Still, it set Sam thinking.

  “If they have this image, maybe they have more photographs because there aren’t any official police ones here.”

  “No photos? How strange.” Higham exclaimed. “The newspaper does have an archive. We could go and ask them.”

  Sam nodded. “And on the way, you can show me the Women’s Institute as well.”

  “Right, I’ll just put this back in the storage room, and then we can go.” Once more, her voice was filled with enthusiasm, but Sam relinquished the newspaper only slowly.

  He wanted there to be a connection, a breakthrough after all these years. But either way, these revelations had reinvigorated him. He would, as he’d said, send out information once more to all the police forces the length and breadth of Great Britain. Only then would he know for sure.

  Chapter 5

  Outside, the day had moved on while he’d been researching Anthony’s murder, and he pulled his coat tight as the wind rustled the undergrowth, bringing with it the promise of rain.

  “We’ll take the car unless you prefer to walk.” Sam considered his answer but found he couldn’t deny Higham and her enthusiasm.

  “Come on then. Just a bit slower this time.”

  “Sir,” she responded smartly, but there was a grin on her youthful face, and even Sam found himself caught up in her excitement. For a moment, he forgot all about the niggling pain in his back from sitting on the train for too long. No doubt, he’d be unable to move the following day.

  Higham drove him along quiet streets, and Sam appreciated it was the end of the school day as children ran hither and thither, some of the boys and girls stopping to play games on corners, while older girls gossiped or shared treats if they had some. It all seemed so routine it almost brought a pang of sorrow to his face. All so common, and yet who knew where their fathers were, their brothers, or even mothers and sisters. This war took its toll on everyone, even on the buildings, and Weston was no exception.

  “Here it is,” and Higham pulled the car close to the kerb and pointed to the same tree that Sam had just seen in the old newspaper article.

  “Is it still the Women’s Institute?”

  “Yes, but they don’t use it much, not at the moment, and not really since then. Too many memories.”

  The building before him was typical of the others in the street. Quite grand, with a large enclosed front door, a bit too fancy for his eyes. He couldn’t help but think that the building looked cold, despite the stack of chimneys on the tiled roof. Perhaps it was always cold inside.

  “I think the body was found here.” Higham had taken herself to the enormous oak tree and looked around as though the corpse might still be there.

  Sam twirled to take in the view before him. There was the scent of rich earth and an overwhelming salty smell from the sea, even though he couldn’t see it through the press of houses on the other side of the road. It was very different from Erdington and yet also the same. Even now, the street was quiet, the building silent and foreboding but offering the illusion of privacy.

  “I think there used to be a cut through to the park, behind the building. That’s why the dog-walker found the body.”

  Sam smirked. He’d just been considering why anyone would be hovering in what seemed to be an abandoned garden, screened off from the main street by a tall stone wall and a thick cover of trees.

  “But, I think much of this has been planted since.”

  “You seem well informed?” he offered. Higham grinned.

  “I live over there,” and she pointed to one of the large Victorian houses on the other side of the tree-lined road, with a bright red door. “I’ve watched this place change throughout my lifetime. It used to be popular, but not anymore. I don’t think it’s because of the murder. It’s just a bit out of the way now that everyone goes into the busy shopping area. I would think the Women’s Institute might sell it. They mainly use the Town Hall for meetings now. There’s more parking for those well-to-do women who have access to a motor vehicle and it’s much warmer than this cold, old building.”

  “So, you’re what? Twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-four, sir. We moved here seventeen years ago, just after the murder. I think my parents managed to get the house cheaply because of what had happened. The other family just wanted to move away.”

  Higham paused, and Sam waited, curious to see what she’d say.

  “It’s always been a bit strange around here. It’s not as though people avoid the place, but I’ve seen people of a certain generation cross over when they get close to the Women’s Institute. The memories of what happened here are long for people who lived in Weston at the time. New arrivals know nothing about it, and so they’re not at all bothered. They don’t cross the road or avoid coming here.”

  “It’s similar where my victim was found. It’s a church hall still, but no one uses it other than for necessities. Certainly, parties and fétes are held elsewhere.”

  Higham nodded, a flicker of relief on her intense face.

  “Right, do you still want to go to the newspaper office?”

  “Yes, I do,” he confirmed, and they returned to the car, but not before he cast a long-lingering glance at the area surrounding the Women’s Institute. It was all far too familiar to him.

  Higham drove far more carefully as they followed the road back into the centre of town and then onto the seafront, where the sand gleamed darkly. The beach was thronged with families at the end of the day. Sam watched them, but he didn’t see them, too caught up with the thoughts shifting through his mind. It had been years since Robert’s murder, and yet the possibility of finally solving it filled him with renewed vigour. Maybe he wasn’t just another dried up old copper, after all.

  The sea looked cold and uninviting, and the people on the beach were bent over, straining to walk against the force of the wind. He was pleased to be inside the car, even if Higham was driving.

  The car came to a stop, and only belatedly did Sam realise that Higham was once more opening the door. He peered through the window and saw a stately building with the newspaper's name, in gold letters, proudly proclaiming what it was, over the door. It looked big enough that he hoped the archive would be stored inside as well. No doubt there was a basement, mouldering and carrying that unique scent of neglect, that infected any space left abandoned for long enough.

  Higham preceded him inside, and she was already engaging the receptionist when he joined them. The woman was probably about his age, glasses perched precariously on the edge of her nose, greying hair neatly tied back so that it didn’t keep falling into her face. He decided she was a likeable woman, just from the welcoming smile as she listened to Higham’s elaborate description.

  “Ah, that poor boy,” she consoled. “I remember it well. It would be Cyril Rothbotham who took the photos. He doesn’t work for the newspaper anymore; rumour has it he’s doing some work for the government. It’s supposed to be a secret, but of course, he never could keep his mouth closed. Come on through. I’ll show you where the archive is, and if you’re lucky
, I might even be able to find the images straight away. I’m Beatrice, by the way.”

  She smiled at Sam, her examination starting at his feet and ended at his eyes. He nodded in greeting all the same. It was always a relief to find someone efficient who knew what was what. It was seldom the case these days. Everything was up in the air, with people in new positions. He was only grateful that it hadn’t happened in his station. Not yet.

  “Sandy, will you mind the front desk,” Beatrice called to a younger woman who was busy making tea. The girl watched Higham and him walk by, her mouth open in an ‘o’ of surprise, and only then went to fulfil the request, her patterned calf-length skirt sashaying with every step she took, her shoes a little higher heeled than Sam was used to seeing. He suppressed a smile of amusement. The young never changed, always out to catch the eye of a potential suitor. Perhaps, he considered, he didn’t look quite as old and grey as he believed.

  Beatrice walked through the office confidently skirting between the haphazard arrangement of desks. Sam was once more surprised by how disorderly every newspaper office he’d ever visited was. There were always files lying around, seemingly discarded, random items, perhaps prizes for competitions, and the clack of typewriter keys, and of course, a thick haze of smoke, and an equally telling array of filthy and discarded tea and coffee mugs left on any clear piece of desk

  Few even raised their eyes to look at the small procession, perhaps too caught up in their story or so used to the police appearing; they were no longer wary. Sam hoped it was the former and not the latter.

  “Here we are,” Beatrice led them through a glass-fronted door, flicking on the light switch to illuminate the vast space. “We’re lucky that our archive is here. I know in many places that it ends up in the damp basement, but here we have enough space. The newspaper has been running for over a century, well, just over a century. The centennial was in April. A pity more fuss couldn’t be made, but that’s to be expected. We do have copies of every single issue, apart from one or two. But I keep saying we’re susceptible to fire. We need fire doors. Maybe it would be better if we were in the damp basement, after all.”

  Sam looked around. At least in here, there was order. Lines of open, wooden shelving ran from the door to the far end, still shrouded in darkness. He had the idea there should be a window there, but perhaps the blinds were never swung open. He was well aware of the damage too much light could do to old papers.

  Beatrice had pulled out a chair before a small filing cabinet and was expertly flicking through small white cards in one of the drawers.

  “I’ll just find the location for you. It doesn’t run by date order, because,” and here, a smile touched her cheeks as she peered over the rim of her glasses at them both, “where would the logic in that be?” Higham grinned. This must be an on-going complaint from the supremely efficient Beatrice.

  “I’m searching for the location of that edition of the newspaper, and when I find that, I’ll hunt out Cyril’s archive. Of course, they’re not kept together either.” Yet Sam was sure she’d find what they were after anyway. She just had that aura about her.

  “Ah-ha,” here we go, and she pulled out a card and quickly wrote something down on a pad of paper to the side of the small wooden cabinet. “Here you go, this is where the edition of the newspaper is. Sometimes they’re stored with the notes of the reporters. It’s worth a look. The shelving runs from A-Z, starting from that end,” and she pointed to the shelves furthest from the door. “There’s a light switch half-way along the wall when the glow from these diminishes. I’ll look for Cyril’s archive.”

  Sam took the offered piece of paper and noted the details, Higham trying to read it upside down.

  “Row F,” he read aloud, already moving away. Each row of wooden shelving had a small cardboard overhang proclaiming its position in the alphabet, but as they strolled from N onwards, the lighting noticeably dimmed.

  “We need to find the light switch,” he mused.

  “Ah, here it is.” He’d not been aware that Higham had moved away, but the distinctive ‘tink’ of the overhead lights flickering to life assured him that she’d been thinking ahead of him. He blinked in the brief flash of bright light before it dimmed to a more pleasant shade.

  “Here it is,” he called, looking up at ‘F’ row. It stretched away in front of him, boxes and files in some semblance of order. He glanced once more at the piece of paper Beatrice had handed to him. “Section 137,” he mused to himself, moving along the row, running his hand along the shelves. They were divided into more and more sections, although not all equal sizes and lengths, and neither did the numbers seem to run in any sort of order.

  “They go up and down, and then across, and then up, and then across and then down,” Beatrice called, as though expecting the question.

  “Right, keep your eyes out,” Sam said to Higham. “This makes no sense at all.”

  “I think it’s supposed to be like a snake, in snakes and ladders,” Higham didn’t seem at all fazed by the strange filing system. It probably wasn’t the first time she’d delved into the archive. And then she sneezed, the sound loud and shocking.

  “Bless you,” he offered, and she smiled.

  “All the damn dust,” and she ran her hand along the shelf that rested at waist height. “I’ve never been good with dust. Here it is,” she immediately exclaimed.

  Sam glanced where she pointed and saw a motley collection of sturdy looking boxes, all with dates meticulously written on the front in a bold, black pen.

  “This one,” he rested his hand on the bottommost box. “I’ll move the other ones.” There were three boxes on top of it, all haphazard, as though they’d been disturbed recently. And he considered that they probably had been. After all, they’d have needed the old photograph to run it on the anniversary of what should have been the boy’s birthday. Why, he considered, had they not left the box on top of all the others?

  Plumes of dust filled the air, and Higham sneezed twice more, every time apologising, but he wasn’t far from it either. With the three boxes on the floor, all of varying weights, he finally reached the one he was after. Pulling the lid aside, he peered in to see an indiscriminate array of old newspapers and, as Beatrice had warned, notebooks and other odd items.

  “Let’s take this back to the main desk,” he confirmed, bending to heft the box into his hands. It was damn heavy.

  “There’s a trolley. I’ll go and get it,” Higham offered brightly, but Sam gritted his teeth.

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll carry it. Can you put the other boxes back, so I don’t fall over them when we bring it back?”

  She leapt to do so as he made his way down the row. Once there, he peered at the desk, where Beatrice sat, and wished he’d not been quite so stubborn. Already he could feel sweat on his forehead and running down his back, the uncomfortable twinge of pain making itself felt. But he wasn’t about to back down now, despite the knowledge that he’d regret such determination tomorrow.

  “Ah, you found it,” Beatrice announced as he thumped the box onto the table, a cloud of dust filling the air and making them both cough. “I wish I was having as much luck with Cyril’s photographs. I know they’re here somewhere. Honestly, the person who put this system in place had no idea about setting up a serviceable archive. They clearly didn’t ever want anything found.” The complaint spoke of years of experience with the system.

  Again, he lifted the box lid and looked inside the foot-high box.

  “Well, it looks like there’s quite a bit in there,” Beatrice offered. “Maybe you’ll find what you need anyway, but I’ll keep looking.”

  Sandy appeared then, a silver tray in her hands, steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of biscuits wedged onto the small space.

  “Thank you,” Beatrice offered, surprise in her voice.

  “No problem,” Sandy all but curtseyed and then made to leave.

  “You don’t know where Cyril’s archive is, do you? The photographer.”<
br />
  “I think it’s all on Z,” Sandy replied easily. “I think it’s there because James makes so much use of the old photos. If he doesn’t need to take an up to date photo, he won’t. Lazy sod,” she offered breezily. Beatrice sighed as Sandy opened the door and exited into the busy newsroom itself.

  “She’s not wrong. I’ll go and look. I can’t find anything. I might give James the job of sorting it all out if he’s messed it up, or rather, put it into an order he can use, and so can I.”

  Sam heard her words, but his gaze was focused on the contents of the box. He could see, rammed down the side that there was a thick bundle of photographs, some of the edges crimped, and he eagerly reached for them. Higham, once more beside him, sneezed and made to apologise.

  “No need to apologise again. It’s all the dust. It’s making my nose itch as well. Have a cup of tea. It might help,” he offered. The photographs were bound together by a piece of string that ran all around them, and he levelled them onto the table and quickly undid the string. The pictures stayed neatly stacked, one on top of the other, more than a hint that they might be slightly stuck together. They were all the same size, about eight inches by ten, large enough to see details, but also not because the photographs were old and faded in places.

  The first photograph was of the beach, the promise of an enticing sea view lost because of the angry-looking clouds overhead; the threat only intensified because they were black and white. The second ripped in the top right corner was of a church with a bride and groom gazing at the camera, a small bouquet in her hands, a lace veil pulled back from her face. They didn’t look thrilled. The third was of a football game, one team wearing vertical stripes, the other horizontal.

  Sam sighed. Of course. He didn’t know the views or the places in the photographs.