by M J Porter
“What’s the date on it?” he whispered.
“1938.” She spoke with obvious relish. Together, they pored over the magazine, looking for the expected advertisement for custard. When they found it, they both sighed, earning them Smythe’s regard. It was one of the alternative designs, not of interest to them at all. Not unless their perpetrator had decided that penguins were also of interest to them.
“Good morning,” an older woman appeared before them. She oozed efficiency and just had the look about her that meant she must be Mr Owl’s personal secretary. She was dressed sensibly, although still with the orange tie around her neck, and warmly, her feet encased in low heeled brown leather shoes.
“Superintendent Smythe,” she looked directly at Smythe, with only a flicker of interest. “Mr Owl isn’t at the factory today, I’m afraid. He’s been called away to business in London. But I will be able to help you if you wish to come to his office. My name is Mrs Lydia Babbington.”
Sam felt his shoulders droop a little with disappointment, but Smythe took it in his stride.
“Excellent. I’ll follow along,” and he indicated she should lead the way.
The first receptionist watched them with an interested gaze but quickly returned to her work when she received a sharp look from Lydia.
The small group was silent as it walked to the spiral staircase and made its way onto the first floor.
“In here, if you please,” Lydia held the large wooden door for them, and they streamed into a huge office space, complete with a desk along the far wall. Large windows gave a good amount of natural light but also kept the room too cold for comfort. Sam could appreciate why Lydia was dressed so warmly. A younger woman appeared at the door behind them, carrying a tray on which stood a teapot and four china cups.
“Come, we’ll sit inside,” Lydia offered, holding open another set of doors that opened into an office that was no smaller than the reception room. Sam noticed the vast mahogany desk and chair behind the desk and the glass decanter set perched on another wooden table, holding a radio and some framed photographs.
The tea was placed on another table, and they found chairs as the younger woman took orders and prepared the required drinks.
Only when the younger woman had departed, closing the door behind her, did Lydia look to the Superintendent with interest.
“It’s not very often that we have police attending the factory.” Lydia’s accent hinted that she was not a local to the area, but Sam couldn’t quite place it.
“It’s not very often that I need such information,” Smythe offered carefully. “Tell me, how long have you worked for your employer?”
“Twenty-five years,” Lydia offered quickly and then felt it prudent to offer more. “My husband died during the Great War in 1916, at the Somme. Mr Owl offered me a position as a receptionist, and I’ve been here ever since, rising through the ranks, so to speak. It was that, or return to Canterbury. I rather liked living here and enjoyed the work.”
“Ah, then you are perfectly able to answer my questions.” Smythe’s words seemed to confuse Lydia, and yet she kept the idea of a smile on her lined face.
“I have some questions regarding the artists employed by Mr Owl, particularly the one who produces the advertisements used in the Picture Post. There’s no signature for me to confirm the name, but I can show you the advertisements.” Now the smile slipped from Lydia’s face, and Sam could see the understandable confusion.
“We employ at least ten people in the advertising department. A Mr Lemmings runs it. I don’t know the particulars. Shall I have Mr Lemmings summoned?”
Smythe didn’t immediately reply.
“First, would it be possible to perhaps see his employment record, or at least know a little more about him?”
“Well,” Lydia looked most ill at ease at the words.
“Can you at least tell me how long he’s been with the company?”
“He’s only been here a matter of months, no longer than that.”
“And before that, he had no connections with the company?”
“No, he used to work for Schweppes. We poached him from them. Mr Owl thought it quite a coup.”
“Then, in that case, yes, could you please have Mr Lemmings summoned. He would be an ideal person to speak with.” Clearly still perplexed, Lydia paused and then stood, casting a look over her shoulders at them as though unsure what she was doing.
Then she picked up the black telephone receiver on Mr Owl’s desk, dialled a few numbers, and waited. It was clear it was an internal call.
“Mr Lemmings. Could you please attend upon me in Mr Owl’s office? Yes, immediately.” And she rang off, returning the receiver to the cradle. Sam sipped at his tea, appreciating its fresh taste. This tea wasn’t stewed beyond reasonable taste.
There was an uncomfortable silence as Lydia returned to her chair and settled herself, one leg folded over the other, cardigan tucked in tightly. She didn’t reach for her teacup.
Smythe didn’t speak, and as much as Sam wanted to put Lydia at ease, he knew not to. O’Rourke busied herself, drinking yet another cup of tea. It was always better to find something to do with your hands at such times. That way, the temptation to fill such strained silences with meaningless chatter could be avoided.
It felt like only a few minutes passed before a man Sam assumed was Mr Lemmings entered the room. He startled on finding three members of the police waiting for him alongside Lydia, with Mr Owl patently being absent.
“Ah, Mr Lemmings. Please, join us,” Lydia stood to allow him room around the table.
“Good morning Mr Lemmings. I’m Superintendent Smythe, and this is Chief Inspector Mason and Constable O’Rourke. We have some questions about the members of your advertising team that we’d appreciate you answering.”
The man looked round-eyed at Smythe, and Sam took the time to determine what sort of man Mr Lemmings might well be. He was younger than Sam expected, and he was sure there was a smear of something that looked like charcoal on his long nose. His light hair was already beginning to recede, and he wore glasses perched on the end of his nose. He showed no sign of injury which would excuse him from the duty of fighting for his country, but Sam knew better than to assume he had refused to take up arms. There was always something.
Not all wounds were openly worn.
“Of course, Superintendent Smythe, please ask away, although I’m sure Mrs Babbington has informed you that I’ve not been in post for very long.”
“Of course, I understand that,” Smythe assured, even as Sam caught sight of O’Rourke removing her notebook and beginning to make notes.
“Chief Inspector Mason, I believe you might be the best one to begin the questions.”
Sam hadn’t been expecting that, but all the same, he was ready and began without any preamble. It was better that Mr Lemmings did not know the details.
“The current advertisements, which run in the Picture Post. Could you tell us a little about how they came about and who the designer is?”
A furrow of confusion on Mr Lemmings forehead assured Sam that such a question was the right way to go. It also reassured him that Mr Lemmings had nothing to hide.
“Well, we currently run a rolling stock of four different designers. They each have a theme and work on it, producing new ideas which are discussed and shown to Mr Owl before we decide to run them. Not all of the designs are acceptable, and Mr Owl likes to keep the adverts ‘fresh’ as he calls it. He doesn’t want people turning over the page thinking they’ve already seen it before.”
“But, I digress, I was brought in to oversee a system that had been initiated by the previous head of advertising, or public relations, if you will. He was called Mr Handings and had been in post for the previous decade.”
“And the four designers? Have they been employed for the same amount of time?”
Another furrow on his forehead, but this one caused by his contemplation.
“I believe that John, John Mo
rton, has been with the company for many years.” Mr Lemmings offered the surname as he realised that O’Rourke was writing down what he said.
“Simon Michaelson and David Davies have been here for about five years, and I brought George with me from Schweppes.”
“So the three other men have been here for some time and were more involved in the current advertisements?”
“Yes, I believe it was John and Simon who began the current trend for them, under Mr Handings. They worked on the ideas together, and Mr Owl was most pleased with them. He thinks it’s important to have jolly, even fun images, if you will, speaking for the company.”
“And could you tell us who does which designs?”
“Well, John is the most unimaginative, he focuses on the images that show custard being eaten with something, so he’s responsible for the trifle ones, and also for the pies and fruit, and that sort of thing. He doesn’t believe we need the more complex adverts, with people on, but Mr Owl does like them.”
“And who does those drawings?”
“Simon. He has a wonderful knack for capturing a moving image, don’t you think?” Mr Lemmings glanced at Smythe, and Sam considered just what he was expecting the response to be. Sam hadn’t failed to notice that Simon had the initials S and M. He was sure Smythe would have done the same, and O’Rourke would have noticed it as soon as she added the names to her notebook. He was impressed they were all managing to stay calm.
“Indeed. Can you tell me more about Simon?”
“Well,” and it seemed that Mr Lemmings was about to flail for an answer.
“Superintendent,” Lydia interjected. “These are strange questions. Have the men done something wrong? I think that perhaps I should ask you to return when Mr Owl is here. I certainly didn’t anticipate such a line of questioning when I offered to assist you.”
Smythe harrumphed and then settled his hands on his thighs.
“I know this approach might seem bizarre, and yes, they are helping us in an on-going enquiry, but I don’t believe there’s any need for Mr Owl to be here. These are just routine questions, even if they seem strange to you now.
“Well,” and Lydia looked far from reassured. “I’ll go and find his employee file. I’m sure it’ll have the information that you require.” She stood and left the room, the door closing softly behind her.
Mr Lemmings glanced at Sam with interest.
“Is it something about the advertising campaigns?” he asked.
“It’s a line of enquiry,” Sam hedged, realising that Smythe had no intention of offering more information than was necessary.
“Well, I can tell you that Simon is an incredibly talented artist. I keep telling him he should be painting for a living and not putting together advertisements for Mr Owl, but he’ll have none of it. And John. Well, John has worked here for so many years I hardly dare comment that his drawings can be subpar and unimaginative. Mr Owl seems to like the designs well enough.”
Before he could offer more, Lydia returned, a single sheet of paper in her hands.
“Here,” and she passed it to Sam. He scanned it, noting the pertinent details, date of birth, full name, place of birth and where he lived before giving it to first Smythe and then O’Rourke. Sam wasn’t interested in Simon’s design credentials, although he did seem skilled in his chosen profession. He’d worked for Dolcis and Shell before coming to the custard factory. Perhaps, as Harry Underhill had said the day before, the world of advertising was genuinely cut-throat and relatively small.
“Would it be possible to meet him?”
An unspoken question passed between Lydia and Mr Lemmings, but really, they couldn’t refuse.
“I’ll go and retrieve him.”
“Please don’t tell him the police are here,” Smythe stated smoothly.
“Of course,” Mr Lemmings agreed, but he also offered them a parting glance before he left the room. Lydia followed him out, leaving them alone.
“Well, it can’t be him,” Sam stated with frustration.
“No, it clearly can’t.”
The fact had them all reconsidering their assumptions. From the single piece of paper Lydia had presented to them, it was clear Simon was far too young, born after the first murders had taken place.
“Damn and blast,” Smythe complained, standing to pace from one side of the office to the other.
“I just felt sure,” the superintendent muttered to himself.
“Yet, there must be some connection,” O’Rourke commented, and Sam stared at her in surprise.
“It can be no coincidence. The similarity is there. We can’t just give up because this one fact has stumped us.”
Sam grunted his agreement, and even Smythe stopped his frustrated pacing.
“You’re right, O’Rourke. You are. Yes, let’s see what sort of character this Simon possesses. There has to be something there. I’m sure of it.”
When the door opened again, the young man following behind Mr Lemmings, Sam felt more composed. He just needed to determine the right questions to ask. He wasn’t going to leave without learning all he could about the designer whose drawings seemed so similar to the dead children's poses.
Simon looked at the people waiting for him with alarm, and Sam detected a flicker of unease in his eyes. It immediately aroused his suspicions. Yet, he couldn’t deny that most people would be surprised to walk into a room with three members of the police waiting for them, especially if they could read the stripes on their arms and know that both a superintendent and a chief inspector were part of the party.
“Hello,” Smythe took command of the situation.
“My name is Superintendent Smythe, and this is Chief Inspector Mason and Constable O’Rourke. We just have a few questions with which we hope you can help us. Please, take a seat.”
Simon, his hazel eyes wide with indecision, looked from Mr Lemmings to Smythe, unsure what to do. Sam detected that the man had clearly arrived in clean clothes that morning but that already the cuffs on his white shirt showed faint black marks, perhaps of charcoal, and there was a bright pink stain running over his knee. His shoes were also splattered with specks of paint.
“Please, take a seat,” Smythe repeated, and Simon did so, slinking into the seat vacated by Lydia. The fact Lydia hadn’t returned made Sam suspicious that she might be trying to contact Mr Owl.
“Shall I stay or leave?” Mr Lemmings asked his question directed to his subordinate.
“I think you should stay,” Simon exhaled, his words light and breathy. Sam noted that his face was flushed behind his neatly trimmed beard and moustache, and he felt a flicker of sympathy. He’d thought it was just a typical day in the office.
“Very well,” Smythe confirmed, inviting Mr Lemmings to sit once more.
“This must all seem quite peculiar to you, but we’re hoping you might be able to tell us something about your designs, as they’ve appeared in the Picture Post. Could you tell us how you chose those particular images?” As Smythe spoke, he looked to O’Rourke, and she quickly pulled two of the magazines from the file she’d laid on the table and placed them before Simon.
His eyes flickered to the two images, the one of a footballer, the ball high in the air, the other of a hockey player, the small ball just out of reach of the hockey stick. The confusion on his face was genuine. Sam already realised that Simon wasn’t going to be able to help them, far from it.
“Well,” and Simon paused, running his hand through his hair. Sam noticed that it shook and that it left behind white marks. Whatever the designer had been doing before summoned to Mr Owl’s office involved a lot of paint or chalk.
“Well,” and he swallowed and then met Smythe’s keen gaze evenly and began to speak, his words measured and reasoned. “Mr Owl decided he wanted the custard to be shown as healthy and able to help the young people achieve their best, even while there’s a war being fought. I decided that the best way to do that was through a series of sketches showing young people succeeding in fe
ats of physical activity. I, well, I made a list of possible sports and then started to draw in shapes and faces. Mr Owl likes the children we use to be smiling and happy.”
“That one,” and he pointed to the footballer. “I found an image in the archive and used it as a basis. Over the years, Mr Owl has employed some amazing artists. And for the hockey player, well, again, there was an image of the girl in the archive. I can show you if you want to see?” This he offered hopefully, even though Mr Lemmings looked less than pleased at the revelation.
“Come now, Simon, you’re telling me this is just a copy of an earlier advertisement?” The news was unwelcome to Mr Lemmings.
“No, no, not at all. I did look through previous campaigns, but I found a huge collection of unused images as well. Don’t you know about them?” Simon looked as surprised by the possibility, as Mr Lemmings looked unhappy with the realisation that the images weren’t all Simon’s work.
For a minute, it appeared the two of them were about to have a raging argument, but then Mr Lemmings recovered himself with some effort.
“Does that answer your question for you?” Lemmings pointed the remark to Smythe.
“Not at all. We would need to see the archive as well, find out more information about the original artist.” But Mr Lemmings was shaking his head.
“I wouldn’t be allowed to do that, not without permission from Mr Owl, and no matter how urgent it might be for you to find out the answers to these bizarre questions. Surely there must be something more crucial for you to be investigating. If it’s a matter of copyright infringement, then it hardly seems to need the three of you to interrogate one man.”
“It really is pressing, and I can inform you, the matter is nothing to do with copyright infringement.”
“All the same, it’s Mr Owl who will make the decision, not me.” Lemmings was determined not to assist them further.
