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

by M J Porter

  “That as well,” Roberts nodded in agreement. His eyes were shadowed, although his voice remained even. When Sam had first met him, he’d not thought Roberts understood his need to solve the murders. Now, he realised that the man had the same desire, and more, it wasn’t due to a personal connection with those killed, but rather a craving to ensure justice was done, no matter what.

  “Sir,” a strained voice broke the silence.

  “What is it?” Roberts spoke with his subordinate.

  “We found these,” the officer held up a black leather book, his head turning to take in the fact that there were others on a bookcase in the far corner.

  “What are they?” Roberts demanded to know.

  “They’re his diaries. They show his movements. He kept meticulous records.”

  Sam took hold of the book, surprised by its heft, only to realise it was the knowledge inside that weighed him and not the book at all.

  “It’s for 1923,” Sam commented, opening the book and flipping through the pages.

  He came to September and slowed his perusal. The killer's hand was firm, and Sam startled when he was only on 5th September, and he realised the killer was already in Erdington. More slowly, he paged forward. The records were detailed, but of course, they made no mention of Robert McFarlane, but rather only of someone’s movements, evidently Robert’s. On the 25th of September, the entry simply read, ‘I have chosen.’ For the next five days, there was nothing written, until on 30th September it simply said. ‘It has been done.’

  Sam wanted nothing more than to fling the diary to one side, but it was far too valuable. While it didn’t mention Robert by name, it showed that the killer had been in Erdington on the required date. Especially as on the 1st October, the entry stated, ‘returned home. Work to do.’

  “They go all the way back to 1913,” Roberts’ man continued.

  “1913?”

  “Yes, and they stop after 1933.”

  “A twenty-year period,” it felt too long, far too long for Samuel Middlewick to have gotten away with murder.

  “Box them up and have them shipped with everything else. But make sure they’re easy to find. The diary entries will need to be cross-referenced with the dates we already have,” Roberts gave the order, but Sam agreed. “And make sure there’s one for every year. I don’t want to have one missing.”

  “Sir,” the constable moved to perform the task, picking up one of the empty boxes that had been brought for such a need. Sam turned once more. Everywhere he looked in this terrible room, there was something that tied the artist to the murders of the children, from the crates to the drawings and paintings on the wall. Hamish had wandered away, and now he peered carefully at every mounted image he saw.

  Sam wasn’t surprised that Mr Rain had felt uneasy with the task given to him. A pity he’d not been firmer in his desire to have nothing to do with the sale of the goods.

  “But why did he even start?” Sam was desperate to know. What, after all, had driven the killer to take such terrible actions?

  “I think Mrs Middlewick can help with that.” Sam realised then that Roberts had left the studio, and conversational voices could be heard from outside.

  “Here, Mrs Middlewick has made us tea,” Roberts offered as Sam stepped to join them. It was a relief to be out of the shed, and he’d only been in there for a few moments. Roberts had half a smile on his face as he sipped at a delicate white china cup, birds in flight covering it. “And I’ve been asking her about her uncle by marriage.”

  The woman attempted to smile, but it was clear she was upset by what was happening as she hunkered inside her coat, sensible wellingtons on her feet. Sam grimaced at the dankness, but at least the rain had stopped.

  “I never knew him, you must know that, but my husband did tell me about him, for all he only met him once or twice when he was growing up. There was a family rift or something. Samuel Middlewick refused to have a great deal to do with his parents or with his brother. I got the impression he was quite a bitter man. It was a huge surprise when we inherited this house. It’s nothing like where my husband grew up. This is much finer and in a beautiful location. I could never have expected to live somewhere like this. It is beautiful.”

  “What did he tell you?” Sam tried not to rush the words, but he was desperate to understand.

  “He said his uncle had a commission, in 1912, a profitable one, where he was paid enough money never to have to work again. It pleased him. He’d been a book-keeper before but hadn’t enjoyed the work. He’d wanted to be an artist, but his father wouldn’t allow it. He said all men needed a ‘proper’ profession.”

  She paused, forehead wrinkling.

  “From then on he, I understand, or rather my husband did, that his uncle painted and drew and travelled around Great Britain a great deal, but never saw his father again, and his brother, my husband’s father, only once a year. Samuel made it a point to bring the most expensive gifts he could, much to his brother’s chagrin. My husband loved it, of course. He wouldn’t have owned the things he did if it hadn’t been for his uncle.” Her words revealed unease.

  “He bought this property with his windfall. I always thought it strange that he had so much money and purchased somewhere so small and out of the way. He could have lived in London, easily, perhaps with all the other artists, but no, he settled here, away from everything and everyone. He didn’t even have a car.”

  “Do you know what the commission was for?”

  “I don’t, and neither does my husband, I’m sure of it. My husband said he never spoke about it other than in a vague way. A rich family, well, a very rich family. I believe he might have been forced to sign something that promised he would never speak of it again.”

  “And he died in 1933?”

  “No, in 1936, early that year. We received the letter in November, I believe. It took the solicitor a long time to find my husband. We were living in Inverness then, with my family. Tell me, what did Samuel do.”

  Sam paused, his eyes flicking to Roberts before he decided how to answer.

  “I’m afraid your husband’s uncle was a murderer. He killed at least ten people, spread out over many years, all over the mainland of Great Britain.”

  Her hand fluttered at her throat, face draining of all colour, and yet Mrs Middlewick stayed standing.

  “And you can definitely prove all this?” Sam admired her presence of mind to ask such a question.

  “We will, in good time, and we’re nearly there now, for a number of the murders. Tell me, do your husband’s parents still live? Or does he have any other aunts or uncles?” But Mrs Middlewick was already shaking her head.

  “No, there were only ever the two brothers, and my father in law died during the Great War. There’s no one left for you to speak to about Samuel, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s lucky that he kept such detailed records then.”

  “Yes, it is,” but her eyes were on the boxes being taken from the studio, a look of dismay on her face.

  “My husband will be most upset,” she breathed.

  “And where is your husband, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “He’s fighting for our country. I understand that he’s currently based in Italy.”

  “And do you have someone who could come and stay with you?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. I’ve been alone for much of the last five years.” Her voice was strong, yet she wavered all the same on the ‘five years.’ Sam nodded at her, his eyes filled with sympathy. She wasn’t saying something, but he believed it was about her husband and not the murderer. Sam felt she deserved privacy and decided not to pry.

  “We’ll warn you before we make any sort of public statement about your husband’s uncle. It might be that you need to move away for a while if only to avoid the press and people being curious about it all.”

  “No, I’ll remain here. I have nowhere else to go.” Her tone was so bereft that Sam had to look away. She’d mentioned family in Inver
ness, but it seemed they were no longer living if her reaction was to be believed, and certainly, she didn’t share Hamish’s accent.

  So much grief and sorrow. While he tried to drive some of it away for the family of those who’d been murdered, all he was doing was placing it on the shoulders of another.

  It settled uneasily on him. Mrs Middlewick had done nothing wrong other than inherit a house. She’d even tried to involve the police in the past, and they’d ignored her concerns.

  “Thank you for the tea,” he stated quickly, placing the cup and saucer back onto the tray that Mrs Middlewick still held, albeit slightly limply in her hand.

  Returning inside, he walked to Hamish’s side. He and O’Rourke were carefully taking frames from the wall, talking to one another as they went. O’Rourke had found herself a clipboard and made a note of the items being packed into the crate.

  “They’re all different sizes,” she was musing.

  “Aye, that they are. But I recognise some of the children, all the same.”

  “Should we list who the drawings or paintings show, or just list them as portraits?”

  “Put the name in brackets, or list it as unknown,” Sam commanded. “It’ll aid us if we know who we have and who we don’t.”

  She nodded quickly, her unhappiness evident, although Hamish was doing his best to chatter on about nothing.

  “Mason,” Hosean’s voice was rigid as he hailed him.

  “Is she sticking to the story that she knew nothing about all this?” Mason didn’t appreciate the tone in his voice.

  “She is yes. And adamant that she alerted your police force about all this in 1936.”

  “Well, well,” and his entire body puffed up at the criticism. “If she did, it can’t have been made very clear what it was all about. Otherwise, we’d have hot-footed it over here.”

  “And what would you have done with all the diaries and artwork?”

  “We’d have investigated, of course, solved all these crimes before you did.” But Hosean’s voice was quickly losing its certainty. Sam almost felt pity for the other police officer, but then he happened to gaze at the shiny boots he wore, still shining despite the mud outside. Sam’s boots were more brown than black. Perhaps, he thought, knowing it was unkind, but enjoying it all the same, if Hosean worried less about his shoes, he might have discovered all this many years ago.

  Chapter 18

  “So it’s confirmed. We can substantiate that he killed at least nine of our victims?” Smythe was presiding over a meeting in the backroom in Erdington, and it was full to bursting in there with the men under Roberts as well as someone who’d been sent from Cambridge to ensure everything went smoothly. Sam was pleased it wasn’t Hosean. He’d had quite enough of the man’s incompetence.

  Sam was standing close to Smythe, Roberts there as well, Hamish and O’Rourke. She’d been promoted to sergeant in light of what they’d found, and she deserved it.

  “Yes, nine of them, we’re still waiting for confirmation for the ninth. They’re very reluctant to admit a mistake was made with Geoffrey Swinton.” Smythe’s lips tightened at the explanation, and Sam effected not to look at the Cambridge chief inspector. He wouldn’t be the only one. In fact, Jones was glaring at the man. Sam almost liked him at that moment.

  “Then, I believe it’s time we made a public announcement. It’ll be good for morale.” Sam held his tongue. It was a strange way to raise morale by announcing that they’d caught a murderer who’d been killing small children for fifteen years, and who’d died seven years ago.

  “Before we do so, we’ll ensure the families are notified of the developments, and Mrs Middlewick as well, Mr Owl and Sotheby’s too. I know we don’t know the motivations, but we’ll have to be content with what we do know.”

  Sam had insisted on making the connections himself, between the diary entries and the crates of possessions. It had been one of the most draining experiences he’d ever endured, but the answers he’d been hoping for still eluded him, and no doubt always would.

  “I’ll speak with Rebecca McFarlane,” Sam stated quickly. He didn’t want Smythe to do so. He had known Rebecca for years. Smythe hadn’t.

  He took O’Rourke with him when he went to Bracken Road and knocked on the smart new brown door. This area had escaped the bombings, but other places hadn’t been so lucky.

  “Good day,” he smiled as Rebecca answered the door. She was wearing a pretty dress, in a sensible blue shade, with an apron tied over it and a dusting of flour on her nose. “I was hoping you might have time to talk to me. But you probably don’t want to do it here.”

  “Of course, of course,” she repeated, already untying her apron and reaching behind the door for her coat. There was an eagerness in her fingers, even as she fumbled with the key in the lock, and Sam could hear her trying to calm her breathing.

  In silence, the three of them walked along the pavement, watching the trams and buses as they made their way along Tyburn Road. Sam winced at yet another near-miss between a cyclist and a bus, but his eyes were taken with the view of the Dunlop Rubber factory far in the distance. It was impossible to miss its vastness. It was impossible to ignore the fact that it was a clear target for the German fighter planes.

  “Do you have some news?” Rebecca eventually asked, sitting on a handy garden wall still under construction.

  “I do, yes. I don’t know how you’ll feel about it. But, I’ll tell you what we know, and you must tell me if I need to stop.”

  She nodded, hands folded one over the other on the top of crossed legs.

  “Thanks to you bringing me the details from Weston, I was able to find a direct link between the boy killed there, Anthony McGovern, was his name, and your brother.”

  “It was the same person?” The words were a gasp of horror.

  “It was yes, but there’s much more, and it’s not easy listening. Anthony and Robert weren’t the only victims. We’ve uncovered evidence of ten children who were all killed by the same person, a man.”

  “Ten children?” Her voice trailed away, her eyes seeming to focus on the past and not the present.

  “Yes, ten of them, and we think more, but we can confirm ten, for now. They took place from 1919 to 1933, and the man responsible is now dead. He was an artist, and his name was Samuel Middlewick.”

  The look of relief on Rebecca’s face at the news assured him that not knowing had nibbled at her, just as much as it had him. Silence fell between the three of them, Sam’s thoughts on what he’d seen in the past few months.

  “So, this Samuel Middlewick killed ten young boys?” Rebecca broke the silence.

  “He didn’t only kill boys. There were some girls as well.” O’Rourke spoke for the first time. Rebecca was nodding, even as her lower lip trembled at the revelation.

  “So, it’s all over?”

  “Yes, it’s finally all over. But, I warn you, the newspapers will make a great deal of the discovery. You might find your brother’s name spoken about by people who never knew him. And the connection. Well, it was a strange one?”

  “You said the man was an artist?”

  “He was, yes.”

  “Tell me.” Rebecca’s voice had stabilised, and when she asked the question, Sam knew it was time to tell her everything. He told her about the drawings and the custard adverts, and she nodded, eyes shadowed.

  “Thank you,” Rebecca stood abruptly. “I think I’ll go home now, but thank you. I just can’t thank you enough.” And Rebecca’s rigid back walked firmly away from them. Sam watched her, only turning aside when he saw her slump, shoulders shaking, against another wall further away.

  “Should we go after her?” O’Rourke queried, worry in her voice.

  “No, she’s a strong young woman. If she’d wanted us to sympathise with her, she’d have stayed.” And together, he and O’Rourke made their way back to the station. Cambridge was going to inform Mrs Middlewick, and Smythe had spoken to the managing director at Sotheby’s and Mr Owl. />
  Of course, Smythe presided over the press conference called to inform the public and the press later that day. He was dressed smartly, his boots polished, his ceremonial uniform exuding authority.

  Not that a huge amount of journalists attended, but The Times sent a local reporter, so too had the Birmingham Mail. Sam stood beside Smythe, wincing as flashbulbs went off, pleased that Smythe was the one making the announcement.

  “I’ve gathered you together today,” Smythe began. If he was dismayed by the small number of attendees, he didn’t let it show. “To inform you that the mystery of who took young Robert McFarlane’s life on 30th September 1923 has been solved.”

  Sam watched consternation on the faces of the reporters. A further woman had slunk through the doors and made herself comfortable in one of the chairs available. The two men both shared a look of consternation. They were young, and no doubt, neither knew anything about the case, but the woman did. That was clear from the way she sat forward and frantically reached for her notebook.

  “The perpetrator was responsible for more than Robert McFarlane’s murder. In fact, he was active throughout the years from 1919 to 1933, and we can confirm he killed ten children in total. Geoffrey Swinton from Cambridge in 1918, Esme McDonald from Inverness in 1919, Robert McFarlane from Erdington in 1923, Ivy Reynolds from Exeter in 1925, Anthony McGovern from Weston Super Mare in 1926, Gerald Brown from Cardiff in 1927, Mary Thompson from Watford in 1928, Deidre McGregor from Glasgow in 1929, Frederick Anderson from Conway in 1930 and William Smith from Berwick upon Tweed in 1933. We’ve produced some information sheets for you,” Smythe paused to inform them, a gleam in his eye. “There is rather a lot to take in. We also believe that there were other victims in the intervening years. Anyone with information should please contact the station.”

  The woman continued to scribble frantically, whereas the two male reporters looked stunned by what they were being told.

  “The man responsible, Samuel Middlewick has been dead since 1936. So it pleases me to let parents know that they need no longer fear for their children’s lives from that quarter.”