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

by M J Porter

  Before Smythe could continue, the woman reporter stood.

  “How did you make the connections?”

  “Ah, now here, I have the endeavours of Constable Hamish Dougall from Inverness and my Chief Inspector Mason and Constable O’Rourke to thank for their hard work. Using old case files, they were able to make the connection between the victims and a series of high-profile advertisements run in recent years. This led us, in a circuitous route, and one which I must stress, assigned no blame to the company involved, to the artist, who had drawn images of the victims.”

  Sam kept a bland face. He knew that Smythe was being prevailed upon to keep the custard factory out of the limelight, but he really didn’t think it would take a great deal of effort to determine to which company Smythe referred. It wouldn’t take a genius to make the connection. And when those at the Picture Post heard the announcement, Sam didn’t think they’d be shy in sharing the information.

  As such, the following day, he wasn’t surprised to read ‘The Custard Corpses,’ even on the front page of the ordinarily reasonable, The Times, with a woman’s name as the reporter. It seemed she’d managed to beat her male counterparts to the scoop and had made her case to The Times. He appreciated that Mr Owl would be most displeased about his company being involved in something so scandalous.

  “More post for you,” Jones’ voice reflected his frustration that Mason was suddenly so well-known and so well revered. Sam took the offered packet of envelopes with a heavy sigh. It had been the same for the last few days. He didn’t have the time to open every one of the letters, and yet Smythe had made it clear he was to do so. And to be honest, there was a flicker of interest, as well. So much of the case had fallen into place from chance finds and stray pieces of information that Sam knew he couldn’t afford to overlook anything, no matter how trivial it might appear.

  He grabbed his cup of tea and settled in the only clear corner in the case room. For a second, he glanced at the walls and the charts, every one of them covered in details, facts and information. Just looking at what they’d accomplished so far filled him with pride. Fullerton, if he were alive to walk into the room right this minute, would be shocked. He’d always thought Sam was shoddy at keeping notes and that the idea of order was alien to him. How times had changed.

  Sam thought to count the envelopes but thought better of it. Jones, he noted, had already been forced to apply a stamp to the envelopes. It simply said, ‘Received’, with the date underneath it. There were times that Sam loved the tedious task of stamping the post each morning, but he was sure it accounted for Jones’ puckered face. He was not the sort of man to enjoy the monotony that order encouraged.

  The king's face stared at Sam from the selection of stamps, depending on the size of the envelope and how far it had travelled. These cases had brought him information from all over Great Britain.

  The first letter was little more than a thank you from someone he’d never met or even knew but who’d known Esme McDonald. The words were scrawled over the thin notepaper, and yet Sam felt a lump in his throat as he read.

  “Dear Chief Inspector Mason. I am writing to thank you for allowing me to rest easy knowing that I’ve not lived all my life knowing someone who killed young Esme. She was my friend, but I remember her more for the fear and nightmares I endured after her death. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  There was that as well. All of these cases, all of them, had created a ripple effect. Children had heard of their friend’s murder or even their enemy’s murder, perhaps worried for their own safety, but more than that, spent a lifetime reminiscing about someone who’d not lived long enough.

  It was the same with the men who’d fought in the Great War. It would be the same for the men and women who fought in this current war and for those who lost their lives in the bloody bombings that had taken place in London, Birmingham, Coventry and other built-up areas rich with industry. Even Weston hadn’t been left unscathed from enemy bombs.

  Many lives were lost, and so many others left to ponder just what they would have become if they’d lived longer.

  He placed the letter back into the envelope, moving it to one side, and picked up the second. His hand pulled out the paper and then furrowed with consternation.

  This envelope didn’t contain a letter, but rather a copy of one of the custard adverts, with the word ‘murderer’ written across it in thick, red pen. He shook his head. Why were people wasting their time sending such bits and pieces? He knew all this.

  O’Rourke glanced at him from her place to the other side of the room.

  “More crackpots?” she asked. Aside from the letters of thanks, there’d also been a wave of letters where others had claimed responsibility for the killings. Sam had no idea why people would do such a thing. When the first such letter had arrived, he’d almost run, sweating, to Smythe’s side, only for Smythe to nod, intelligent eyes keen.

  “It’s to be expected, Mason. I’ve been warned this sort of thing would happen. For now, keep a close track of them. If you see any pattern, we might need to do something about it, but it’ll stop soon enough. Some people just like the thrill of causing uncertainty and chaos. It disgusts me.”

  “Not really, just this,” and he held the advert to her.

  O’Rourke’s eyes widened in shock as she read the words and then shook her head, long braids flying with the movement.

  “I just don’t understand it,” she offered.

  “Neither do I. Such a waste of a good stamp,” Sam smiled but didn’t feel the joy in his eyes. It was wearisome.

  He reached for another envelope, this one larger than the other. He felt a momentary flash of worry as he opened the large, padded envelope.

  A slim notebook fell from it. He picked up the package again, checking it was addressed to him, and then opened the notebook. It looked like a diary but was nothing of the sort. Instead, he gazed at pages and pages of thick black lettering, the same words repeated over and over again.

  “It was me.” He thought that was all it contained, but he came upon what seemed to be a letter close to the back. Sam began to read.

  “Chief Inspector Mason, you’re wrong. You’re so very wrong. You’ve got the wrong person, the wrong man, the wrong everything. You’ve made connections where there are none. You’ve found patterns where none exist. You’re a fool, and you’ll be made an even bigger fool when someone realises what you’ve done. I know it was you. You’re the murderer. You killed all those children. If you hadn’t, how could you know all the details? You’re a sick, sick man, and I’m going to make sure that everyone knows it was you. You evil man. Evil, evil man.”

  “Well,” Sam looked up from the notebook, shaking his head and passing it to O’Rourke.

  “Take a look at that.”

  She read quickly, shocked eyes meeting his.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped. “I can’t believe it. How do these people get such ideas?”

  “I’ve no idea. It’s worrying, that’s for sure.”

  “Look,” O’Rourke had gone to the very back of the notebook. “The damn fool’s left their name and address in it.”

  “Really?” Sam hadn’t noticed. “Then I think we might need to send someone round to have a word with them about wasting police time.” O’Rourke grinned.

  “I’ll go and call the local police for,” and she peered at the writing, “Kent,” and tell them to go and have a little chat with them.”

  “Thank you,” and Sam moved to the next envelope. So far this morning, he’d found nothing of interest. Not yet. But there was always time.

  The next letter was thin and small, and he anticipated yet another missive thanking him for finding the killer, or even another letter from someone who’d been affected by the killings. And that was what he found—almost.

  “Chief Inspector Mason,” the writing was crabbed and hard to read. “I am aware that you’re being lauded in the local paper, in the national newspapers, and even on the radio, bu
t you shouldn’t be pleased with yourself. How can anyone be happy with themselves when it’s taken over two decades to solve a crime, and so many children were cruelly murdered by that, by that man. You should be ashamed of yourself. It should have been solved immediately. It seems that the clues were there all the time. It merely needed someone with a modicum of wit and intelligence to piece those parts of the puzzle together. It was evidently, not you.

  I saw your picture in the newspaper. You don’t look like a clever man. In fact, you look like someone who can’t even tie their own shoelaces. And, more, why aren’t you fighting in the war, beside men who are more intelligent than you? You claim the spoils for deciphering a series of crimes that should never have lain unsolved for so long, and all the time, you shirk your responsibility to your country’s freedom.”

  Sam sighed heavily. This wasn’t the first such letter of criticism he’d received either. He found it frustrating. He’d not done it for the glory or the honour. He’d solved the case because, finally, pieces of the puzzle had begun to make sense. Damn these fools who didn’t realise that.

  But the letter continued.

  “I have looked at the information made available to the press. How anyone could have missed such obvious connections is beyond me, it speaks only of incompetence. I’m disgusted with the whole thing and will be writing to my local MP about the state of our police force and the wasting of our taxes.”

  Sam didn’t even bother to read the name of the person who’d sent the letter. They weren’t worth his time and consideration.

  “These came for you, Mason,” Jones’ shouldered his way through the door once more, of all things, a hamper of fruit held before him.

  “What?” Sam didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “There’s a card inside. It came in a very shiny delivery van.”

  “Thank you.” He stood to investigate the arrangement while Jones shook his head and left the room.

  Sam hadn’t seen this much fruit since before the war. Where had they even managed to source it? Not that he wanted to question that too much. No, he wanted to eat it. Still, he reached for the white card nestled inside the fruit hamper and carefully opened the thick envelope.

  “Chief Inspector Mason,” was scrawled on the outside.

  “Please accept this small show of appreciation for solving the murder of my sister so many years ago. It’s a stain on my childhood, and one that I’m now pleased to see is finally resolved. My mother also wishes to express her appreciation, although my father sadly died without knowing the truth. The sick and twisted mind of the killer clearly knew no bounds, and I’ll never find it in my heart to forgive him, even if it is the Christian ideal, but I thank you, and wanted you to know that no matter the passage of time, what you have done still feels important and immediate to my mother and me.”

  “Yours Mary McGregor.”

  Sam nodded as he finished reading the note. He didn’t need the attendant gift. He didn’t even need the long note. But the knowledge that he’d managed to find peace for yet another of the affected families did buoy him, especially after the strange letters he’d received that morning.

  “Where on earth did they find those bananas from?” O’Rourke exclaimed, entering the room with a grin on her face.

  “The Kent Superintendent I spoke to was furious,” she continued, without pausing for a breath. “He’s almost on his way already. He says Bob Davies is nothing but a ‘bloody pain in the arse,’ and he’ll give him ‘what’s for.’”

  “Help yourself,” Sam offered, already biting into a bright green apple, and savouring the crispness of it.

  “Who’s it from?”

  Sam explained while O’Rourke determined what she wanted. Her hand kept snatching from one piece of fruit to another. Sam would have laughed if he hadn’t played the same game only moments before.

  “Wow, I’d never made the connection,” O’Rourke’s eye widened in surprise. “She’s a very famous actress, you know. In fact,” and here she stilled, a realisation just hitting her as she swallowed thickly. “Oh my goodness,” and she turned aside, reaching for one of the stray copies of Picture Post that littered the room. Sam had no idea what she was about to say, and he was stunned when she flicked through a few of the magazines and then presented it to him.

  “We can never tell her,” he exclaimed and hoped she’d never find out because there, next to an image of her smiling, healthy face, was the same advert based on her sister’s lifeless body.

  “Chief Inspector Mason,” Jones appeared once more in the doorway, half an eye to the fruit basket. “There’s someone here to speak to you.”

  “I’m coming,” Sam stood. “Help yourself,” he encouraged the other man. He wasn’t petty enough to hoard their unexpected windfall to himself.

  “I’ll introduce you first and then come back,” Jones almost smiled. They snaked between the desks and to the front desk, where Sam could see a woman’s back.

  “This is Mrs Esme Warburton,” Jones introduced them. “She wants to speak with you about the Middlewick cases.”

  “Good day,” Sam peered at the woman. She could be no more than thirty or thirty-five, her auburn hair swept up beneath a black hat, her brown eyes fierce and worried all at the same time. Jones had been reading the Times newspaper report about solving the crimes, and her eyes kept flicking to it.

  “I would like to speak to you about the Middlewick cases, please.” Her voice was firm but rigid, and Sam took note that she refused to call them by the name the press had adopted. It gave him some hope that this might be someone who held pertinent information.

  “Of course,” Sam agreed. “Do you want to come through, or would you rather speak outside?” He offered the second because she was peering uneasily into the gloom of the back offices and then back through the door as though regretting the decision to come inside.

  “Outside, please.”

  “I’ll just get my coat,” Sam stated, making his way into the main office to retrieve it. He caught O’Rourke’s quizzical eye and just shrugged his shoulders. Sam had no idea what the woman wanted. He thought it could perhaps be to discuss another case, but he wasn’t all that convinced by that idea. Sam decided this was something else, something else entirely.

  “Shall we,” and he held the door open for Mrs Warburton, but she shied away from him stepping through the gap, and he felt his forehead furrow.

  “There’s a pond we can walk to, with frogs and lily pads. Shall we go that way?”

  “Yes,” was the almost sullen reply.

  For all her intention had been to speak with him, not one word passed her lips as they journeyed towards Rookery Park, along Sutton New Road. It was not so much bustling, as slightly busy. People were clustered together, no doubt discussing the details from the newspaper. A few even met Sam’s eyes, offering him their respect. It felt strange. He’d walked amongst these people for years and yet never felt as though they saw him as anything more than a man who spent his time digging into people’s private lives. It all felt quite different now.

  Even his wife had popped into the station that morning, a smile on her face for his achievements. She’d been invited out to morning tea with the ladies from the Women’s Institute. She was not at all fazed by the knowledge that the invitation had only been made because they wanted to hear all the gory details of the murders her husband had finally solved.

  Sam held his tongue, aware Mrs Warburton would speak when she felt able. His eyes roved around him, noting the buses trundling along the road. It was the time of day when, if you were lucky, you could hop from the open-topped Midland Red to the white and dark-blue festooned Birmingham line, the buses distinctive because they were entirely enclosed. Provided everything ran like clock-work. He noted the flushed face of a young boy on the top of the Midland Red, a harassed and cold-looking woman sat next to him, and he allowed a soft smile. It never grew old, sitting on the top deck, even in weather such as this. He hoped they had a warm fire waiti
ng for them at home.

  “Here it is,” he broke the silence, directing Mrs Warburton across the road and first onto Church Road and then into the Rookery. The blossom was just appearing on the boughs of the trees inside the park. He had fond memories of the ponds within Rookery, of the frogs and lily-pads. It had been about all a boy could have hoped to see when he was much younger.

  Their footsteps sounded loudly on the paving slabs, and still, Mrs Warburton didn’t speak, not until they were beside the pond, peering into the green depths, did she say anything.

  “I should have been one of the victims,” her words startled him, and yet somehow, he’d been expecting to hear them ever since he’d laid eyes on her. After all, she was about the age the earliest victims would have been had they lived.

  “Mr Middlewick, he came for me, only I managed to escape. I’ve tried not to think about it all these years, believing it was a one-off, knowing that no one would believe me. If I’d known. If only I’d known,” and a sob escaped her mouth, her hand shooting up to cover it. Sam appreciated then that her taciturn stance was just an attempt to hold onto her emotions.

  “You couldn’t have known,” Sam tried to console, even while appreciating she wouldn’t heed his words.

  “It was 1916. I was sixteen years old,” this startled Sam. Mrs Warburton was older than he’d realised. “I lived in Ely, not far from Cambridge, an easy journey by train. I used to play lacrosse for the local team. I was quite good at it,” a soft smile touched her tear-stained face as she spoke. “My family didn’t really approve of it. They never came to watch the matches, no matter how many times I won.”

  “Mr Middlewick came to a few games. I noticed him on the sidelines, and so did the other girls, but no one knew who he was. We all thought he must be there with one of the opposition team players, but clearly not.”

  “Well, one day, I’d taken a proper whack from the ball, and it caused me to trip over my own feet. I had to limp home alone as I lived on the other side of town to everyone else. No one had a car, and no one offered to help me. I confess I was feeling quite sorry for myself when Mr Middlewick introduced himself to me and extended to me his help.”