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

by M J Porter

  “Welcome to Erdington,” he shook Hamish’s hand, relieved to find he had a firm grasp.

  Hamish’s narrowed eyes were busy looking at the map, where cases now showed in London, Cardiff, Conway, Glasgow, Berwick upon Tweed, Cambridge, as well as the initial Erdington, Weston and Inverness ones.

  “All those?” Hamish swept his hand toward the map, his accent a counter to those flatter ones Sam was used to hearing.

  “Yes, and to be honest, there’s almost one a day at the moment, suspected cases, we can’t say for sure that they’re all related.”

  “But with similarities?”

  Hamish was fumbling for a chair, and Sam realised then that while he and O’Rourke came to work each and every day, spending time trying to solve the old cases, it would be a shock for anyone who wasn’t aware of the scale of the task they’d set themselves. Sam supposed he was becoming immune to it, and yet he knew he wasn’t. Each detail he read about these children’s lives upset him. His wife had noticed his moroseness, but she understood too well to do anything but be supportive.

  “Yes, a mix of girls and boys, but all could be construed as being ‘placed’ in death.”

  “But why?” Hamish asked heavily. Sam appreciated that it was raw emotion.

  “If we knew that, the cases would probably be solved by now,” Sam offered softly.

  “What are you working on?” Hamish asked as O’Rourke slid out the door, no doubt off to make tea because Jones certainly wouldn’t after he’d marched from the room, shoulders rigid with displeasure. And it was her turn. Sam had made the last lot, at elevenses. It gave them both an excuse to get away from the scale of the task.

  “Right now, we’re trying to find something that makes sense of all the different places where the murders took place. We began with the road system, but of course, you can get almost anywhere these days if you’re lucky enough to own a car and can afford the petrol. But it makes me consider that maybe it was a tradesperson, or a salesperson, perhaps even an owner of a business who needed to go out and tempt people to buy the products.”

  “Or someone who just likes to travel, or who has the money to move as they see fit.”

  “Yes, or that. Perhaps even someone in the army, navy or the air-force. Not that there are bases at all the places, but there are at some of them. There’s the airfield in Castle Bromwich, close to Erdington. They test Spitfires there now, but it was built in 1915. ”

  “There were Americans in Inverness at the time. From a military base. I know because I asked my father, and he told me that the murder didn’t get the coverage it should have done because there was a big fight in Inverness on the night the body was found. One of the constables was attacked by the Americans. It was in the newspaper for weeks afterwards.”

  “So a brawl was in the paper, but not a murder?”

  “The murder was given some mention, but not enough. People wanted the Americans brought to justice more than they wanted the murderer found. Strange days,” Hamish sighed with regret. “My Dad remembered it far too well.”

  Sam held his tongue. He recognised the look of someone thinking hard.

  “I think there was an airfield at Cottenham, close to Cambridge, but that was just after the Great War. It’s not there anymore. In fact, it only lasted a year or two. Actually, there was one at Duxford as well, and that still exists, so forget what I said about Cottenham. Sorry, I have quite an interest in aircraft. I’m quite pleased my sister married into the RAF. There’s a base at Hendon, which could be thought of as close to Watford, as well. Oh, and at West Ruislip as well.”

  Sam nodded. He’d not known that. It had been on his list of facts to check. He considered what else Hamish might have to offer. But Hamish had already changed tack.

  “It’s a strange spread of dates,” Hamish mused, slowly relinquishing his hold on the file he carried, as he shrugged out of his coat and left it hanging over the back of the chair. Sam suppressed a smirk. It seemed he’d found someone as fascinated by the conundrum as he was.

  “Yes, but the earliest is 1918, as far as we can tell. In Cambridge. We’re still waiting for more details, but the victim was at least a decade older than later fatalities.”

  “So why change to younger children if it was the same person?”

  “I can only imagine it might be something to do with the ease with which the child could be manipulated in life and death. Imagine trying to move the body of a young man like Geoffrey Swinton. It would have taken a strong man, and I don’t think our killer is a strong man. If he were, his victims wouldn’t be small children.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Hamish all but shuddered as he deciphered what Sam was implying.

  By then, O’Rourke had returned and seamlessly slid a mug of dark tea into Hamish’s hands. He gripped it without noticing her, no doubt appreciating the warmth. It was bitter outside.

  “Thank you,” Sam offered as he reached for his mug. She leaned close, ensuring only he could hear her.

  “It’s the shock. I’d not considered it, but we’re looking at the ruin of nine lives. It is terribly distressing.”

  Sam nodded, sipping his tea and reaching for the case file Hamish had brought with him.

  “There’s no logic to the dates,” Hamish continued. “1918, and then 1919 and then a gap of four years to 1923, and then another lull to 1926. Then, one a year for 1927, 1928, 1929, and 1930, before another interlude and then nothing since 1933. Do you think the murderer is dead?”

  “It’s a possibility that we can’t ignore, although we might just be waiting for more details to be sent through.”

  “Well, if nothing else, the insatiable need would account for the constant moving around. Someone like that couldn’t risk committing two crimes in the same location. It would be far too easy to track them down then. See, they’ve caused chaos with such haphazard cases. Over twenty years, and no one has ever put two and two together.”

  “No, they haven’t, not until now.”

  “Hum,” Hamish startled.

  “I believe we’ve made some connection to the murders. They’ve all been placed in positions as though they might have been playing some sort of sport or close to a sports venue; rugby posts, a cricket green, that sort of thing.”

  “Really, then who are we trying to find? An unhappy physical education teacher?” But while it sounded light-hearted, the other man’s face was furrowed with unhappiness as he sipped tea and lapsed into silence. And it made Sam startle. He also heard O’Rourke’s head swivel.

  “There’s the physical training college, on Chester Road, in Erdington,” Sam stated slowly. Hamish’s eyes gleamed at the news.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but, well, it’s for women. And, of course, the Erdington murder was the third case so far, not the first. Do you think a woman would have done this?”

  “I don’t suppose we can rule it out, but the fact that it’s not the first case speaks to it being unrelated.”

  “Perhaps we should go and ask some questions,” O’Rourke asked hopefully, but Sam shook his head.

  “Not yet, but we shouldn’t rule it out,” he confirmed. He just couldn’t see it. Not yet.

  “I’ve brought you everything that I could,” Hamish spoke sometime later when the room was filled only with the sound of Sam working his way through the file Hamish had brought from Inverness. He was busy summarising the notes while O’Rourke attempted to set up some sort of system to cross-reference pertinent facts. It was proving difficult. The time of year was often different, the places varied, and in every case, the potential for a different sport or ball game. Yet, that didn’t detract from the overriding similarities.

  “It’s very detailed,” Sam mused, pausing to glance at the other man. Hamish had begun to make his way around the room slowly. There was a separate table with all they had on each case. Some of them were little more than a letter or details of a phone call, but from Weston, there were the photographs and Sam’s initial notes, and the Cambr
idge police had been very robust in sending through the case file that Detective Chief Inspector Willows (retired) had written to Sam about. It had only arrived two days before. Sam still hadn’t allotted the time to read through everything, even though it wasn’t the thickest of files.

  Sam was beginning to realise how much had changed in the last twenty years in terms of crime reporting and the robustness of police procedures. And also, how much hadn’t.

  He’d scanned the initial report and found it contained similar details to those he already knew. It had confirmed the date, which had been 1st July 1918. That didn’t rule out it being someone in the military, but it made it highly unlikely if the uncle hadn’t been guilty, which was becoming increasingly likely. The Great War had still been dragging on in July 1918. It unsettled him. Had it been the perpetrator practising for later murders, or had it been a spur of the moment thing, the catalyst, that had led the murderer to begin their trail of murders?

  Not that Sam doubted the way the case had been investigated. It had been robust, for the time, and yet, the assumption had been made early on that the perpetrator had been the victim’s uncle. From then on, all of the focus had been on proving the guilt, as opposed to exploring other possibilities.

  “No official police photographs from Weston?” Hamish mused to himself, and Sam nodded, even though the man looked at the images and not at him.

  “It seems not,” O’Rourke offered in his stead, her voice lilting from where she pored over one of the other files.

  “But there are photos for the others, although most of them are grainy and the details not as easy to make out as you might think. It would have helped if they’d all taken the same set of photographs, from the same angle and distance. But of course, some forces allow the inspectors to take the photographs. Not many employ photographers trained to high standards.” She spoke with new confidence. O’Rourke was going to make a fine inspector one day. Sam was sure of it. She’d taken the time to acquaint herself with all the details, and her memory was much better than Sam’s. He tended to confuse any of the cases other than Robert and Anthony’s.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Hamish asked, sometime later, as Sam was once more disturbed from his perusal of the Inverness file.

  “We keep looking until we find something. I like your idea of a physical education teacher, but I’ve no idea how we’d find out if someone were teaching at all these places.”

  “We could start by determining if the same teacher was ever in post in the schools in these places. I know the headteacher at the school in Inverness. I’m sure I could ask the question, and they wouldn’t think it too strange.” His eyebrows shot into his head as he spoke, an admission that it might be an odd question, all the same.

  “Make the call then, and I’ll see if they have records at the school in Erdington.”

  “So, we’re asking for the name of the physical education teacher at that time, so in 1919?”

  “Yes, 1919, and I’ll telephone Weston as well because I’m sure Beatrice, who works at the Weston Mercury, will know off the top of her head, or she’ll know who to ask.”

  Hamish nodded. “But first, I need to eat. Is there somewhere I can get a sandwich around here?”

  “Yes, there’s a decent baker on the high street. I recommend their meat pies,” Sam offered. “It’s just down the street. You can’t miss it.”

  “I’ll return shortly,” Hamish promised. “I need to stretch my legs a bit. I’m used to spending my days walking the beat, not sitting in an office,” but he laughed, taking the sting from his words.

  As the door closed behind him, Sam closed the Inverness file he was working from and stretched as well.

  “He’s got the right of it. We should remember to take regular breaks.” As he turned, he heard O’Rourke stifle a yawn and smiled.

  “Come on, outside. You need some air. I’m going to call Beatrice at the Weston Mercury, and then I’m taking a break.”

  For a moment, Sam thought that O’Rourke was going to argue, but she didn’t.

  “I’m starving,” she admitted, and they both laughed as an angry growl from her stomach backed up her assertion.

  Sam followed her outside, locking the door behind him, and made his way to the phone at the front desk. As he walked through the station's main room, he glanced quickly at what was happening, and content that all seemed peaceful, he continued on his way. Hopefully, Jones was out following up on the ration book counterfeit case. It was just the sort of problem that he was good at solving.

  “Weston, 392,” he spoke into the receiver and listened to the crackling on the line as he was connected. It rang a few times, and he was beginning to think about hanging up when a voice he recognised answered.

  “Weston Mercury,” Beatrice stated succinctly.

  “Beatrice, it’s Chief Inspector Mason from Erdington. We met a few weeks ago. I was hoping you might be able to answer a quick question for me.”

  “Ah, Chief Inspector. I hope the photos arrived?”

  “They did thank you, yes. Much appreciated.”

  “Always pleased to help. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

  “Well, it sounds strange, but I was hoping you might remember the name of the physical education teacher at the school at the time of the murder.”

  There was a slight pause in her reply, and Sam worried that he’d asked an inappropriate question.

  “Mr Roberts, I think,” Beatrice said slowly, and he could almost hear her thinking. “Now, wait a moment, was it Mr Roberts or was it, Mr Thomas. I seem to remember he had one of those difficult names to get the right way round. It was either Thomas Roberts or Robert Thomas. I’m sure of it. He was there for years and years. He only retired a few years ago. He was always in the paper, encouraging the students to enter all sorts of competitions.”

  Sam felt slightly deflated by her response, but then he rallied. It would have been strange if their first idea had resulted in some progress. That wasn’t how these old cases worked.

  “But, now I think about it, there was sometimes a second teacher, and I think they changed fairly frequently. I wouldn’t be able to tell you who they were, but the school should have a record. I could telephone them and find out for you. They’re used to me asking odd questions,” she laughed, and Sam could picture her leaning over the counter as she did so.

  “It would be helpful, but I can contact them if you don’t want to have to explain.”

  “It’s not a problem. My niece works in the school office, and while she won’t know the answer, she will be able to ask around for me if there’s no written record, that is. I take it; this is about the case?”

  “It is, yes, but it’s just an avenue we’re pursuing. We’ve found more than just the McGovern case that has similarities to the McFarlane one, and we’re looking for a connection, if there even is one.”

  “Don’t tell me anything more,” Beatrice stated quickly. “I don’t want to inadvertently say something that I shouldn’t,” but again, she laughed softly. “I’ll contact you when I have an answer for you.”

  “Thank you.” And she rang off.

  Sam took himself outside, as he’d told O’Rourke to do, only to immediately return inside. He’d forgotten how cold it was, and he needed his coat and gloves if he was going to attempt going for a walk.

  With his thick coat on, he strode up Wilton Road outside the police station, saying good day to the people he met, busy about their business, even while his mind was focused on the details of all they’d discovered to date. He caught sight of Hamish, sitting on a bench close to the abbey, paper bag in hand.

  Sam considered going to join him but decided against it.

  Sam turned aside and saw O’Rourke, who was scurrying along the street, a parcel gripped tightly in her left hand, the right on her hat, trying to stop it blowing away, even as her coat whipped her legs. No doubt it was from the butcher’s or even a sandwich that she’d purchased from the bakery.

  But
Sam didn’t feel hungry. Instead, with every step he took along Sutton New Road, the murder victims flashed before his eyes. All of them, starting with the familiar staring eyes of Robert but cycling through them all, Anthony, Esme, William, Geoffrey, Deidre, Gerald, Mary and Frederick. The horror of what had happened, because of an unsolved murder on his doorstep, dogging his steps.

  He needed to find the link, or he’d be bedevilled by his failure, just as Chief Inspector Fullerton had been before. Sam couldn’t allow that to happen.

  By the time Sam returned to the station, the sky was starting to darken, the promise of a cold night to come, making his breath cloud before him. It was a relief to make it indoors, and he came with renewed purpose, wincing only slightly at the ache down his back.

  O’Rourke had used the other key to gain entry to the back room, and she and Hamish were both engrossed in tasks.

  “I’ve had an idea,” Sam said. It wasn’t an exciting one, but he hoped it might help them. O’Rourke looked at him with interest.

  “We need to get the police artist in here as soon as we can. I want drawings of all of the bodies. For some of them, we only have photos, and for others, we only have drawings, but I’m sure that if we read through the reports, we’ll add more details. As we have nothing but images of the bodies to examine, we need to make sure we do it as thoroughly as possible. There might just be something that’s been missed.”

  “It’s a bit of a grim task,” O’Rourke stated quickly. “I’m not sure the usual artist, Donald, will want to do it.”

  “I hadn’t considered that,” Sam admitted, immediately realising his plan wasn’t going to work. Donald was skilled at rendering faces, but he didn’t like to think about the gritty details.

  “I could do it,” Hamish offered. “I have a fair hand when I put my mind to it, and I don’t mind wading through the gory details with you.”

  “Really? Aren’t you supposed to be on holiday with your sister?”

  “Well, yes, I am, but I’m sure my Superintendent would agree to this. He’s going to want the case solved as much as we do. Oh, and the physical education teacher was called Captain Stuart McDougall in Inverness.”