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

by M J Porter

  “Please, close the portfolio. There’s no need to show me more. I remember it well enough.”

  O’Rourke was clearly startled by the words, but hastened to seal the drawing away, while Mr Rain sank into an empty chair, his excellent humour evaporated on seeing the canvas.

  “The portfolio always made me feel quite strange, but we were asked to sell them at auction, and I’m not really allowed to veto these things unless there’s a very good reason why we can’t profit from such a sale. In the end, I believe the whole lot went for a much lower sum than expected but to be honest. I was surprised it sold at all. Those paintings always looked ‘wrong’ to me, too posed, too artificial. It was as though the children were unmoving, even while they were shown in motion.”

  Sam considered telling Mr Rain more but decided against it for the time being.

  “And where did they come from?”

  “I would need to find the bill of sale. I believe the artist was a Samuel Wickinson or a Middlewick; there was a wick in there. Something like that. It was his effects, I’m sure of it. I believe it came with all of his drawing supplies, sold on as an ‘artist’s studio.’ But there were some strange things in the collection. If I remember it correctly, there was an entire case containing false eyeballs, all different colours, made of glass or some such. And some other items as well. No doubt they were used so that he could draw them. There were at least three different mannequins. You know, wooden bodies, the sort an artist can use to copy the poses. They were made of different woods and varied in size. One could almost be thought of as childlike, the limbs and head so small. I found it most odd, and I didn’t sleep well for an entire week. I was pleased when the stuff sold.”

  “Please don’t tell me I was right to be suspicious of the items. I said it at the time, but the Manager was adamant there was nothing wrong with it all. ‘Odd,’ he called it, but not ‘illegal.’ Oh, do tell me. I should certainly like to tell the old boy that he was wrong.”

  “Well, Mr Rain, these do form part of an on-going investigation. I really can’t tell you too much, not at this stage, but I can confirm that you were right to be wary of the items.”

  “Hah, I knew it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll hunt out the records and see if there’s more that I can tell you. I’ll have some more tea and biscuits brought for you.” And the man stood, and then shuddered, all the way from the top of his head, down to his feet, as though a swan fluffing out its plumage. “I knew it,” he muttered, opening and then closing the door behind him.

  O’Rourke looked at Sam with an arched eyebrow, a half-smile on her face.

  “Someone is going to enjoy informing their manager of this.”

  “He certainly is, and I don’t blame him. How terrible will they feel when they realise they auctioned the effects of a serial killer? That would make me tremble as well.”

  Mr Rain appeared a few minutes later on the heels of the fresh pot of tea delivered by the receptionist.

  “I remember now,” his face was flushed, and in his wake trailed another man. Sam knew without the introduction that he'd prove to be the very man who’d insisted on auctioning off the items. “I spoke with Mr Spinkle, and he reminded me that I had to go to the artist’s house. In fact, we both went and performed an appraisal before we decided whether to include the items or not.”

  “Hello,” Mr Spinkle commented, reaching out to shake the hand of Sam and O’Rourke, while the tea tray was carefully placed on the table. “I’m Mr Rain’s manager. I’ve come to see what all this is about, and of course, to help, if I can.” The offer of assistance was made somewhat half-heartedly in a light baritone. Sam understood the motivations for what they were. Mr Spinkle wanted to protect his employer and be helpful, but the desire to protect overrode all else.

  “These images have come to our attention as potentially relevant to a large case we’re currently working on. It’s a historic case, I can tell you that, and as such, we need to know as much as we can about the artist.”

  Mr Spinkle sobered immediately. It was as though he’d reasoned everything out for himself.

  “Well, you wouldn’t be here for any sort of minor offence, so I’ll tell you all I can, and so will Mr Rain. I assure you that Mr Rain was most unhappy about including the items in an auction, I’m sure he’d told you that, but it’s not our place to turn down perfectly good items just because of a belief that there was something not quite right with them. But, I confess it was an odd occasion.”

  On seeing Mr Spinkle joining the party, the receptionist quickly returned with an additional cup for tea and more biscuits. Mr Spinkle eyed the plate of thick shortcrust biscuits with appreciation but continued to talk. O’Rourke was less constrained, but Sam couldn’t get to them without reaching over the teapot. He didn’t want to distract Mr Spinkle, so he held back a craving for one.

  “Now, it was a property close to Cambridge. It was a pleasant enough little cottage, almost charming, to be honest. The gardens were somewhat of a mess, and the windows needed a good clean and the woodwork, repainting, but that was where the pleasantness ended. Inside, there was hardly any natural light, which I found extraordinary for an artist. There was a strange smell in the air. It made me think of too much dust and badly cooked meals. It was before the beginning of the war, so it wasn’t as though there was rationing to blame for the poor meals being prepared.”

  “It was the artist’s niece, I believe, or perhaps a niece through marriage, who’d asked us to appraise the contents of the property. I could see why because there were some quite pleasant pieces of sculpture, some marbles, and some stone, and some wonderful watercolours, but it was the contents of the artist’s studio that she was determined we should auction.”

  “Here, I must digress, the studio wasn’t actually a part of the house, but rather a separate building, at the top of the garden. I can’t believe that the woman had been fully inside because there were some truly frightening sights lurking in boxes and cupboards, but on the surface, it did appear to be a well-stocked studio. It offered some interesting paintings, as well as pencil drawings. The man had clearly been skilled, although he’d remained unknown throughout his life.”

  “I was convinced there would be a market for the landscape paintings. There was a delightful one of Inverness Castle. Oh, and one of Loch Ness that featured Urquhart Castle from a few years ago. I recognised it straight away from a trip I’d taken between the wars. There were other landscapes as well, a few seascapes, one of Cambridge Castle, local, you see, oh and Cardiff Castle as well, although it took us a while to place a name to that one. Ah, there were other identifiable locations as well, Conway Castle featuring the walls, an abbey church I didn’t recognise. I was happy to list all those. There’s always a market for such.”

  “But by then, Mr Rain had begun to search in boxes and crates, and what he found in them upset me greatly. There were some strange items in bottles. They were clearly feet and hands, in formaldehyde, and where they came from, I just don’t know. And this really put the wind up me, a small wooden box, a bit like a cigar case, that contained nothing but odd socks.”

  “What was so strange about them?” Sam asked, leaning forwards.

  “Well, they all looked as though they’d been worn and had been removed carefully and rolled up, you know, the tops rolled into the bottom of the sock. They were stripy, all of them, and I confess, I just didn’t expect to find them in the ownership of a grown man. More likely to find them in the lost property box of a grammar school than in a little studio like that.”

  “And what did you do with them?” Sam had moved his hands beneath the table. He didn’t want either of the gentlemen to see how desperately this news thrilled him. He could imagine the socks had come from only one place, or rather, ten such places.

  “I don’t recall. We only arranged to remove a crate full of supplies and another crate with paintings and drawings. The rest we left behind. It really wasn’t for us.”

  “And do you have the a
ddress?”

  “Yes, I found the bill of sale. Here,” and Mr Spinkle handed over a small wad of papers, held together with paperclips. Sam imagined they’d just been removed from an old filing cabinet, and indeed, the documents smelled of old dust, and he tried not to sneeze although O’Rourke did, an embarrassed expression on her face.

  He quickly scanned the inventory, having noted the address and name of the vendor.

  “You didn’t manage to sell a great deal of it then?”

  “No, we didn’t, sadly.”

  “And what happens to the unsold items.”

  “Well, that was strange as well. Normally we arrange to ship them back to the vendor, but we were unable to contact them on this occasion. We sent a cheque in the post for the items that did sell, minus our expenses, of course, and although the cheque cleared a few days later, we never heard from the niece again. In fact, we still have the items, all packaged up and ready to go.”

  Sam was on his feet before Mr Spinkle had finished speaking.

  “Yes, yes,” Mr Spinkle held up a hand. “I’ll show them to you. If it helps, we can ship the crate to your police station. But first, well, can you tell us more about your investigation. I should like to report to my superior if we are about to become embroiled in a scandal once more. It’s not unheard of, unfortunately. There are some strange characters out there, and people do like to profit from forged art and overvalued books.”

  Sam nodded and slowly returned to his seat as Mr Spinkle reached for one of the pieces of shortbread and bit into it with obvious relish.

  “What I am about to tell you is highly confidential, but of course, you can inform your superior. We’re investigating what might be a series of murders that took place between 1919 and 1933, all over Great Britain.”

  Mr Spinkle’s enthusiastic chewing stopped almost immediately, his eyes widening in horror.

  “Murders. Oh my. We’ve had fraud and counterfeiting, but a murder. Oh my. I wish I’d listened to you, Mr Rain.” This he directed to the other man, who was holding his teacup in a tense hand. Sam worried that he might even crack the delicate blue cup if he wasn’t careful.

  “You took me into the home of a murderer?” the accusation in Mr Rain’s words was easy to hear.

  “Do you know anything about the man, other than the niece?”

  “Nothing, other than his name. The niece knew nothing about him either. It had been quite a surprise for her when the letter had arrived through the door telling her of her husband’s inheritance.”

  “I believe we’ll visit the property as well, see if we can track down the niece. But now, could you show me the crate you still have.”

  “Of course,” it was Mr Rain who stood and made his way to the door. Mr Spinkle was still absentmindedly chewing on his shortbread and shaking his head from side to side. No doubt, he was considering the problematic conversations he needed to have once the police had left.

  “Come this way. You can leave the portfolio there. No one will use the room, and I think Mr Spinkle might still be sitting there, anyway.” Surprisingly, there was sympathy in Mr Rain’s voice.

  O’Rourke followed Sam from the room, and he could feel the tension in her clipped strides.

  They’d thought they were close to answers when they’d visited the custard factory, only to be disappointed. Now Sam felt the familiar thrill of finding the answer, even if the man, Samuel Wick-something, or something-Wick had died some time ago.

  Mr Rain led them through a small door and then into a large room, lavishly carpeted and with a small black dais at the front of it. Sam realised it must be the auction room itself, although there were no chairs to be seen. No doubt they were folded away when not in use. From there, they were taken through a set of double doors and then along an echoing corridor before entering a vast space, so gargantuan it felt as though they were in a cathedral.

  “This is where we receive and send out all the items. Most of the items are with us for only a short amount of time. But some linger.” As he spoke, Mr Rain walked through a busy area filled with open crates and reams of tissue paper and straw, where a handful of men and women, wearing long brown coats, were carefully checking off items before packaging them. “It’s busy, the day after an auction. But alas, we didn’t sell as much as we would have liked. Difficult times.”

  Sam made eye contact with one or two of the staff but hurried to keep up with Mr Rain. The man had a long stride, and O’Rourke was almost running to keep up. He turned to her, considering asking Mr Rain to slow down, but she shook her head. “I’ll keep up,” she exhaled. “Or I’ll catch up if I do get lost.”

  As they strode further and further away from the hub of activity, the light grew dimmer and the shadows longer. Sam appreciated that it wasn’t worth lighting the entire expanse if it wasn’t going to be used.

  Eventually, Mr Rain pulled to the wall and flicked several switches so that light bulbs noisily flickered to life.

  “Ah, nearly there,” Mr Rain assured. “Some of these items have been here for longer than fifty years. We really should dispose of them, but, well, they’re historical artefacts, and while we don’t own them, someone out there does. And we have the room, after all. Every so often, someone does appear with a long-lost bill of sale and claim their goods. I only wish it could happen to me. I’d appreciate suddenly finding I owned an expensive painting or sculpture. I’m sure everyone would,” he mused. And then came to a stop.

  “Here, it’s down this row,” Mr Rain muttered, all joviality gone from his voice. “I hope you won’t object if I make myself scarce when you open the crate.”

  “Not at all. And you’ve already made it clear that it might be unsettling. I’ll remember that before I search the contents.”

  “Yes, I would if I were you. Every so often, I have a recurring nightmare about that house.”

  As Mr Rain spoke, he was scanning the boxes and crates that lined the row. Some were placed on top of others, and Sam could see no order to it, but Mr Rain seemed to know what he was doing.

  “This one,” he finally announced when they were about half-way down the row. “It stands alone. I’m not surprised. I imagine that the stores-people instinctively know to stay away from it. Now, will you be able to find your way back if I leave you alone?”

  “Yes, and if we do get lost, I’ll call out to the employees in the packaging department.”

  “Very good. I’ll leave you to explore while I return to Mr Spinkle. I believe he may be quite worried about his coming discussion with the managing director. I don’t envy him. Not at all. Here you go. You might need these.”

  “My thanks for your assistance,” Sam acknowledged, but his eyes were on the crate, the knife and scissors that he’d been handed just waiting to be used. He could see a paper label with the intended address on it, but there was another piece of paper, dirty now and crusted with dust, which explained that the crate hadn’t been collected and should be placed in the ‘long-term storage’ area.

  Sam hesitated for just a second and then stepped close enough to open the wooden lid on the crate. It hadn’t been nailed down, and that surprised him, but then, he didn’t work in the auction trade. Perhaps it was just the way things were done.

  “Help me,” he asked O’Rourke when the lid was far heavier than he’d been expecting, and she’d caught up to him. Between them, they managed to move it to rest against the side of the crate, and then Sam peered over the side, hesitant, despite the fact he knew nothing too horrific would greet him.

  He sensed O’Rourke beside him, doing the same, and then he laughed at himself.

  “It’s just a layer of paper and straw packaging. Not what I was expecting.”

  It made it difficult to see what was actually in the crate.

  “We’ll have to remove it all,” O’Rourke offered, stepping back and looking around. “I’ll find something to put it in, a box or something.” Sam shared her worry about making a mess in the pristine storeroom. Yes, it might be d
usty, and yes, things might have been stacked haphazardly, but Sam could sense there was order here. Someone had taken the time to lay the place out to a specific plan, and he wasn’t about to disturb it.

  “Here,” O’Rourke returned with an empty steel waste bin, and between them, they moved aside the protective layer of straw and paper. Not that it revealed a great deal.

  “Everything’s wrapped,” Sam huffed, reaching in to grab a flat parcel and handing it to O’Rourke.

  There wasn’t a huge amount inside the crate, and most of it was stacked close to the bottom. He pulled out a rounded shape and quickly removed the paper covering.

  “A statue,” Sam complained, re-covering the statue of a naked woman in white stone, placing it on the floor away from his feet. He then pulled a more rectangular shape from the crate and carefully unwrapped it.

  “Another statue,” he commented once more, although this time he squinted at the shape. It was of a female figure, although lacking a defined face or hands, as though it had never been finished. It made him grimace. Not to his taste at all.

  Only then did he realise that O’Rourke hadn’t spoken or discarded her parcel. She’d slumped to the floor and was slowly leafing through what could only be an artist’s sketchbook.

  “What’s that?” he asked, but she didn’t respond, and so he moved to stand behind her, looking down as she turned page after page. It was a large sketchbook, A3 in size.

  The first image was of a leg, including the foot and ankle. It was expertly drawn, almost life-like, and clearly with only a few sketches of a pencil. The second was of an arm and hand. Again, life-like, although missing any defining features. He was just about to dismiss it as little more than a sketchbook when O’Rourke turned another page, and the face of Anthony McGovern stared at him.

  “My God,” he exclaimed.

  “It’s not the only one. There’s quite a few that I recognised in here. I started from the back by mistake.”

  “So he had, what, a practise sketchbook?”