“Four minutes before the London train gets in and we get to work, so off you go, then, Sergeant,” the eldest told him firmly.

He introduced himself and asked pleasantly if he might know their names.

Jim and Fred Pearson, Enoch Smith and Christopher Sands declared themselves in age order.

“Thank you, gentlemen. It’s actually Fred I need to speak with. I recognise you from yesterday afternoon. About four-fifty,” he added.

“Thought it might be me you were after,” the young man replied cheerfully. “I remember the moustache. Done a runner, has she?”

“Could you just confirm which platform you carried the lady’s luggage to, Fred?”

“Course! Number six, Peterborough train. And it’s all change at Peterborough for stations north.” He added slyly, “Still, that’s the lady’s own business, ain’t it? Why should I give her away just cos you ask nicely? You might be ’er ’usband for all I know.”

“I assure you, young man, that there is a very good reason. But I respect your concern for the female sex. She’s not married to me, or anyone, I think, at the moment. And she may be in danger,” he added, lying to grease the wheels. Well, not entirely a lie, since MacFarlane had her in his sights. “I’m investigating a serious case, and I just need you to confirm something I already know. So you’re giving nothing away. The lady has nothing to fear from me.”

The hoot of an approaching train had every man including Fred on his feet, tapping out pipes and downing tea mugs. As he dashed for the door, Thoday grabbed him by the arm and yelled over the noisy free-for-all: “Woodleigh Spa, Lincolnshire? That’s what it said on her luggage labels, isn’t it?”

The porter rolled his eyes suggestively. “Yer! That’d be it! Lucky for some, eh?” and raced for the approaching train.

Oh, Edith, Thoday thought, shaking his head. When I report this to MacFarlane, he’s going to have to ask you to leave your green haven in the English countryside, the golf, the swimming pool, the Kinema in the Dell, the cocktails at six and the unquestioned if questionable goings-on with—I’m guessing—a gentleman who is definitely not your husband. And exchange that blissful setting for an interrogation cell in his nick.

MacFarlane’s chortle was as bone-chilling as a knock on the door from the Spanish Inquisition.