“What about the inquest?”

“Opened and adjourned.”

I quickly read through the progress report, which amounted to no progress at all.

The last pages indicated who had been shown the sketch of the unknown man, mainly mining officials, and mine managers.

“Why have so few people been shown the artist’s sketch?”

“The investigation may be widened.”

“What were the criteria for deciding who sees the picture?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, not being party to the decision.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Yeats, give me a helping hand.”

He hesitated. “If you’d met Mrs. Kerner, I believe she may have told you that she has been asked to keep an eye out for gentlemen from Russia, Bolsheviks. She moves in embassy circles.”

“I see, well actually no I don’t. Why would a murdered Russian Bolshevik be put on a train in Yorkshire?”

The band struck up “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover”.

“If, for instance, he was trying to foment unrest, bringing Russian gold.”

The document’s pages had been hole-punched and were held together with a metal clip. At the back, there was a scrap of paper attached to the clip, where there had been another sheet.

“Mr. Yeats, don’t you want me to succeed?”

“Pardon?”

“The missing pages?”

“Ah.”

“Who typed this?”

“I did.” He fished in his pocket and produced a flimsy folded sheet of paper. It was a pale carbon copy. “They are the sort of people the commander wouldn’t want bothered, and whose word can be trusted. They have already given full cooperation.”

From this list of important people in the locality, one name jumped out at me.

I placed the documents in my satchel.

“Mr. Yeats, just so that we are all clear, would you please pass my message to Mr. Woodhead? I accept the assignment.”

“I hoped you would.”

Our taxi reached King’s Cross with time to spare. Mr. Yeats came onto the train, to see me settled in the carriage. My trusty satchel held the precious notes. I would not take it from my shoulder for the whole journey.

“Is there anything else I should know, any other titbit of information we may have missed?”

“I can tell you that the body on the train has baffled our department. At first some officers treated the incident as comical, absurd. ‘If this body came in on the rhubarb train, who might we find on the liquorice train and the coal train?”—that sort of thing.” He hesitated. “There must be people who cared for him, who will want to lay him to rest. He has a look of my Uncle Bob, and so I really would like to know that he will be identified.”

“So would I. I will need to show the sketch to more people than have seen it so far.”

His bright blue eyes looked troubled. He ran his hand through his neatly oiled hair. “I believe the prohibition is on telling his story.”

“I don’t know his story. None of us do. But by now hundreds of people will know how he was found. It won’t remain a secret.”