Yet perhaps there was symmetry. If the man had come north from the capital, was he simply being sent back like an unwanted parcel, possibly as a warning? But if so, a warning to whom? And who had lifted and carried such a dead weight without being noticed?

Gold coins in the sack made an interesting addition to the mystery. If Mr. Woodhead’s theory about an envoy bringing Russian gold was correct, had someone interrupted the transaction, kept the lion’s share for himself, and sent two gold coins back with the messenger?

When I returned to the carriage, the American couple smiled a welcome and enquired whether I had enjoyed my supper. They had eaten an enormous lunch and looked forward to a light supper at the Queens Hotel.

We talked of what they might see while they were in the area, as the golf tournament was not due to start for at least another month. I told them that they must visit the Yorkshire Dales. I named the place that is the nearest to heaven on earth that mere mortals will ever find. I told them about York and Harrogate, and the arcades and markets in Leeds and Bradford. They no longer struck me as dubious characters, but one never knows.

While we were talking of what shops might interest Mrs. Loomis, I came up with a plan that would allow me to wander about the area surrounding Ardsley without arousing suspicion. My preference would have been to go in as what I am, a private investigator. Since Mr. Woodhead insisted on my being undercover, I would be a photographic journalist, writing about the district, creating for myself a licence to be curious.

It was then that what niggled me earlier in the day came to mind. I remembered the newspaper article from last weekend, giving an account of a murder very close to the setting off point for the train that carried the unknown man.

Chapter Five

My dining room doubles as an office. Mrs. Sugden had taken off her apron. She and Sykes sat at the table. Mrs. Sugden keeps a pencil behind her ear and is never without her small leather-bound notebook.

“Mr. Sykes, Mrs. Sugden, we are working for Scotland Yard.”

I explained about the unidentified man, ignominiously treated as cargo, carried to King’s Cross on Friday night and into the early hours of Saturday. I placed his picture before them. “He was shot through the stomach.”

Mrs. Sugden let out a sigh. “Poor fellow. There must have been an awful lot of blood.”

Sykes, used to police briefings where no one speaks until the final full stop, glared at Mrs. Sugden.

“We need to know who he is, who killed him and why he was put on that train. I know it’s late, so I’ll understand if you want to read the file tomorrow.”

Sykes reached out for the papers.

Mrs. Sugden put on her glasses. Sharing the document, they began to read the account of Scotland Yard’s investigation to date. Both are quick readers but Mrs. Sugden likes to linger on a detail here and there. A little friction emerged, regarding how soon to turn the page.