“Please tell your mother to prepare herself for bad news. I am sorry.”

“My father is dead?”

“I believe so.”

“That is all you can say?”

“That is all I can say for now.” Sykes, usually so glued to facts, so prepared to swear by them, felt this bizarre welling of hope—hope that they were wrong. Nothing was confirmed yet. Nothing would be confirmed until the next of kin had identified the body. Identifying a portrait taken from a dead man did not seem sufficient.

Sykes walked the young man to the railway station and saw him onto the next train.

It rankled with him that a top man at Scotland Yard had given those below him instructions that tied their hands behind their backs, put them in blinkers and wasted precious time by being secretive.

He went back to the White Swan, ordered another pint and a whisky chaser.

An estate agent’s car stopped by the kerb on the opposite side of the road. The driver stayed put. Someone being dropped off at the railway station. The front passenger door opened. He saw a familiar hat above the top of the car door. The wearer moved towards the rear of the car. The rear door opened.

With a full view, he saw that the wearer of the hat was Mrs. Sugden. She was joined by Harriet and the dog. Knowing the dog had a soft spot for him and might dash across the road, dragging Harriet with him, Sykes stayed inside the pub.

What were they doing here? Then he remembered. Mrs. Sugden had been assigned to look at the Corner Shop where Mrs. Farrar was murdered, and talk to the neighbours.

The car drove off.

Mrs. Sugden, Harriet and the dog crossed the road.

Sykes put his drink on the counter, in view of the landlord, and went to the door.

Sergeant Dog gave a yelp of delight at the sight of him.

They stepped up to the pub doorway. “I’m here to meet Mrs. Shackleton,” Sykes said. “What are you doing here?”

Mrs. Sugden opened her mouth to answer, but Harriet got there first. “We left a note in the bee bole, to say we’d go to my gran’s, here in the yard.”

Sykes glanced at the yard, White Swan Yard. That explained why Mrs. Shackleton had taken someone a jug of stout, or did it? If his thoughts hadn’t been so focused on the unknown man turning into Harry Aspinall of Rothwell Manor, and his son turning up at the funeral, looking for answers, Sykes might have put two and two together. As it was, he just stared.

“I don’t suppose you’ve met my gran,” Harriet said. “Come and say hello, Mr. Sykes. She likes company.”

Harriet went ahead down the yard, knocked on a door on the right and let herself in.

Sykes turned to Mrs. Sugden. “What’s going on now?”