I left them to it.

We have a decorative cold scuttle, too elegant to use for coal. It is where we stuff old newspapers. I took out a bundle of papers, hoping that the pertinent pages hadn’t been used to light the fire.

Fortunately, what I wanted was still there.

By the time I went back into the dining room, Sykes and Mrs. Sugden had finished reading. Sykes produced Ordnance Survey maps. Had he stayed in the police force he should, with his ability, have risen through the ranks. That would have been my loss. He spread the map on the table. Once he had pointed out Ardsley, and the railway station, I placed the two rescued articles on the table, one from Saturday’s first edition:

SHOPKEEPER FOUND DEAD

Police were called to a shop in Thorpefield late Friday evening. The shopkeeper, whose name has not yet been released, had been fatally wounded. The death is being treated as suspicious. At present police are releasing no further details.

The next article was on Monday, 4 March.

SHOPKEEPER MURDERED FOR PALTRY TAKINGS

Police have named the dead Thorpefield shopkeeper as Mrs. Helen Farrar of the Corner Shop, Silver Street, Thorpefield. She was found to have wounds to her head. The shop was ransacked and money taken from the cash register. A tin cash box had been broken open and emptied of its contents. Wakefield police are questioning Stephen Walmsley, aged 20, in connection with the murder and robbery. A worker at the local pit, he has lodged with Mrs. Farrar for some years. Police are appealing for witnesses. No one else is sought in connection with the death.

Mr. Sykes and Mrs. Sugden each read them.

Mrs. Sugden spoke first. “Isn’t Thorpefield where your old friend lives?”

“Yes. And I do believe that it is time for me to pay her a visit.”

I fished out my notebook, while Sykes measured the distance between Ardsley and Thorpefield with his finger and thumb. “The shop is a couple of miles from Ardsley station. The closest village is Rothwell.”

It puzzled me that neither Commander Woodhead nor his DC had mentioned this murder. “Surely it’s too much of a coincidence that on the same night, within an area of a few miles, there were two murders?”

“I’d say so,” Sykes agreed.

DC Yeats and I had arranged that I could contact Scotland Yard on the line from my father’s office at Wakefield Police HQ, but at this time of night that was not practical. Martin Yeats had said that his landlady did not allow telephone calls after 10 p.m., but that his room was on the ground floor, near the telephone. I took the risk.

Perhaps my clever collaborator had expected a call. The operator came back to me quickly. “Connecting you now, caller.”

We had agreed on first names for any such calls.

“Martin, Kate here.”

“Thought it might be.”

“Does the name Mrs. Farrar ring any bells?”

There was a long pause. “Yes, but no connection.”