Dad spoke patiently. “The man’s identity is no longer in doubt. Nothing else is certain.”

From my point of view something was certain. “If Scotland Yard—if Commander Woodhead—hadn’t been so intent on keeping this murder a state secret, it would have been solved by now.”

The CID inspector perked up. Perhaps he shared my view. He said nothing. I took advantage of his smidgen of interest. “Chief Inspector, I can’t conduct a full search of the shop, but you can. Perhaps there’s another bullet that can be traced to a particular gun, or an unexpected set of fingerprints.”

It was Sykes’s turn. He had been making notes. “Sir, the anonymous letters that Mrs. Brockman wrote herself. You have the fingerprints.”

“Yes.”

“There might just be a possibility that the box under the eaves, or the shoes, have those same prints. As long as no one gets to them first, that might provide some evidence.”

Dad nodded agreement. “Not strong evidence. It’s Mrs. Brockman’s house, why wouldn’t her fingerprints be on property in her own home? And there’s nothing on the statute book forbidding the penning of imaginative letters, especially those that are not posted.”

I began to see Dad’s point of view. A good solicitor would pick a dozen holes, find a dozen alternative explanations. “We have only touched the surface. There’s motive: gain, greed, desperation. Gertrude admitted that she and her husband are doing badly. They were hit by death duties, are still recovering from the General Strike. I know from what Gertrude once told me before that rents due from their tenant farmers were set a hundred years ago. They’re paying an accountant and a solicitor to find a legal way of putting up rents. Part of me would feel sorry for them, if I were not convinced of their guilt.”

I did not tell them of my conversation with Mrs. Dell. That would be hearsay, something to follow up later if needed. Gertrude must know what had been happening, but I found it hard to believe that she took an active part. That would be the job of Benjie, and his trusty butler.

Dad can be so annoying, and now he excelled himself. “Kate, I think you need a good night’s sleep.”

“I’ve only just begun!”

“There’ll be other lines of enquiry for CID or Scotland Yard to pursue now that you’ve gathered information. Someone must have helped move the body. We need to find him.”

They didn’t need to find him. I did. Eliot Dell had cleverly involved Alec Taylor. That would ensure, if needed, that Benjie would not break ranks. I kept to myself that I had an idea who might have been engaged for the heavy lifting: Kevin O’Donnell, Giant Jack, from the demolition gang, who went to the Dell estate looking for work.