Mrs. Shackleton was blindly feeling for a starting point in the investigation, he told himself. When he did not bite at her suggestion that he go undercover as a railway security inspector, she came up with this.

The way in which the man’s body had been dealt with smacked of revenge, and suggested financial shenanigans, wheeling and dealing. Perhaps the man had reneged on a debt and paid with his life. Lawlessness was rife these days, ever since the war. Even so, in all his years on the force, Sykes had never come across a link between crime and rhubarb.

The minute he drove through the gates of Moortown Golf Club, Sykes had the measure of this place. It was for people with more money than sense. All good chaps together, being jolly, scratching each other’s backs. And now men were crossing the Atlantic to knock small balls around in a different country. Had nobody anything better to do these days?

For a moment or two, he stayed in the motor looking about him, considering his approach. He combed his hair, put on his hat, and climbed from the car. He told himself not to look at the bigger cars round about. First a person is pleased to be that rare creature who owns a vehicle, and then he sees all the others, newer and bigger, that belong to men who are no better than he is. Still, for all they knew, this was his Friday car.

With that cheerful thought, Sykes walked towards the clubhouse, a modest single-storey building with tiled roof. Once inside the comfortable room, with tables dotted about and a bar by the far wall, he caught the attention of a young waiter.

“A word with the senior steward, son.”

“Right, sir!”

Sykes was glad there was none of that, “Who shall I say wants him?” business. He waited, looking out of the window at the vast stretch of green. A few Americans had arrived. He could pick them out. Unlike the British players in their varieties of tweed, the Americans wore a sort of uniform in navy. They sported V-neck sweaters and smart caps with a deep neb. One had draped a second sweater over his shoulders. He must be feeling the cold. In another ten minutes, they would envy the Englishmen’s tweed jackets.

A player strolled into the bar, walking as if the world belonged to him. His skin was brown from the sun. He looked healthy. Perhaps Mrs. Shackleton was right. The unknown man in the artist’s portrait might have been an American golfer.

The steward approached. He was a thin, balding fellow whose shoulders made points in his jacket. He spoke pleasantly enough, though seemed slightly wary. “You wanted to see me, sir? I’m Jack Braithwaite, senior steward.”

“Jim Sykes, private investigator.” Sykes produced his card. It had Mrs. Shackleton’s telephone number. Mrs. Sugden sometimes annoyed Sykes, but she had a manner of answering the telephone that could not be faulted.

The steward stared at the card. He turned it over and looked at the back. “What can I do for you, Mr. Sykes?”