“This is a routine enquiry, Mr. Braithwaite.” Sykes produced the artist’s portrait of the unknown man. Let the dog see the rabbit was Sykes’s philosophy. What Scotland Yard didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. “I wonder if this face is familiar to you?”

The steward looked carefully at the portrait and shook his head. “No, sir, never seen him before. Should I have?”

“We think he may be a golfer.”

“A wrong un?”

“We have no reason to believe so. He is a man we are trying to trace.”

“Name of?”

“Unfortunately, we do not have a name.”

“I get it. You think he might be one of the American players, or an American visitor?”

“Nothing so precise.”

“Is this a kind of warning?”

“Not exactly.”

“I get it, sir. I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

Of course the man didn’t get it. He was guessing, playing the part of the helpful fellow. There was no possibility of Mrs. Shackleton’s unknown man being recognised, unless he had a twin brother, or unless the dead revisit the earth at the time of a golf tournament.

“You won’t see him here, but someone who plays golf may recognise him.” This was ridiculous. Sykes began to feel like an actor in amateur dramatics, an actor who had forgotten his lines. “He may be a golfer and that is why I thought it wise to elicit your help, Mr. Braithwaite.”

Having gone to the trouble and risk of paying for extra copies, Sykes made a bold decision. “I’ll leave this portrait with you. Will you please show it to members of the teams?”

“I will, sir.”

“Use your discretion. This isn’t for the general public. We are very keen to hear whether anyone closely connected with the game recognises him. Contact me directly if you have information.”

“I’ll be glad to help, sir. And do you play?”

Sykes never liked admitting certain things were beyond him. “I’m a cricketer.”

As he left the clubhouse, and glanced at the figures on the course, he had another reason for being profoundly glad he did not play golf.

There would be a day when everyone knew the story of the body on the train. While Sykes felt satisfied at having accomplished this morning’s mission, he imagined a time when some golfer would point him out.

There’s that private investigator chap. He came to Moortown Golf Club hoping to find a dead man swinging a club.

Chapter Eight

My request to see the prison governor must have been expected.

“Governor’s in a meeting, madam. I can ask the senior officer if he will have a word.”

“Very well.”

I waited on a hard wooden bench. The atmosphere now seemed stifling. I felt my heart racing. Now I thought of questions I might have asked Stephen. As to the mystery of the man whose portrait sat crumpled in my pocket, I could think of nowhere to go with it. I had wanted justice for the unknown man, justice in some abstract way, given that it was too late for him. Now I also wanted justice for this gentle young man. Unless the real murderer of Mrs. Farrar could be found, the police would not give up on Stephen Walmsley.