“Oh, and we will go riding. I have just the horse for you.”

Preparing the ground, I told her more about my magazine commission, making it up as I went along. Riding would give me the opportunity to see places of local interest, but then she mustn’t think me rude that I would need some time to explore alone.

Naturally she was keen to help me in this imaginary endeavour.

Sykes arrived as Gertrude and I wound up our conversation.

My bloodhound lay on the kitchen floor, appearing to listen. I swear he senses when I am planning to go away, although he does have a permanently sulky impression which he cannot help.

Sykes, Mrs. Sugden and I sat at my kitchen table with cups of tea. Sykes gave a cheerful account of having strayed into the foreign territory of a golf club, and a less than cheerful account of visiting rhubarb growers.

We checked which growers he had called on, and the farms still to be visited. I made a note of some names. “Since I’ll be staying at Thorpefield, I’ll call at some of the local farms. Growers may be more relaxed about talking to someone who will take their photograph and show an interest in the business.”

“Good luck with that,” Sykes grunted.

Mrs. Sugden pushed her notebook towards me. “I consulted the directories, like you said. These are the names and addresses of estate agents in the area. Shall I ask to be notified of any corner shop or general store that becomes available?”

I thought for a moment. The shop would be owned by Benjie and Gertrude. Everything in Thorpefield was their possession. Yet estate agents would be unlikely to pass on a familiar telephone number to Gertrude. She would not be dealing with such a matter herself. “Yes, you do that Mrs. Sugden.”

I told them about my visit to the prison to talk to Stephen Walmsley. “I have a feeling we are onto something, but I don’t know what.”

Mrs. Sugden made a note. “And did this fellow do it? Did he kill the shopkeeper?”

“I don’t believe he did.”

Sykes tried to disguise a sigh. When he is about to question my judgement for not rushing to a guilty verdict, he prefaces the comments with two words. I glared at him, waiting for the words: “With respect”.

He thought better of it, adopting a position of patient thoughtfulness, making a steeple of his fingers. “Stephen Walmsley had blood on his hands. The puzzle is that he hasn’t been charged.”

“Perhaps the puzzle is insufficient evidence. He went to Mrs. Farrar’s assistance, as he thought. Isn’t that a normal reaction from a young person who was close to her?”

Sykes appeared to consider this, but said nothing.

Eventually, he came round to what worried him. “A clumsy deadly assault and robbery is a different type of crime altogether from the man shot and put on the train. I’m not sure considering the shopkeeper’s case will take us closer to discovering our man’s identity.”