“All the same I want us to find out more. Perhaps I’ll be in a position to do that at Thorpefield.”

Sykes wore his Doubting Thomas face. “You said yourself Mr. Brockman is unlikely to confide in you. As deputy Lord Lieutenant of the County, he’ll have signed the Official Secrets Act. Suspicions about political activity will make it difficult for him.”

“Gertrude hasn’t signed, as far as I know. And it’s the best way in that comes to mind.”

“I don’t like the sound of this, Mrs. Shackleton. Wakefield CID and Scotland Yard have painted themselves into corners. Now they bounce you centre stage.”

Sykes was right, but he can be a bit of a nay-sayer at times. He would have been more optimistic had he come back with some useful titbit from the rhubarb growers, or the golf club. “I want us to do well on this. It might be the biggest job we’ve had. If we succeed where others have failed, the credit will be greater.”

Sykes had been looking again at the reports of Mrs. Farrar’s murder. Now he glanced up. “Stephen Walmsley. What’s he like?”

That seemed like changing his tune, but it was how we worked when we came at a case with our different prejudices. I described Stephen, his youth, his quiet demeanour, his sincerity.

Sykes spoke with infinite and annoying patience. “Did he say anything that would convince a jury that he was not guilty?”

“None of us can answer that. It would depend on what sort of case can be made against him, or for him. He had been roughed up, yet he stuck to his story. I believed him.”

“I’m sorry to say this, Mrs. Shackleton –”

“No you are not.”

“You would believe him, because you want that to be true.”

Of course I wanted that to be true. I hated the thought that someone who seems perfectly decent and truthful could commit a violent act. “If you met him, I believe you would also doubt his guilt.”

I knew what worried Sykes, before he said it.

“You can’t bear the thought of some likeable young chap going to the gallows. That’s why you are a detective, and not a judge.” Rewarding himself for this magnificent insight, he took a gulp of tea.

“There may be other reasons that I’m not a judge. If an appointment to the King’s Bench comes my way, I might just say yes.”

Sykes laughed so suddenly that he spluttered his tea.

“Meanwhile, I will presume young Walmsley not guilty, and so should you.”

Chapter Eleven

I drove the scenic route, through Rothwell. Beyond Carlton and Robin Hood, an old stone sign by the side of the lane announces THORPEFIELD. I turned up the lane.

All this land was part of the Brockman estate. The family seemed never to make up its mind whether to give the area entirely over to coal, or go on with the agricultural uses that pre-dated mining.

Suddenly finding myself in the wake of a horse and cart, I slowed. Horse, cart and rider turned off by the common.