Yeats nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Something about this assignment did not feel right. Yet I have wages to pay.

“Mr. Woodhead, you would have the usual contract drawn up, covering my time, my assistant’s time, and disbursements?”

“Would you need an assistant for this task?”

What a cheek, when he could draw on the entire resources of Scotland Yard!

“Of course. As you know, I work with Mr. Sykes.”

“Yes, I know the name. Reports speak highly of him.”

Several questions came to mind. Murder cannot be kept quiet, and yet I had heard nothing about this. “How is it that there has been no report in the newspapers?”

“To go public at this stage would bring us the usual deluge of letters and calls from cranks and people hoping to trace a long-lost husband, son or brother.”

This did not make sense. Newspaper reporters sniff out a serious crime faster than my bloodhound picks up the scent of a squirrel.

“You placed an embargo on the story.”

“We asked newspaper editors to show restraint.”

“Why?”

He began a long explanation, the gist of which was that the less I knew, the more likely it would be that I could investigate with an open mind. There was also the hint of some threat to national security. The mention of national security must have allowed him to impose silence on the press. During this long explanation, I glanced at DC Yeats, to read his face. I could not.

Yeats rested his hands on his thighs. Perhaps he had jittery legs and must keep them still. He stared steadily at his feet.

“Mr. Woodhead, please tell me what you are thinking so that I don’t go into this investigation with one hand tied behind me.” This was risky, but I said it anyway. “We have known each other a long time. There are those who will vouch for my discretion, and that I can hold information while still keeping an open mind.”

DC Yeats lost interest in his shoes. He sat up a little straighter. Perhaps he too had been kept in the dark.

“The answer lies somewhere within the Yorkshire coalfields. I’d stake my reputation on that.”

“The coalfields?”

Looking relieved at having a reason to move, DC Yeats rose and crossed to a cabinet. He produced a map. After waiting for a nod of permission, he spread the map on the commander’s desk.

The commander indicated an area almost like a triangle edged by Leeds, Bradford and Wakefield. It was full of blue and black dots. “This is an area of thirty square miles. Coal and agriculture, as you’ll know.” He tapped with his nicotine-stained finger. “There’s Leeds, where you boarded today. There’s Ardsley where we believe the man’s body was put on the train.”

“What is the significance of the dots?”

“Blue for every railway station that closed during the strike –”

“But that was all of them, and it was three years ago.”

“Black for every mine where men went on strike.”