When they had told me the story, Mrs. Arkwright said, “If she’s from that strain, ’tis a pity there’s not more like her. She’s the best lass you will meet, honest and true. She has such good eyesight, and a feel for perfection, she’ll be a burler and mender by the time she’s twenty, if she doesn’t get herself sacked for speaking out.”

Mr. Arkwright frowned. “We wanted all our bairns to be fearless but she overdoes it.”

“Why did the home close so suddenly?”

Mr. Arkwright re-lit his pipe. “In an area where you’ve had mining over the centuries, you never know what shifts and changes go on underground.”

Mrs. Arkwright said, “It was the early hours, that we heard a rumble. Not that I have ever known of an earthquake, but it was something like that, and nearby. It shook the house. The next day, we told Mrs. Brockman. She had it checked right away by mining engineers. We was moved out within twenty-four hours.”

“How shocking.”

She nodded. “The children were so happy at being sent to the seaside, and us with them. We came back one way and they another, to another home, temporary, until a new site can be found. They couldn’t make the old one safe.”

“When will that be?”

Mrs. Arkwright did not trust herself to speak.

The kettle had boiled. Mr. Arkwright made tea. “You would never have thought a house that old and that sturdy could be demolished so fast. They brought an army of experts in to do the job.”

“And we never said goodbye to the children.”

“When was this?”

“Two weeks ago. We are still waiting for the new place.”

Neither Commander Woodhead nor DC Yeats had mentioned the influx of an “army of experts” in demolition. I must find out whether Wakefield CID had looked into the appearance and disappearance of the demolition men. One of them might have murdered Mrs. Farrar. One might have murdered one of his fellows, and put his body on the train.

The unknown man did not appear to have been a manual labourer, but demolition takes brains as well as brawn. “Have the demolition men gone now?”

Mr. Arkwright reached out and patted his wife’s back. “We don’t know and we don’t care. All we want to know is, when will we see the children again?”

“We don’t like to pester Mrs. Brockman,” Mr. Arkwright explained. “You see she’s been very good to us. There are just two grace and favour cottages in this row, and we’re grateful that this one became available and that she let us move in.”

A troubled look came into his eyes, but so fleetingly that I wondered had I imagined it. Was there a price to pay for this grace and favour occupancy? A price of silence?

It seemed callous to follow my own line of investigation when this couple were so upset at losing their flock, and with one of their former charges in prison. This moment of intimacy may never come again. Though my reason for being here was to find out about the man on the train, the instinctive sense of a connection between the two crimes had not left me.