As Mrs. Arkwright poured tea, I slipped in my remark. “You have had some shocking and upsetting events here recently. I overheard an odd story outside the post office in Rothwell.”

Mr. Arkwright sat down in a straight-back chair. He watched as Mrs. Arkwright passed me a cup, and then he reached for his mug. “Oh aye?”

“Two men were talking about a body that was found when the rhubarb express arrived in London.”

“Oh that,” Mr. Arkwright said.

My hopes rose. “You’ve heard about it then?”

“One of our old boys works on the railway.”

This might be my breakthrough. “Is he based at Ardsley?”

He shook his head. “Leeds Central. They was all questioned by the railway police. Nobody knew a thing.”

Mrs. Arkwright handed me a cup. “The lad they ought to have asked is young Alec Taylor. He loves railways. Goes along to the stations and the junctions with his notebook, writing down the engine numbers, making a note of the sidings and what wagons go where.”

“Not that he’d know about a body,” Mr. Arkwright said quickly. “From a little lad, he loved motion. Cycles, cars, engines.”

She smiled. “Do you remember that engine you carved for him, and painted it red?”

“Hours of fun with that! When Mr. Brockman took him out of the home and give him a job, he left it behind for the little ones.”

This visit was providing some of my best information so far—my only information so far. Alec, Benjie’s son, if not heir, knew all about railways. There had been a transient army of demolition men in the area. There were two grace and favour cottages in Silver Street. The Arkwrights had one, because they had lost their positions as superintendent and matron of the Bluebell Home. Such cottages were often given as a confidential thank you for services rendered. Who occupied the other cottage, and why?

I would set Sykes to tracing the demolition men. Alec, I would tackle myself.

“Which is the other grace and favour cottage, Mrs. Arkwright? Not that I’m thinking of moving in.”

“Now which is it?” Mrs. Arkwright asked her husband. She knew well enough, but was asking his permission to tell me.

“Why it’s the one at the bottom end, same side as ours.”

She nodded. “You could be right. Tall woman, lives all on her own.”

Life could be difficult for women living alone in a working-class community. I was curious. “I suppose she must have been an employee of the Brockmans, or a distant relation?”

“Women’s talk.” Mr. Arkwright stood. “I’ll just take a look at my rhubarb.” He put on his cap.

When he had gone, Mrs. Arkwright said in a whisper, though there was no one else to hear, “It’s said she had a baby and went a bit funny afterwards.”

“What happened to the baby?” Even as I asked, I knew.

One advantage for wealthy individuals of supporting an orphanage was that there would be a place for offspring that might otherwise be difficult to explain. She looked a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Arkwright. I don’t mean to pry. You have a lot on your mind.”