We rode on until we were alongside the railway line, by a row of attractive brick and slate houses, rather ornate, and in groups of four, with arches between.

I stopped, and took a photograph.

“Benjie’s grandfather built these,” Gertrude explained. “Having the railway meant they could bring in bricks and Welsh slate instead of using local stone.”

“They’re grand looking, but why use bricks when there’s Yorkshire stone?”

“The railway barons liked to show off, as evidence of how well they were doing. It cost more to bring in bricks. They thought they would recruit better workers.”

The railway line ran behind the houses. They all knew each other, these men, these trusted superior railway workers with brick houses. Three years ago, like their fellows, they had gone on strike. And now?

Had the tenor of their lives been disturbed by a man who came to stir up trouble, among workers who had troubles of their own? A stranger murdered for his Russian gold, as Commander Woodhead suspected.

How would they have achieved the task of placing a body onto a goods train? There was a signal box not far along. Halt the train. Slide open the door of a truck, perhaps marked with chalk to show there would be room among the boxes. The dead weight of the unknown man dumped alongside boxes of rhubarb. Wipe off the chalk mark. The houses looked so perfectly neat and orderly, yet what lay behind that civilised façade?

We rode by the stream, towards the mill and mill stream. Outside the millworkers’ houses, a group of little children stopped their play on the pavement and stared up at us, and at the horses. We dismounted.

A couple of mothers came to see what we were up to. I asked permission, and was soon snapping away, taking photographs of bow-legged children with rickets, sitting on the pavements and the cobblestones. They were cautious rather than excited. The mothers, self-conscious of their appearance in pinafores, turbans and slippers, refused to have pictures taken.

I took names and promised to let them have copies of their children’s photographs.

We were about to re-mount when one of the women approached Gertrude. “What about the shop, Mrs. Brockman? It’s awful shocking and no one wants to be disrespectful towards Mrs. Farrar. Will it stand empty now?”

“I don’t know,” Gertrude answered quietly.

“Only it’s a trek if you’re just after a couple of eggs or a teacake. Now if we could have a Co-operative Store here –”

Gertrude cut her off. “I’ll look into it.”

Another woman joined in. “Millworkers miss going in there. It was handy for their packets of fags. And Mrs. Farrar, God rest her soul, made decent sandwiches.”

Gertrude nodded graciously. “As you say, we don’t want to be disrespectful to Mrs. Farrar. It’s rather soon.”