I ignored this instruction. The golfer had come all the way from America. He would be unlikely to leave before the Ryder Cup was played.

“Mrs. Sugden, did you tell the steward that Mr. Sykes would come as soon as possible?”

“I did, but Jim’s out and about on his investigations. He’s in Wakefield. He said he would make contact with Mr. Hood.”

“Thanks. This is our best possibility so far. And did Philip give you a message?”

“He did. I’ll be onto that business tomorrow.”

We ended the call.

“We have our first good lead, Dad. An American golfer claims to have met our unknown man.”

“You deserve some luck, Kate. This might be the breakthrough.”

Of course we both knew it might also be a dead end.

“Dad, when were you going to tell me that Mr. Sykes is in Wakefield?”

“Just as soon as you stopped giving me orders and let me get a word in. Since Sykes can’t keep in touch with you, he’s kept in touch with me.”

“Where is he?”

Dad took out a sheet of paper and began to write. “He’s based himself at the White Swan. I’ll send a note.”

The White Swan is a pub near the railway station, better known as the Mucky Duck.

I could imagine Sykes’s relief at having something definite to do. I envied him. By comparison, I was a woman chasing shadows.

As Dad reached for an envelope, there was a tap on the door.

It was the constable who had taken the poison pen letters, returning empty-handed. “Something a bit odd, sir.”

“Oh?”

“Only one set of prints, the same on the letters as on the wine glass. You’d think with letters there’d be the prints of the writer and the prints of the receiver, not to mention someone who picked up the envelope.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wasn’t me, sir. It was Macintosh tested them.”

Chris Macintosh was Wakefield’s fingerprint expert, a man with a reputation for accuracy.

“Macintosh asks can he keep the letters, sir. He wants to check them against his records.”

At the same time as I said no, Dad said yes.

“Right-o, sir. I’ll tell him.” With that he was gone.

Naturally, it was Dad the constable had listened to, not me.

“Dad! They’re Gertrude’s letters. She doesn’t even know I brought them out of the house.”

“Gertrude’s letters in every sense of the word, written by her, sent by her, opened and read by her.”

“But they were to Benjie.”

“Did you see Benjie with them?”

“No.”

“Your friend Gertrude, is she all right? Might there be something the matter with her?”

“I know you all treat Macintosh as the oracle, but he could be having a bad day.”

“You’ll think of something to tell Gertrude.”