us know when our turn will come.’
We ordered a second brandy.
‘It must have been the drink,’ Mr Duffield said, staring into his glass. ‘He must have drunk himself into a state of hopelessness.’
‘I didn’t know he drank to excess.’
‘Oh yes, and gambled.’
I asked, ‘Does Mr Diamond have relatives that you know of?’
Mr Duffield shook his head. ‘He never mentioned anyone, only a sister he lost touch with years ago. She migrated to Canada with her husband before the war. I must get back to work and tell the editor about this.’ He looked at me steadily. ‘What was it that you hoped to find among Mr Diamond’s photographs?’
‘I’m not sure. Possibly a photograph of the singer Giuseppe Barnardini, and a lady not his wife; photographs of the shoot, showing who in particular Everett Runcie may have hobnobbed with that day.’
I kept my theory about Caroline Windham’s injury at the grouse shoot to myself.
Mr Duffield took another sip of brandy. ‘Are you interested in Mr Diamond because you suspect he may have been blackmailing someone, to get money for his drink and gambling? He always had his nose in other people’s business.’
Up to now, that thought had not occurred to me. But it made sense. If I were right, and someone had ransacked the room, then I was not the only person interested in Len Diamond’s photographs. What did he have that may have cost him his life?
Mr Duffield stared ahead, unseeing, to the bottles arranged so artistically behind the bar. ‘He was in trouble, financially, more than usual. He had a winning streak in the spring, and was patting himself on the back over a clever investment. He tried to interest me, but I’m not a betting man and I don’t trust stocks and shares.’ Mr Duffield stood up. ‘Circumstances call for another brandy, and then I must be back to the office.’ He caught the attention of the waiter. When he sat down again, he said, ‘Do you know, I believe we are being watched. Perhaps the gentleman in the tap room is envying me my charming company. Don’t look now.’
I waited until we had finished our drinks and were leaving. Only then did I look across the bar, into the tap room, and glance at the familiar figure staring glumly into his beer. It was Eddie Flanagan, the unemployed ex-boxer, Deirdre’s faithful friend.
‘I won’t be a moment, Mr Duffield.’
I went into the tap room and stood over him. ‘Hello, Mr Flanagan. Are you following me?’
Eddie looked at me sullenly, as if he wanted to argue over the word hello. The poor man had a permanently puzzled face, as if the world presented itself to him through a fog. He said, ‘Deirdre slept in a glasshouse last night.’
‘A glasshouse?’
‘I went looking at sunrise. I could tell she’d been there.’
‘Where?’
‘That place, the place she took her mam. I know Deirdre, heart and soul. She went to the park, I know. Roundhay Park. I looked. But now she’s gone. I could tell she’d been in the glasshouse.’
It struck me that he was probably right, because the man loved her, and he had no hopes for himself where she was concerned. There was something touching about him, like a faithful dog.
‘How do you know she was there?’
I expected him to say that he sensed her presence, a lingering trace of her scent.
He put his hand in his pocket and produced a small white handkerchief which he spread on the table, smoothing it carefully. He pointed to a letter D, embroidered on the corner. ‘It’s hers.’
‘Thanks, Eddie. I’ll do my best, believe me. It might not look like it, but I’m searching for her now and I’ll go on searching.’
He looked at me steadily, as if deciding whether to believe me. I passed the test. ‘What did they say your name was?’
‘Mrs Shackleton.’
He repeated my name softly, as though committing it to memory.
‘What brought you here?’
The Cemetery Tavern was a long way from home for him.
‘Searching. I thought she mighta been hurt and taken to the Workhouse Infirmary over there.’
‘Have you been to ask?’
He nodded. ‘She’s not there. Not anywhere.’
When I dropped off Mr Duffield at the newspaper offices, I had to ask him a question, even though he was late, and flustered, and upset at the thought of having to break the news to the editor.
‘There’s no tactful way of saying this, Mr Duffield, but I want to know if one of the compositors was in work last night, Cyril Fitzpatrick.’
He stared