Hugh Kennington-Jones stared at the yellowed piece of paper in his hand. He scanned the extravagant lettering and read aloud: ‘It’s not fair to Master Hugh. He should know the truth.’

The rest of the characters danced on the page. ‘What truth? What does it mean?’ Hugh murmured.

Opposite him, across an acre of desk, sat a silver-haired man. ‘I wish I knew, sir. I’ve asked the solicitor in charge of her affairs if there were any personal effects. There may be some clues.’

Hugh Kennington-Jones exhaled deeply. ‘I suppose so, but it’s unlikely. I imagine it’s all been dumped by now or sent to the charity shop. There was no family, as far as I understand.’ Hugh stood up and walked towards the door.

The older man rose to his feet and followed.

‘Thank you and I . . . I appreciate your discretion, Hector.’ Hugh reached out and firmly shook the man’s hand. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see what turns up.’

‘Very good, sir. I’ll be in touch if there’s anything else.’ The man retreated from the office and closed the door behind him.

Hugh Kennington-Jones held the page in front of him. ‘You always were a strange one, Father. And now this.’ He carefully folded the letter, strode back to his desk and placed it at the very back of the top drawer, which he locked. There it would stay, for now.