Isobel sat down at the table. ‘You make another pot of tea; it looks as though we’ll be needing it.’ She settled in the chair and unfolded the paper. ‘I must make an appointment to have my eyes tested,’ she said under her breath as she peered at the unfamiliar handwriting.

9th October 1931

Dear Miss Black,

I am writing to you today to very belatedly express my condolences on the loss of your father and Mrs Black, and of your brother Finlay.

I need to give you what may or may not be welcome information. I am aware that what I am about to say may cause either acute distress or joy, and if it is the former, please allow me to apologise in advance.

My name is Beatrice Sidcup. I am writing to introduce you to Olivia, my daughter. She is seventeen years of age now, and a hardworking, bright young woman.

She is also your late brother’s daughter.

Isobel gasped.

‘It is nonsense, of course,’ said Ann. ‘Finlay had no children, no girlfriend, no fiancée, nothing at all like that.’

‘Well, not that we know of . . .’ Isobel’s voice drifted off under a glare from the other side of the kitchen and the clatter of the kettle being slammed down on the hotplate. She went back to the letter.

I am sure that you will have many questions, and I look forward to having the opportunity to explain further. I would like you to meet Olivia, but would prefer to see you privately first to discuss the rather sensitive circumstances of this revelation.

‘She wants to meet you.’

‘I know she does. It is quite ridiculous.’

‘But will you do it?’

There was no answer. Isobel went back to the letter.

Please be assured that I would not be contacting you after seventeen years if it were not absolutely essential.

If I might be so bold, this is a matter of some urgency, for reasons I will explain in person. I will call on Friday at three o’clock.

Yours sincerely,

Beatrice Sidcup (Mrs)

Isobel tried again to remember where she had seen the handwriting before; it was just at the edge of her memory and she couldn’t bring it back. ‘That is quite a letter.’

‘Isn’t it just?’

‘What do you make of it?’

‘She clearly wants money.’

‘She doesn’t say that.’

‘Something must have happened and now she needs to blackmail me about this girl’s parentage. What other possible reason could there be to keep such a secret, if in fact it is true, which I very much doubt.’ Ann’s voice was brisk, as if she was talking to a disobedient child. ‘Well, she’s on a hiding to nothing. I’m not paying her a penny.’

Isobel read the letter again. ‘It says that she is married.’

‘The girl? Unlikely.’

‘No, this Beatrice Sidcup.’

‘It doesn’t.’