‘More letters, some postcards. It’s all a bit of a jumble.’

‘Who died first?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Who went first, Keith or Annie?’

‘Annie, in 1964. And she couldn’t have got the boxes into the attic, so Keith is the person who put all this up there. I was away for a few days and when I came home, he had already done it. A bit like when he did the kitchen upgrade without telling Annie what his plans were.’

‘Was he, I don’t know . . . tidying up? Putting papers away that perhaps you might not feel able to look at after he was gone.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I mean, he didn’t destroy anything. It’s as though he was putting it all away safely so the boxes would be there for you when you were ready for them.’

‘Possibly. Keith was like that. He had a knack for understanding what you needed before you knew it yourself.’ Georgia reaches across the table for a tissue and wipes away the tears that have suddenly arrived. ‘He missed Annie dreadfully. He died in his sleep a couple of months after she did.’ She blows her nose and straightens herself up. ‘Better get on. If we stop now, we’ll never get started again.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Perhaps this box is a bit of a muddle because Annie wasn’t there to tell Keith what was important. There are holiday postcards from the seaside and bills for coal and old Christmas cards all mixed up together.’

‘You could be right. Is there anything that stands out?’

Georgia rifles through a few papers. ‘Not really.’

‘May I?’

‘Be my guest. Fresh eyes and all that.’ Georgia sits down, lost in thought.

Tess goes through every item methodically, dividing them into official documents, more and more school papers, and general bills. By the time she is finished there are two items left. ‘I think that’s everything, apart from these.’

‘Alright, let’s see what you’ve discovered.’

‘There’s another letter. And there’s a jewellery box, but it’s locked and I think it’s empty. It doesn’t rattle or anything.’

‘Let’s look at the letter, then. Off you go, Lewis, do the honours.’

Tess takes a single sheet of paper from a small envelope and starts to read.

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.