‘Oh Connie,’ Grace uttered to herself. Larry placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

‘No wonder she looked so haunted,’ Larry lamented, shaking his head.

‘That poor, poor woman, and what was her mother thinking, punishing her and Lara like that? I know times were different back then, but for goodness’ sakes … to keep a mother and child apart just to keep up appearances is despicable …’ It was Betty; she had been standing behind the sofa and heard the contents of the letter too.

‘Don’t be upsetting yourself, love. We must look on the bright side now that we have this information,’ Larry said, getting up to give Betty a hug.

‘How is this a bright side? It’s so sad,’ Betty said, patting Larry’s arm.

‘Because we now know that Connie stored the contents of unit 28 for her daughter, Lara, to inherit,’ Larry said, ‘and Ellis told us that something in writing from Connie to this effect would be very helpful in proving this. Plus Connie specifically mentions the paintings and jewellery, so there’s no doubt now that they were indeed Connie’s to bequeath and that Lara is the heir.’

‘True,’ Grace spoke this time, and stood up too. ‘Thank you so much for bringing the letters to us,’ she said, looking first at Lady Bee and then at Mr Conway. It felt good to know that they knew for sure now that Connie had carefully stored all her beautiful, treasured possessions for her only child, Lara, but there was something missing. ‘It’s just such a pity that we still don’t have an address for Lara. When you handed me the bundle I was hopeful, but this is Connie’s address here on the airmail envelope so I’m assuming her mother just returned any letters that Connie sent to Lara. And this envelope has only Lara’s name on it … I wonder why Connie never posted it?’ Grace thought aloud as she tapped the front of the cream envelope.

‘Ah! Yes, I didn’t think of that,’ Larry sighed, and Betty gave him a look.

‘Maybe Connie died before she could post it,’ Lady Bee said in a stoic, matter-of-fact manner. ‘She had a fall in the street, remember, and the woman who works in the post office in Blackheath Village did tell me later that Connie had only been in there a few days before asking how much the postage was to send a letter to America. She remembered because she said that dear old Connie was confused and unsure about where exactly in America she wanted to send the letter, managing only to say Manhattan as she fumbled in her purse before saying that she would have to come back later as she had left the letter in the kitchen at home.’