It took another couple of minutes to update her before she allowed me to get back to my reason for getting in touch.

‘Your father? You mean Jonty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. I should have guessed. The scandalous secret.’

‘That’s not quite how we see it.’

‘No. None of us who love her ever did.’

‘So, are you able to help? You must have had an idea of who my grandfather might be. Or maybe she told you?’

‘If I did, do you think I would betray her trust after all these years? You know she still sends me flowers and a handwritten card on my birthday, and a letter every Christmas. Blue hyacinths, my favourites. She paid for my children to have singing lessons for as long as they were interested. Which mercifully wasn’t that long, given their lack of talent. However, I couldn’t blab even if held at gunpoint, which I think some of those gossip reporters considered. She never so much as hinted.’

‘Did she tell you about Charis House?’

‘Of course. I visited when it first opened. And I came to the Christmas Spectacular one year, when you were still an infant. I thought it was remarkable what your family were doing there.’

I told her about the current situation, and why we were trying so hard to find this man’s identity, however much of a longshot it might be.

‘Ah. I see. Well, like I said, I don’t know, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. But you might want to try the Brambletons. They had a huge manor house in the countryside. She often stayed there towards the end of her pregnancy, and for the first few months afterwards. I doubt they’ll reveal anything either, if they’re still alive, but they may be able to tell you if your search is worth pursuing or not.’

I thanked her and went after my next clue. The Brambletons turned out to be a couple who wrote plays back in the fifties and sixties. They had both died over twenty years ago, but I did find a daughter, who had been twelve or thirteen the year that Dad was born, so only around seventy now. After a fruitless half-hour searching online for any contact details, I had a brainwave and called Jed, about to take his seat at the pantomime. Following a hasty explanation, he confirmed that Ursula Brambleton’s parents had left a modest amount to Charis House in their will. Their daughter would be subscribed to our newsletter, with her contact details on file. A few minutes later I had her phone number.

After another introduction and slightly rambling explanation, I held my breath and hoped that she lacked Zelia Strong’s scruples.

‘I’m sorry, I was only a child back then… it was all very discreet. Nobody would have told me anything.’