ADOPTION. A sheaf of papers wrapped in a ribbon. She opened it. A summary sheet. Child’s name: Louise. Chosen by the birth mother, agreed to by the client. The birth was in Sussex, the mother’s name Corinne Petit. An unusual name. Unless the mother was not English. French, perhaps, or Swiss?

Father’s name: Not given. She searched through the other papers to see if she could find it. There was no clue. Until she came to a note. It was from the firm’s Paris office. It was not long. It thanked the then partner in the London office for his discreet handling of the business and remarked that his client Monsieur Blanchard was most grateful. It was signed: James Fox.

He knew then. He knew everything.

“You realize that I could probably have you arrested.”

His voice. He must be standing behind her in the doorway. She did not turn.

“I doubt that you could. Or that you would. So you actually arranged my birth, and my mother was Corinne Petit. Was she French?”

No answer.

“And who is Monsieur Blanchard? My father, I assume?”

She heard him sigh.

“Corinne Petit is dead. She was a nanny for some years. Then she married and, sadly, died in childbirth. I promise you this is true. Her family had turned her out when she became pregnant. She had nowhere to go. She was very young. I have no hesitation in saying that I did the best thing possible for her and for you. It was sheer luck that I had heard from our London office about your parents, who wanted a child and couldn’t have one of their own.”

“And my father?” Now she turned. “Monsieur Blanchard: Is he dead too?”

“You are assuming he was the father. He might have been helping a friend, with a completely different name.”

“You won’t tell me.”

“Certainly not. Are you going to raise this with your parents?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I shall have to tell them how you came by the information. Otherwise they might suspect me of a breach of confidentiality.”

“I shan’t tell them. It wouldn’t get me anywhere even if I did.”

“I am sure you are right. Will you promise me that? I must defend myself.”

“Yes. I promise.”

“To save you more wasted effort, I closed our Paris office at the start of the war. There is nothing for you to find in that quarter. As for Blanchard, it’s a common name, and the father you seek may not have that name at all. I should be sorry if you wasted your life looking for someone whom you would never find.”

“Is he alive?”

He paused, and chose his words carefully.

“It’s years since I was in France.” He shook his head sadly. “Their war casualties have been worse than ours, you know. Far worse.”