Back at the flat I set the envelope down on top of the morning papers on the coffee table by Jessica’s bed. She had pulled up the covers over her head – only the blonde fan of her hair was visible spread out across the pillow. I closed the door between the kitchen and the living room and set about making breakfast. It had been a long time since I had cooked anything at all, and I had to chase a spider out of the pot I used to heat the beans. I made coffee and warmed croissants in the oven, and when I opened the door to the living room I expected a rich reward for my efforts in smiles. I had no idea whether or not Jessica ate such things, whether she had become a vegetarian or loathed carbs or preferred tea in the morning, but her tastes were irrelevant. It was my gesture that mattered, and I was as pleased with my efforts as a cat bringing its owner a dead mouse. I had looked forward to waking her myself, and catching that moment when her face changed from a startled surprise to a smile of pleasure as she realized where she was, but when I opened the door I found her already up and sitting at the table, wearing the T-shirt I had lent her the previous night. She had taken off her bra, and I could make out the shapes of her breasts under the thin cotton. She was staring at a piece of paper in her hand with a frown of concentration. It took me a few seconds to realize that she had opened the letter from my office.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Did you look at the envelope?’ she asked without looking up. Something in her manner made me prepare for trouble, and I placed the tray down on the coffee table.

‘Jessica, I don’t want to spoil the mood, but you really shouldn’t open my work things. They’re confidential—’

‘Just read it,’ she said, holding out two letters to me, one in faded handwriting, the other on new paper, typed and signed.

‘I’ll read it when I’m ready, thank you. Now, would you like coffee?’ I picked up the cafetière and cocked my head at her with a fixed smile.

‘Please, James. Trust me. Just take a look.’

I snatched it from her to show my impatience, and fixed it with my most critical squint.

The top letter was indeed from a solicitor’s office, but it was not a firm I recognized. It seemed to be a family firm, expensive and old judging by the watermark and the tasteful weight of the paper. Their business address was near Bond Street. I turned a professional eye on the document, easily slicing through the customary formalities to the kernel of intention. They were passing on a letter entrusted to them by a client, in accordance with his wishes. I looked at the sheet, its edges yellowing with age. The letter was dated 18 June, about two weeks after we had made the exchange and passed the night at the Baglioni. I knew the smooth, assured hand instantly. It was Francis’s writing.