At first glance, the trunk looked as though a filing cabinet had been simply unloaded into its depths. Stacks of wide file folders were piled inside right up to the top, small scraps of paper peeking out from some like leaves lost in a windstorm. Bundles of letters and what looked like bound ledgers were visible beneath. Gabriel lifted out the first of the thick folders and passed it to Lia, selecting another for himself.

She opened hers to find a collection of newspaper clippings. The Times, The Daily Mirror, and The Sunday Express, all dated, as far as she could tell, from 1944 to 1945. Each covered some part of the Allied invasion of France, their subsequent invasion of Europe, and, at the bottom of the pile, news of victory.

“This must be what Abigail was speaking of?” Lia guessed. “Some of what her mum clipped and kept?”

“I think so,” Gabriel agreed, his head bent over the folder he held. “I have records here of children who were evacuated from London and who stayed at Millbrook. It looks like someone kept the tags that would have been pinned to their clothing, spent ration cards, and even a poster issued by the Ministry of Health urging parents to leave their children where they were safe.” He sorted through the contents and set the folder aside. “Fascinating, and I should probably go through them and have these boxed up to be submitted and archived properly in London. I know people have tried for years to trace family members that were scattered during the war.”

He reached back into the trunk and withdrew a stack of letters, bound by a single string. He thumbed carefully through the aged envelopes. “This is definitely Imogen’s stuff,” he said. “All these letters are addressed to her.”

“Any from your grandfather or Sophie?” Lia asked.

“No. It looks like they’re all from her own family.” He placed them on the floor next to the folder. “Let’s see what else she kept.”

He and Lia emptied the trunk, examining the contents carefully. More newspapers, magazines, propaganda posters, bundles of receipts, several thick ledgers, and even some grammar and mathematics primers for children. But here was nothing that made any reference to Sophie, or even William.

Gabriel sighed as he pulled out the last of the contents, another bound stack of letters.

“More missives to Imogen?”

“No,” Gabriel said slowly. “These are addressed to different people.” He slipped the twine from the stack. “Soldiers, I think. Or maybe some of the children who stayed here. None of these names are familiar, though someone has made notes on the envelopes. Look.” He passed one to Lia.

The sealed letter was addressed to a Private James MacDuggal, Millbrook’s address listed below. On the side of the envelope, someone had written in a decidedly feminine hand, Reenlisted RAF, September ’43, Return to Sender. Lia turned the envelope over. It was from a Cecily MacDuggal of Glasgow. “His wife?” Lia mused out loud. “Mother?”