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?”

“Maybe. There are three more for Private MacDuggal. One for a Corporal Frederick Smith, one for a Lieutenant E. Shields, and two here for a Nora Cooper.” He passed them to Lia.

Return to Sender, Not at This Address had been scrawled next to Nora’s name.

“Nothing to an Estelle Allard, is there? Something that might prove she was here? Or stayed here and made your grandfather think he imagined an angel?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Lia hadn’t really expected a different answer. “I wonder why these were never put back in the post.”

“Put aside and forgotten? Stuck in a to-do pile that never got done?” Gabriel murmured as he continued to examine the rest of the stack in his hand. “Who knows?”

Lia set the letters she held aside.

“Here’s one to Sophie,” Gabriel said. “The wrong Sophie, but a Sophie nonetheless.” He held up a letter with a disappointed sigh.

It was larger than a regular airmail envelope, the stamps postmarked with smudged ink. SOPHIE KOWALSKI, followed by Millbrook’s address, had been typed in neat rows across the front. Return to Sender, Not at This Address had been likewise written across the front in the now-familiar hand.

Lia reached for the envelope, and Gabriel handed it to her. It was thicker than the other letters and had a more official bearing. The left top corner was creased, something small yet bulky preventing it from lying flat. She turned it over. INTER-SERVICES RESEARCH BUREAU with a London address was stamped on the back of the envelope, the seal brittle with age and broken in some places. She stared at the top line before flipping it back to examine the postmark. The smudging made it hard to read the month and day but the year was clear. 1943.

“This might not be the wrong Sophie,” Lia said slowly.

“What?” Gabriel had stood and had begun collecting the folders stacked around them.