I will now make a shameful admission. Upon rediscovering this last month, dear nephew, I was feverish with the thought that I might have caused some disaster by my careless delay in sending it to you. To quiet my mind, I tried to open your gift, even going to the extent of having several of Edinburgh’s finest locksmiths apply their skills, to no effect.

I hope you will forgive me. I think your mother would have done so. Please receive this in her spirit – she was the soul of kindness and generosity – and not with the judgemental anger so characteristic of your father.

God bless,

Elspeth Carnachan (née Watson).

A tumult of emotions coursed through me. Anger at this woman’s carelessness, her imposition, and my own grief at the reopening of an old tragedy vied for captaincy with tender childhood memories.

My mother. The soul of kindness and generosity. Her unexplained death when I was but eleven was a wound that had never healed. It was a mystery that I thought would never be solved. I wiped a rivulet of sweat from my brow.

Elspeth Carnachan, an aunt I had never known, had not only forgotten her promise to my mother, but then tried to open something meant for me. No wonder my father had forsaken this careless and duplicitous creature! I flung down the letter.

I turned my attention to the package, wrapped in aged brown paper. On it, inscribed in delicate handwriting which I recognized as my mother’s, I read: ‘For John, upon the occasion of your twenty-first birthday. I hope you will understand. In my heart always, Mother.’

I tore off the string and paper. Inside was a worn cardboard box with a faded floral label, once containing two fancy bars of soap. I raised it to my nose. A scent from my childhood – Lily of the Valley – emanated from it. It had been my mother’s favourite. I was blindsided with a sudden wave of grief, and my vision blurred. I blinked and regained my focus.

I opened the soap box and discovered within a strange silver box about the size of two decks of cards. It was ornate and complicated. Engraved on its surface in finely traced lines were Celtic dragons, and the box itself was bound up with a dozen flat metal bands of different colours: silver, gold, copper. These were braided and wrapped around it, fastened securely along the front edge in a kind of Celtic knot. The ends of these bands were tucked under the edges of a large lock of a type I had never before seen. At the keyhole of this lock were many scratches, as though a breech had been attempted numerous times.

It was a beautiful object, like something from a fairy tale. But what was within? And why had my mother left this for me?