No, it couldn’t have done. The bell tolled again in his mind, and the boy’s dark eyes flashed at him.

‘We–ell … there’s no postmark or stamp. And there’s no phone number on this letter, Swinton. Let alone an email address. I can’t contact this man who says he’s your uncle. I can’t let you go.’ He steepled his hands together, cracking his large beefy knuckles. ‘Much as I would like to have you off my conscience.’

‘But the train – it’s tomorrow morning.’

‘I will have to write to him myself and receive a confirmation from both him and from your guardian. You say yourself that you haven’t heard of this James Swinton.’

Tom shook his head. ‘I … I remember something. James Swinton, my uncle. I remember dad talking about it …’ He trailed off. The truth was he didn’t. There had been some vague talk in the family about a Suffolk farm. What had it been called? Mundham? It sounded fairly familiar. As he watched Fletch frowning, he dimly caught at the back of his mind the sound of his mother mentioning it.

His father had never talked about it, though, or any of his relations. And now he’d never have the chance to ask him, as both his parents had been dead, drowned, at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, for the last five years.

‘Your guardian’s in Hong Kong, isn’t he?’ Fletch turned to his computer and began tapping with one finger, searching for his contact details. ‘I’ll bung him an email and we’ll see what he has to say.’

‘Sir – he won’t answer in time. He’s too busy. And I don’t have any money. If I’m going to go, I need to go on this ticket.’

‘Ah.’ Fletcher fiddled with his tie. ‘Found the fellow.’

‘Look – why would he send me a ticket if he wasn’t legitimate?’

A rare look of sympathy passed over Fletch’s face. He puffed out his enormous cheeks and waggled his giant eyebrows.

‘Master Swinton,’ he sighed. ‘I’m tied up here with reports. I’ve got to get them out by the end of the day, or there’ll be the worst kind of stinking hell to pay from the Head Man.’

‘Sir – please …’

Fletcher seemed to relent a little. ‘Steady, Swinton, hold your horses. I’ll phone your guardian later and do some looking into this Jack Swinton. And if he turns out all right, I’ll lend you the money for the train. Which will be taken out of your house account, of course. All right?’ He sighed, turned back to his pile of reports and uncapped his pen, holding the nib above the page for a second. Then, firmly, he recapped it.