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him, I felt sure.
    He loved the house. I showed him the Kookaburra stove and the wardrobe and the christening gown – all the things that Margaret talked of in her letters. Then, over a cup of tea, he told me of his father’s life following Margaret’s death.
    ‘He never married again. After the war, he opened the company branch in Singapore and that’s where I spent most of my childhood.’
    We were in the front room by the fireplace. He put his teacup down on the coffee table and gazed into the empty grate.
    ‘You mentioned Halstead in your letter. There are two Christmases I recall quite vividly. When I was nine and ten. Two years in a row we returned to spend Christmas with my maternal grandmother. It snowed one time and I was so excited, I remember. She spoke of my mother a great deal, well, rambled really – she was old and her health was not good. She died the following year and we didn’t go back after that.’
    I could see quite clearly ‘the log fire in mother’s front sitting room’ and ‘the blanket of snow’ and I wondered whether Geoffrey had climbed the old elm tree.
    Now was the time, I thought, and I lifted out the biscuit tin.
    ‘I’ll make you another cup of tea and leave you to yourself,’ I said.
    ‘Well, if you don’t mind,’ he answered hesitantly, ‘I’d rather like to take them back to my hotel room.’ He looked at the three bundles of letters I’d placed on the table. ‘I have a feeling I’ll sit up through the night.’
    He left a half an hour later and I found myself wondering again and again how he would react to hearing his mother’s words.
    I wasn’t disappointed.
    ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am,’ he said when he returned the following afternoon. ‘What a wonderful thing, I feel as if I know her.’
    ‘Yes, that’s the way I felt.’ I nodded.
    ‘And Emily. You’re quite right. We must find out what happened to Emily. What a pity my mother never kept her letters. Well, of course, she probably did and they were destroyed in the bombing – just about everything was lost, I believe.’
    Suddenly I had an ally and it felt good. Geoffrey was just as keen as I was to discover the lost half of Emily’s life.
    ‘Simple,’ he said. ‘Harry’s solicitor. Emily would have retained the same firm, I’m sure.’ He grinned. ‘And solicitors know all about their clients, believe me.’ So much for the eager cocker spaniel – when Geoffrey was inspired he really got down to business. ‘Ring your own solicitor and find out who handled the exchange of contracts on the house.’
    I did. And he was quite right.
    Colmer & Mitchell was a small family firm. Old man Colmer had handled the original sale of the house when Harry had purchased it in 1920, and Colmer the son explained to me that he himself had handled the sale of the deceased estate upon the death of Emily Roper.
    Before I could think of a probing question. Colmer the younger went on to say, ‘And of course I still handle the estate of Emily Tonkin.’
    ‘Emily Tonkin?’ I was totally nonplussed. ‘What estate?’
    ‘Her book has been kept regularly in print for over twenty years now.’
    ‘Her book?’
    ‘Yes. Published in 1955. Her collection of poems.’ A pause while he waited for me to say something. I didn’t. ‘She was a poet, didn’t you know?’
    Two days later, I tracked down the book in a small shop in Kings Cross.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said the spindly woman behind the counter, ‘among true poetry lovers Emily Tonkin is quite popular, particularly with the older set.’ She went on to explain that the publishers printed a limited edition each year, usually in the autumn.
    ‘Two copies please,’ I said, wishing that she would hurry up.
    I walked to the fountain at the top of The Cross, sat on a bench and looked at the book. A slim paperback volume. Riches , it was called. ‘The story of an ordinary life’ by Emily Tonkin. I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. I flicked through