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each other. Would they be talking about their charges? Probably, but maybe they were discussing their young men, too.
    Although I was willing myself to forget Mayfield and its dark secrets, I kept Sergeant Bottomley in my remembrance. After that day’s matinée I would tell Michael the whole story of what Mr Bottomley had described as ‘the bones of a child hidden away in the overgrown garden of a broken-down old manor house.’ Secrets of that kind, he’d said, were best shared with someone outside the family.
    Uncle Max began to call up to me from the lower landing. I went out into the passage and looked down at him. He stood with his hand on the banister, gazing earnestly up at me, his face conveying some ill-concealed worry, his brow creased with an anxious frown.
    â€˜Catherine,’ he said, ‘come down to the study for a moment. I want to speak to you before you go off to the theatre.’
    Uncle Max’s study was on the ground floor, at the rear of the house, with a view of the old walled garden. It was a pleasant room, its walls lined with bookshelves, and in the window bay was a massive mahogany desk, at which my uncle conducted his business. I had once asked him what kind of work he did, and he had told me that he specialized in conveyancing, and the proving of title deeds to property.
    Since his return from Mayfield he had remained closeted in this room, emerging only for meals. At night, when I went up to bed, I could see the line of light under the study door, showing that he was still up late, working.
    On the third night following our return he had emerged from the study at five o’clock, clutching a handful of letters destined for the evening post. He put them as usual on to the brass tray on the hall stand, whence Milsom would collect them. Then I saw him pause, and extract a single letter from the pile. He threw on his overcoat, fetched his hat, and went out through the front door. From the hall window I saw him hurrying in the direction of Brandenburg Street, where the post box was to be found. I wondered then who was so important that a letter to them merited a special journey. I was, of course, too much in awe of him to ask him when he returned.
    â€˜Sit down, my dear,’ said Uncle Max, when we entered the study, ‘I shan’t detain you long, since Michael will be calling very soon. I— Do you think I have done well by you, Catherine? Have I been a good uncle to you? I know that I’m snappy and curmudgeonly at times, but there’s no harm intended. Everything I have done, I have done with your best interests at heart—’
    â€˜Dear Uncle,’ I cried, rising in alarm from my chair, and taking his hand in mine, ‘why are you speaking to me like this? No girl could have had a better guardian. You know that I love you, and always have.’
    â€˜Well, well,’ he replied, withdrawing my hand from his, and looking away shamefacedly for a moment. ‘Well, well, let us say no more about it. You see this desk? When I am – when I am gone, you will find a copy of my will in there, together with the name and address of my solicitor, who holds the original copy—No, Catherine, do not try to stop me. What is there to fear? At my age I must think of the inevitable.’
    Uncle Max seemed to be controlling himself by a supreme effort of will. There was something gravely wrong with himtoday – perhaps it was connected with that pile of rotting papers that had so preoccupied him at Mayfield Court.
    â€˜After my death,’ he continued, ‘you must go to my solicitor to hear the will proved. On that occasion, he will hand you a sealed envelope, addressed to you in my handwriting. You must read the document contained in that envelope, and act upon its contents as your conscience directs.’
    I said nothing in reply to his words, because it seemed to me that any protestation at that point would be inappropriate. But I was