The next day I was hauling out bags and boxes for the dustman when a car drew up and Nigel got out, accompanied by an older man.

“This is Mr. Aston-Smith,” Nigel said. “He’s an appraiser. I thought we’d get a jump on things and have the furniture valued.” I escorted them inside, apologising for the mess. I showed him the family portraits, the few good pieces of furniture. I was tempted to show Nigel the letter. I needed to show it to somebody, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Mr. Aston-Smith didn’t take long. He walked around making muttering noises and scribbling in a notebook. In a very short time he came back to me.

“Not much here, I’m afraid,” he said. “The desk is a fine piece. You’d probably be looking at a good five hundred pounds at auction. The chest upstairs maybe slightly less. The grandfather clock—that might also bring in serious money. The armoire—well, it’s good wood, but nobody wants large pieces of furniture like that these days.”

“And the pictures?”

“On the wall? Prints. Worth maybe a hundred a piece.”

“I meant the other pictures. My father’s work.”

“They are good, I’ll grant you that,” he said. “But he doesn’t have a name, does he? It all depends on name for modern art at the big auctions. Snob value rather than quality, I’m afraid. Again they’d bring in an amount in the hundreds rather than the thousands.”

“And the family portraits?”

“I can’t tell you much. They are all in need of a good cleaning, as I’m sure you noticed. If you like, I can take them to an art restorer I work with and we can make a judgment on them after they’ve been cleaned.”

“Would that be very expensive?” I was conscious that the amount I was to inherit was hardly a fortune, especially if I had to share it with a newly discovered brother.

“Not too horrendously so, depending on the amount of restorative work that would need to be done. Just a simple cleaning to begin with, and then we could make a decision about whether to proceed.”

I glanced at Nigel. He gave me one of his hopeful smiles. “All right, then,” I said. “Please do take them.”

As they headed for the front door, I made a decision.

“And I want to keep the desk,” I said, “but I’ve nowhere to put it at the moment.”

“Maybe they’ll let you store it in the school attic,” Nigel suggested, “with any other small bits and pieces you are hanging on to.”

“Excellent idea.” I smiled at him. “Miss Honeywell should be amenable since I’m rushing to get the place cleared out. I’ll ask her.”

“How long do you think you’ll still be here?” Nigel asked.

“I hope to be gone by the end of the week.”

I saw his face fall. “I see. Presumably you need to get back to work.”

Of course I needed to get back to work, but I wasn’t sure I still had a job. Nevertheless, I smiled and nodded.

“I’ll keep you up to date,” he said, “and I’ll let you know when the funds from the various accounts will pass to you.”

I looked at Mr. Aston-Smith. “Perhaps your person should hold off with the restoring work on the paintings until I know that I have legally inherited the money.”

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll take them with me but await your instructions. And presumably I should do the same with the furniture you want to send to auction. We don’t want to sell anything you don’t have a right to.”

“Don’t worry,” Nigel said. “I’ll take care of it. You go back to London. I’ll telephone you with any news.”

And so they left with my family portraits. I went on with my clearing up. Later, I was about to sit down with a cup of tea when there was another knock at my front door. This time a large, florid man stood there. He frowned when he saw me.

“So what’s this with the girl’s school?” he asked in a deep voice with a definite transatlantic accent. “When did Langley Hall get sold?”

“Right after the war,” I said.

“Too bad. I was hoping to look around the old place. Are you the gatekeeper’s daughter?”

“I’m Joanna Langley,” I said stiffly. “Daughter of Sir Hugo Langley.”

His eyebrows shot up. “No kidding. So the old man married again? What do you know.”

It was just dawning on me who this was. I stared at his face and saw no resemblance to my father, who had always had the lean appearance of a Romantic poet. This man was well fed and chubby in a not particularly attractive way.

“You’re Hugo’s son?” I asked.

“That’s right. Teddy Langley, I used to be. Now I’m Teddy Schulz. Of Cleveland, Ohio.”

I forced myself to hold out my hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Teddy. Until a couple of days ago, I had no idea that I had a brother. It came as a big shock.”

“Yeah. I just got a shock, too. The old guy’s death, I mean. A client came back from England and showed me the newspaper with the obituary in it. ‘Any relation of yours?’ he said. So I thought I’d better hightail it over the pond, being the son and heir, y’know. I presumed the estate would be coming to me. Isn’t that how it works with English law? Oldest son gets the lot?”