Chapter 4

 With renewed energy — the kind that arrives after a restless night and a determined morning — I begin work in my humble office, the smallest bedroom of my house, long ago converted into a workspace. It is a modest room, almost monastic in its simplicity. A drop‑leaf table dominates the centre; when opened, it consumes nearly all available space, forcing me to navigate around it with the care of a man moving through a cramped archive. By the window sits a narrow side‑table, just wide enough for my laptop, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Opposite stands a small bookcase, bowed slightly under the weight of every research volume I have ever relied upon — the quiet companions of countless investigations.

It is functional, familiar, and entirely unlike my mother’s grand study — hers a room of polished oak, velvet drapes, and the quiet authority of someone who never needed to apologise for the space she occupied. Mine is a working room, a room of purpose rather than display.

I settle into my chair and begin sorting through the emails — those read, those unread, and those half‑forgotten. As I scroll, I can almost hear the familiar question drifting through the air, a voice from some imagined critic: “Why not simply find the email? The answer will be there!” But the truth dismantles that notion immediately.

When I first embarked upon these genealogical endeavours, I had to create a system whereby every email, once read, was automatically deleted. In those early days I received thirty to forty messages daily — queries from every corner of the country and the wider world, each one asking something different. Some were simple: “Can you confirm my grandmother’s maiden name?” Others were labyrinthine: “Can you trace the paternal line of a man who vanished in 1842?” Most could be answered quickly; the sender would be satisfied, and that would be the end of it. But the volume was relentless, and the deletion system became a necessity rather than a preference.

With the rise of the various ancestry websites, the number of emails dropped dramatically. People could now find their own records, their own long‑lost cousins, their own fragments of forgotten history. Yet still they wrote — especially those who had commissioned work previously. Family members resurfaced years later with new questions, new discoveries, or new disputes about the accuracy of old ones. Genealogy, I learned, is never truly finished.

With all that in mind, I checked my inbox.

Several messages remained unread. One was from Jane in Australia — a woman for whom I had once constructed a vast family tree stretching back more than three centuries. She thanked me for introducing her to her cousin, Rachel.

The lady in question was indeed Rachel — though I am certain she had not used that name.

I continued reading.

“I would like to thank you, Archie, for providing me with a huge family tree, which has given me numerous cousins scattered across the world. Having reached out to some, I’ve had success establishing connections.”

“Having been in touch with Rachel, she was delighted to have made the connection. She also mentioned that she dropped you a line, asking you to carry out research for her. She was so pleased with your professionalism when you recently met in London.”

“We are looking forward to meeting up in the near future when I return to the United Kingdom. Once again, many thanks for all the work you have carried out.”

I scrolled through the spam folder — nothing of interest — and then stumbled upon a draft I had never sent. It was addressed to Harriet.

“Dear Harriet,” I had written, “thank you for your message. I have carried out some research, and I can comfortably go back at least a hundred years. Thank you for arranging a table, and I look forward to meeting you on Friday evening at…” The message ended abruptly. Unsaved. Unsent.

I stared at the draft for a long moment. Why had Rachel used the name Harriet?

I composed a new email to the same address.

“Dear Harriet,” I wrote, “thank you for your custom. I hope you have found my services satisfactory, and if you wish me to proceed with further research, do not hesitate to drop me a line. Many thanks, Archibald Winterbottom.”

Sent.

Within seconds, it bounced back. Recipient not known.

The rejection felt abrupt, almost theatrical — as though the address had never existed at all.

There was only one place left to seek answers. I would have to go to the bar.