Chapter 6

The following day, I was back in London, visiting my old school friend, Herbert Smith.

Herbert had established a private clinic to serve London's well-to-do, offering treatments and services outside those available through the NHS. He had started the business more than a decade earlier, and over the years more patients had joined his practice. A handful of glowing reviews had helped establish its reputation, and both the clinic's success and its patient list had continued to grow.

When I saw Herbert, he had the polished appearance of a man who took both his profession and his reputation seriously. He wore a crisp white medical coat over a smart, well-tailored suit, giving him the unmistakable appearance of a private doctor. His shirt was freshly pressed, his tie neatly knotted and his shoes polished to a shine. Everything about him suggested order and attention to detail.

He was a little older now than the school friend I remembered, of course. There were touches of grey in his hair and the beginnings of lines around his eyes, but they suited him. If anything, they added to the air of experience and authority he had acquired over the years.

The white coat seemed almost part of his character. Herbert had always been particular about his appearance, even when we were younger, and success had done nothing to change that. He carried himself with quiet confidence, speaking in the calm, measured manner of someone accustomed to having people listen carefully to what he had to say.

Yet beneath the professional appearance, I could still recognise my old school friend. Every so often there was the familiar smile, a raised eyebrow or a dry remark that reminded me of the Herbert I had known all those years before. The expensive suit and white medical coat might have belonged to the successful clinic owner, but underneath them was still the same observant, cautious man I remembered from school.

Herbert welcomed me warmly and led me into his office. He only had a few minutes to spare before his next patient arrived.

His office was exactly the sort of room I would have expected Herbert to occupy: professional, orderly and practical, but comfortable enough to put a nervous patient at ease. One wall was dominated by a large bookcase, its shelves filled with medical books and reference volumes. Some looked almost new, while others were clearly well used, their spines faded and worn from years of being taken down and consulted.

Medical posters hung on the walls around the room. They showed detailed diagrams of the human body—the skeleton, muscles, internal organs and circulatory system. One illustrated the structure of the heart and its major blood vessels, while another displayed the different regions of the spine. They gave the office an unmistakably clinical atmosphere and served as a constant reminder that this was a working medical practice rather than simply a comfortable private office.

Herbert's desk stood by the window. It was large enough to accommodate the considerable amount of paperwork his practice generated, although everything seemed to have its proper place. Several of the latest medical journals were stacked neatly to one side, some with pages marked where Herbert had evidently been reading articles of particular interest.

Alongside them were a number of patient case notes relating to the people he was due to see that day. They were arranged in order, ready for each consultation. Nearby were several prepared medicines awaiting dispensing to patients following their appointments. Nothing appeared hurried or careless. The entire room reflected Herbert's methodical nature.

There was something reassuring about it. This was not the office of a man who left things to chance.

We both sat on the leather sofa, which was positioned along one wall of the office. Herbert settled back into the soft leather beside me, briefly glancing at the clock.

"So," he said, "what have you been getting yourself involved in this time?"

I smiled. "How long have you got?"

"Not nearly long enough, judging by that answer."

I quickly brought him up to date.

I told him about my recent 'adventures'—waking up in the hotel and the various people I had encountered the following day. I described the strange sequence of events and how, almost without intending to, I seemed to have become involved in something far more complicated than I had first imagined.

I then told him about my second meeting with Rachel, the teacher, and how she had approached me with an unexpected sense of urgency. There had been little in the way of pleasantries. She had been direct, almost demanding, making it clear that she expected me to carry out the work and that she wanted it completed within a very short period of time.

Herbert sat back against the sofa and studied me for a moment.

"And you agreed?" he asked.

"Not exactly," I replied. "But I didn't say no either."

He gave me the sort of look I remembered from our school days, when he knew perfectly well that I was about to do something against my better judgement.

"That's usually how these things start," he said. "Someone asks for a small favour, then before you know it, you're responsible for something you never intended to become involved with."

I smiled. "You make it sound rather sinister."

"I'm not saying it is sinister. I'm saying you don't know enough about it yet."

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

"If you're going to do it, then do it to the same high standard you always do. That's your reputation, after all. But I'd be very careful. You need to understand exactly what you're getting yourself into before you agree to anything."

I considered his words. Herbert had always been cautious by nature. Even at school, he had been the one who thought about the consequences while the rest of us were still deciding whether something sounded like fun. Perhaps that was why he had become successful. He rarely made a decision without first considering where it might lead.

"Rachel seems genuine enough," I said.

"I'm sure she does."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I've never met the woman, so I can't possibly judge her. But you're telling me she appeared out of nowhere, gave you very little time to think, and now expects you to produce work to your usual standard without properly explaining why everything is so urgent."

"When you put it like that..."

"That's precisely why I'm putting it like that."

There was a brief knock at the door. Herbert glanced towards it and then at the clock on the wall.

"My next patient," he said. "Give me a minute."

He stood, opened the door and spoke quietly to his receptionist before returning to the sofa.

"I've bought you another five minutes."

"I feel honoured."

"You should. People pay a great deal of money for five minutes of my time."

I laughed. "You haven't changed."

"Oh, I have. I just charge more now."

For a moment, the seriousness of the conversation disappeared, and I was reminded of the boy I had known all those years ago. But Herbert's expression soon became serious again.

"Listen," he said. "Do the work if you want to do it. It might be perfectly innocent, and perhaps Rachel simply needs someone she can trust. But before you begin, find out exactly who you're working for, what they expect from you, and why they're in such a hurry."

"You think there's something she's not telling me?"

"I think there's something you don't know. That's not necessarily the same thing."

I looked at him.

"And if I can't get a straight answer?"

"Then don't do it."

His response came without hesitation.

"Simple as that?"

"Simple decisions are often the hardest ones to make."

There was another knock at the door, more definite this time.

Herbert stood.

"That's my warning ignored already," he said. "Now I really do have to see my patient."

I got to my feet and picked up my coat.

"Thanks, Herbert."

"For what?"

"For making a straightforward job sound considerably more worrying than it did when I walked in."

He smiled and held out his hand.

"That's what old friends are for."

As I left his office and made my way back through the reception area, his words stayed with me. Until then, I had regarded Rachel's request as unusual but not particularly troubling. Herbert had changed that.

Perhaps he was simply being overcautious.

Or perhaps, without realising it, I had already agreed to something I knew far too little about.

That afternoon, I made my way to the National Archives at Kew, hoping to discover more about Mary Herbert and Joseph Simpson. There were still many unanswered questions surrounding them, and I wanted to see how much of their history I could piece together from the surviving records.

After some searching, I managed to uncover several important details about their lives, including their dates of birth, their marriage and their deaths. With these basic facts established, I ordered copies of the relevant birth, marriage and death certificates.

I then turned to the census records, hoping they would provide further clues about Joseph and his family. By following him through the different census years, I hoped to discover more about his background, including where he had lived, the members of his household and, most importantly, the identity of his parents. If I could establish who they were, I might be able to trace the Simpson family back another generation. I worked carefully through the available records, comparing names, dates and places, and making notes of anything that might lead me further into Joseph's family history.

Fragments of Joseph’s life lay scattered through the pages — an occupation in one year, an address in another, children shifting between households as time advanced. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the outline of a life began to take shape.

But the answer I wanted most remained stubbornly out of reach.

Who were Joseph Simpson’s parents?

I combed through the entries again, searching for anything I might have missed. His birthplace offered possibilities; certain names and addresses seemed promising enough to pursue. Yet none of them provided the decisive link. There was no single record I could point to and say: There. That is them.

I had only just begun to make progress when an announcement came over the public-address system informing visitors that the Archives would soon be closing for the day.

I glanced at the time with some disappointment. There was still a great deal I wanted to investigate, but there was no longer enough time to pursue another line of enquiry properly.

Reluctantly, I gathered my papers and slipped them back into the folder. Joseph’s parents would remain unidentified a little longer. Fortunately, much of the work could continue online once I returned home, and the certificates I had ordered might yet deliver the breakthrough.

Outside, the late‑afternoon light was already thinning. The sky had settled into the muted grey that so often drapes itself over Kew in the evening, and the air carried the faint scent of cut grass and river water. I paused on the steps, my folder tucked beneath my arm, and looked back at the glass façade of the Archives catching the last pale shimmer of daylight.

I had arrived seeking clarity.

Instead, I had found threads — thin, incomplete, but promising enough to follow.

As I walked towards the station, my mind sifted through the day’s discoveries.

Joseph Simpson. Mary Herbert. Dates. Addresses. Occupations. Children. Households appearing and disappearing across successive census years.

Individually, none of these details seemed remarkable. Together, they formed the beginnings of a story.

A few details troubled me still. Certain addresses did not align as neatly as expected. A surname appeared more than once among neighbouring households. A child present in one census vanished from the next. Ordinary explanations existed — a move, a marriage, a death, a transcription error — yet these were precisely the sorts of small inconsistencies that could not be brushed aside.

Genealogy is built on such details.

A name spelled slightly differently. An age out by two years. A relative described as a lodger. A family living three doors away who, at first glance, appears irrelevant.

Sometimes the smallest detail is the one that opens an entire generation.

By the time I reached the station, I was already planning my next searches. I found a place on the platform and opened the folder again, scanning the notes while I waited for the train. A breeze lifted the edges of the papers, and I pressed them down beneath my hand.

Joseph’s name seemed to be everywhere now, yet the people who had preceded him remained stubbornly concealed.

When the train arrived, I boarded and found a seat by the window. The carriage was quiet. As Kew slipped away behind me, I opened my notebook and began reviewing the evidence once more.

I had left the Archives with far more information than I possessed when I entered.

I had also left with far more questions.

But that was part of the allure. Family history rarely reveals itself in a single moment. It emerges slowly, one document at a time, through connections that only become visible when records separated by years — sometimes decades — are placed side by side.

The train rattled towards central London while I stared at Joseph Simpson’s name in my notebook.

His parents were still missing from the story.

But somewhere, I felt certain, a record existed that would lead me to them.

I simply had to find it.