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“Cameron Macleod.” My greeting is brusque because I’d much rather be talking to a certain lilac haired pixie.

“Mr Macleod, I’ve found something in the paperwork you supplied. I think you need to see this.”

“What is it?” I ask, not wanting to trek across town to the stuffy solicitor's office if I don’t have to.

“I’ve found some deeds to a building.”

“Where? In Glasgow? Or on Skye?”

“No…” there’s a pause, “that’s what’s a little unusual. The building is in a suburb in London. But there’s a personal letter with the paperwork. I would rather not read it over the phone. It contains some… delicacy that would be better read in person.”

Well, colour me intrigued. The solicitor almost sounds embarrassed by this letter. I need to know what it says.

“I can make it this afternoon. What time would suit?”

“I have space at 2 pm, Mr Macleod. Why don’t you come in just before that and read the letter, and we can discuss it after?”

“See you then.”

Gran, what on earth have you been up to that’s got this guy all flustered?

The receptionist leads me to a small meeting room with two small armchairs and a round coffee table. The bookshelves that fill one wall are full of volumes of official-looking books. I poke my fingers through the slats in the blinds, trying to get mybearings, ignoring the manila folder on the coffee table, which, according to the receptionist, contains the mystery letter, for just a moment longer.

No wonder they keep the blinds closed. All I can see is tall brick buildings and office windows.

I turn to the table and stare at the folder. After my earlier chat with the solicitor, I’d been curious enough. But as the last couple of hours passed, I got more antsy about the whole thing.

I can’t help but wonder how I didn’t spot a personal letter amongst the paperwork when I’d sorted it out for the lawyers to do the official work of the estate.Would I have opened it if I had?I don’t even know if it’s addressed to anyone. The sensible thing right now would be to plonk myself down in that chair, pick up the folder, and open it. But something holds me back. I pull out my phone to check the time, hopeful a call comes in right at this moment or there’s a text that needs answering.

Pixie, now would be a great time to reach out.

I blow out a sigh, exasperated that I’m putting this off. I’ve only got ten minutes until I’m meeting with Mr Richards. I need to get this letter read and work out what the fuck is going on.

I pick up the folder, lowering myself into the armchair facing the door, and spread it open on my knees. On the top is a compliments slip with a handwritten scrawl:

Mr Macleod,

As discussed, please read the contents of this folder, including the letter. I’ve put it all back together as it was found.

Regards, Simon Richards.

The first sheet is yellowed with age. I run my thumb over the imprinted words from a typewriter. It’s titled: DEED OF SALE and is dated well before I was born.

I study the document, taking in the details. The address listed holds no significance to me. I’ve never heard of this building. There’s a rusty, golden staple on one corner holding the pages together. As I lift the top sheet, I spot the envelope.

It’s hand addressed to ‘Elizabeth’.

My hand trembles as I reach for it. I always knew my grandmother as Beth, but someone used the full version here, although they weren’t formal enough to use her full name with title and surname.

The envelope is a cream colour and sturdy. It’s stood the test of time, although the gum has gone orange and flaked off in places. I ease out the sheet of writing paper and unfold it, grateful it’s written in a readable hand.

My dearest Elizabeth,

I’m sorry, my love. I have brought so much trouble to your door. It was not my intention.I hope you can find it in your gracious heart to forgive me. If only, so that it brings you peace.

I know you said you want to brazen it out and stay close to family and friends, but I want to give you an option in case you feel the need to flee.

These deeds are for a building in my hometown. I have signed them over to you. To make it official, you had to have paid me something. I hope you won’t find me too sentimental to have listed the sale price as the same amount of money you gave me for my train ticket back to London.