Beneath the passports lay envelopes sealed with brittle wax. Andrew pried one open, unfolding an official letterhead stamped with the crest of the War Office. His eyes raced across the words: appointment to cryptographic section, Bletchley Park. His uncle had been a codebreaker. The cipher in the deed suddenly made sense.
The letter described duties “vital to national security” and “requiring utmost discretion.” Andrew sat back hard, the paper trembling in his hands. The archivist’s hints, the numerical scribbles, the endless secrecy—all connected now. Henry hadn’t been a murderer hiding in shame. He’d been a man bound to silence by duty.