Andrew pressed for more, but she shook her head. “Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Somerton. The past doesn’t like being dug up.” Her tone was sharp enough to sting. He left the cottage with the deed tucked under his arm, unease gnawing deeper than before.
At the archives, dust motes danced in cold shafts of light as he scrolled through yellowing microfilm. His uncle’s name surfaced only occasionally—mathematics appointments, published letters, and lectures on probability. But once, briefly, Henry was mentioned in connection with “classified assistance to the War Office.” There was only the hint of a shadow.