After dinner, when Jonathan had gone upstairs to pour himself a nightcap and the house had gone entirely still except for the wind rattling the conservatory glass, I went back down the dark hallway to the study.

I reached behind the desk, found the small protrusion, pressed the catch, and felt the lever click open behind the mahogany.

The wood slid back with a dry scrape onto a shallow cavity lined with green felt, and inside sat a single gray leather ledger, its spine cracked, its corners rubbed down to the cardboard.

I pulled it into the light of my small flashlight.

The cold paper smelled of old glue and cellar damp.