It was a beautiful and hot day in early May, and we left his rather stuffy and dark rooms and walked out to the Backs. The trees towered above us, in full bright green leaf, and students and tourists eyed each other on the river. We saw none of that, as I told Hunter about the letter. He had all the same questions, and I told him that I’d written to Marian’s mother, asking how she had died, and where exactly she was buried. And about the Estonian. ‘When did you send it?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t yet. I wrote it last night. I’ll send it later today.’ ‘Are you sure you want to?’ He stopped walking for a moment, which I took to be a sign that this was an important question. ‘Yes. I think so. Why?’ ‘Consider the old girl, Charles. There she is, sitting in her big house, sad, but happy in her memory of her daughter, and she gets another letter raking up the past. Are you sure you want to do that to her?’ I can see now that he had a point. I didn’t then. ‘She said herself in her letter that she wanted me to know the truth, so I didn’t have to live not knowing.
