My story starts, and ends, on a sombre September morning. I was woken up unusually early by my Mother, who had a grave look on her face. I was very young at the time, but I still remember it as though it was yesterday, even though there have been many times I have tried to forget it. It was the moment my Mother told me that my father had been murdered.

I know it’s wrong to have favourites, but I always preferred Father to Mother – he was away much of the time, but I loved the time we spent together. I was an only child, so I guess he spoiled me, he was always bringing me back elaborate gifts from his trips away. My father was a very powerful and wealthy man, so of course people were jealous, and with jealously, comes anger and hatred. I believe it was that, that provoked my father’s enemies to murder him; or so I was lead to believe.

After that day, I became more and more withdrawn, only speaking when I needed to, and hardly ever cracking a smile. My mother was much the same, in fact the only time I really saw her was on Sundays, when she took me to the nearby church. Since that day, I have been brought up by a series of Nannies that my Mother hired to look after me. My secluded lifestyle led me to be cut-off from the rest of the world. I would sit alone for hours on end, dwelling on the days when things were more joyful, craving the attention of a loving parent.

As I progressed into my teenage years, I came to realise that my mother had given me very little information about my father’s death at all. You could say I started to become more inquisitive about him, but I gradually stopped being miserable, and became keen to find out more facts. Then one Sunday, I plucked up enough courage to ask Mother a few questions. As soon as I mentioned my father’s name though, she froze and her eyes widened. She stared at me, and opened her mouth as if she was about to speak – but then she just shook her head, and carried on walking. I was used to being ignored like that by Mother, but that day it struck me as curious.

She had looked so fearful when I only mentioned his name, that I decided to not ask her again. I believe the thought of my father brought her so much pain, she couldn’t bare to speak of him. So I proceeded to sneak around the house looking for clues. This was very unlike me, as I normally spent most of my time sulking in my room. The first place I looked was in my father’s old study.