The envelope arrived at the workshop with three crossed-out addresses on its front. Inside was a photograph of a wooden rocking horse and a note asking whether it could be repaired. There was no telephone number. At the bottom, the writer had signed only “E. Marsh”.
Daniel’s aunt laid the photograph beside a horse she had made years earlier. The curve of the runners was familiar, but the painted mane was different. “It might be one of mine,” she said. “Or someone might have used a similar design.”
Daniel wanted to reply at once. He had found an E. Marsh in an old village directory, and the address was only a short walk away. His aunt turned the envelope over. A newer address was printed on the back, partly hidden beneath a forwarding label. They could make out the town, but not the house number.
They wrote a reply and left it unsealed while Daniel took the envelope to the post office. The clerk looked at the label under a bright lamp and read the missing number. Daniel copied it carefully rather than relying on the directory.
A week later, a woman arrived with the rocking horse in the back of her car. She had moved twice since the old village directory was printed. Daniel recognised the faded paint immediately, but his aunt waited until she could examine a small mark beneath the seat.
“That settles it,” she said. The mark was hers. She placed the horse on the workbench, and Daniel fetched the tools. This time, no one had to guess where to begin.