Edward Fenwick had been our solicitor for thirty years. He was a careful, gentle man in a tweed jacket, and he was the only person in the world who knew about Arthur's hinge.

I sat in his office on the high street in Guildford and told him what I wanted to do.

He listened. Then he took off his glasses.

“Joan,” he said. “One and a half million pounds. Are you quite sure?”

“Arthur would be sure.”

He nodded slowly.

“And you want it to be anonymous?”

“Completely. Until the day the hall opens.”

We wrote the conditions together, at his big desk. There were only three.

One. The new hall must be free for every group in Little Hadleigh to use. The toddlers, the youth club, the pensioners' lunch, the food bank. No charges. Ever.

Two. The old oak doors from the church hall, made by a local craftsman in 1979, must be carefully restored and used as the main doors of the new hall.

Three. The donor will choose the name of the hall. The name will be revealed on opening day.

Mr Fenwick read them back to me.

“They're going to want to know who you are,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you're not going to tell them.”

“Not until the doors are back up,” I said.