The doctor who delivered him has one.
His name is Leander Moss. He is sixty-one. His hair is mostly grey now and you have to look for it, but it is there, over his left eyebrow, whiter than the rest.
He had heard the name Tobiah Wrexham before. Thirty-six years ago, in 1990.
He was a junior doctor that year. Twenty-five. And he had a relationship, for about seven months, with a married woman called Philippa Wrexham, who was twenty-seven and very unhappy and who had married into a family with a very old name and a very large house.
She had a son that spring.
And then she cut off all contact, in one letter, and told him the baby was her husband’s, and that if he ever came near her family she would tell her husband a version of events that would end his career before it started.
