She stood and began going through the garment bags. There would be nothing here that would tell her what Gran had done, or more importantly why she had killed someone – or who. However as she ran her hand over the fabrics, Lottie sensed her. Looking over her shoulder she expected to find Gran there with a quick smile on her face and questions at the ready. What would she be saying to Lottie right now as she held an evening gown of sea-coloured aqua silk? The tailoring was immaculate with darts on the bodice and fine stitching around the neckline. The colour would have set off her dark hair. Had she swept her hair up or left it down the last time she wore it? Turning, Lottie was about to ask her when it hit her that it was unlikely that her grandmother would utter another word. She looked up the hallway towards the bedroom and swallowed down the taste of loss.

Checking the clothing bags, she had some sense of her grandmother’s life, elegant and glamorous from the Chanel suits to the silk gowns, but these were not the details she was looking for. The hatboxes yielded nothing more. They were pillbox style and so typical of how she pictured the early Sixties.

Strangely defeated by the process, Lottie went downstairs. Her foot still ached and she needed to take more paracetamol. She longed to see all the photographs that her mother had found. There had to be more information somewhere about Allan’s death. The internet would be the best place to begin, after she had put together the ingredients for soup. The dinner party notebook wouldn’t be any help for such a basic vegetable creation, but this soup was one she had learned at her grandmother’s hip. The image of her cutting carrots from the garden didn’t fit with the gowns upstairs nor her words in the bedroom.

Once the soup was cooking, Lottie went into the office. It took minutes for the ancient desktop PC to come to life. She typed ‘Allan Trewin’ into Google. A short Wikipedia entry on him was the first listing. It stated his education – Eton and Oxford – RAF flight lieutenant, and his diplomatic service, last post: political attaché in Moscow. Scrolling down the page there was one sentence regarding his accidental death on 5 August 1962.

In the citations at the bottom, she clicked on the link to the newspaper article reporting his death. It was sparse on detail as well. A fisherman discovered the body on the beach at the base of the cliffs. At the inquest the corner had declared it a tragic accident. There was a picture of him looking very . . . debonair. Funny word that, but it described him perfectly. She touched the screen tracing the outline of his face. Her mother looked like him, but it was the angle of his head that most reminded Lottie of her.