As she left, Alex had been sitting with Gramps watching Gran. Death watch. She should be there too, but restless energy filled her. Walking on, she listened to the rooks in the trees above. What was it about this time of day? They lined up on rooftops, trees and telephone wires . . . watching and chatting. What had they seen? What could they tell her of the past?

Lottie looked back over her shoulder. The bay glistened and Gribben Head was golden in the evening sun. Her grandfather had fallen to his death on this weekend fifty-eight years ago. Her mother was just eight. Her grandmother was glamorous and by the evidence in her notebook an accomplished hostess . . . and by her admission a murderer. What Alex had said made sense but seeing her mother’s words in the diary had put doubt in her mind. She clearly felt she was at fault, just as her grandmother did. What could an eight-year-old child have done to even think that? Lottie just couldn’t imagine. Was that why her mother’s memories were so sketchy?

She reached Mrs Hoskine’s bungalow. The front door was open, and she could see her in the kitchen.

Lottie knocked on the door frame and called, ‘Hello.’

‘Who’s there?’ Mrs Hoskine turned, wiping her hand on her apron, bringing with her the scent of freshly baked scones as she walked down the short hallway.

‘It’s Lottie Trewin.’ She smiled.

‘Ah, Lottie,’ she said, steering Lottie towards the kitchen. ‘I thought you might come visiting.’

‘You did?’

She nodded. ‘Tea?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ Lottie followed her into the kitchen, remembering the warm and welcoming space with the old Cornish range. The sunlight streamed in through the back door which looked out on to a well-stocked garden. Nothing had changed. As Mrs Hoskine put the kettle on, Lottie noticed the photos tucked among the plates, cups and jugs on the old pine dresser. Lottie frowned as among the pictures of Alex growing up there was one of him in a naval uniform. How had she not heard he’d been in the Navy? There was also one of Alex and Lottie together, looking suntanned and relaxed and so young. It had been taken the weekend before everything had gone wrong.

‘Sadly the scones are too hot to eat but I have a sponge.’

‘I had an ice cream not long ago.’

‘You always had room for cake.’

‘Can’t lie.’ Lottie grinned. ‘I do always have room, especially for yours. What can I do?’

‘Grab the milk and some cups and take them out to the table by the rose arch.’

In the garden Lottie caught the scent of sweet peas and watched the bees loving the agapanthus. She put the things down and dashed to take the tray from Mrs Hoskine’s hands.