She buttered a piece of toast planning what to say without saying anything. ‘I love what I do.’

‘I always knew you would.’

She looked up. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. It was the way you were forever taking bits from the beach and put them together.’ He smiled. ‘You made that sea glass bracelet for my cousin Tegan for her birthday.’

‘I’d forgotten about that until I saw her still wearing it this morning.’

‘Everyone asks where she bought it.’ Alex dunked a piece of his toast into the soup.

She pictured the mussel shell and the sea glass she’d seen this afternoon. That thought led to what she’d lost. She’d been so stupid. Pushing those thoughts aside, she cleared her throat. ‘My grandfather, Allan Trewin . . .’ She looked down and then back up again.

‘Why don’t I think I’m going to like this line of conversation?’ Alex smiled, and her heart melted a bit.

‘He was a political attaché in Moscow.’

He passed her the butter dish. ‘He was a spy.’

She looked up, eyes wide.

‘It was at the height of the Cold War.’ He handed her another piece of toast. ‘But I’m sure that had nothing to do with his death. He was here in Cornwall not in Red Square.’

He had a point, she had to admit. ‘Do you think my grandmother knew?’

‘I would think so.’

‘Oh.’ She blew on the surface of her soup. It was still too hot to eat.

‘But not much.’ He stood and brought a jug of water to the table. ‘If I were you, I’d forget what she said.’

‘Why?’

‘Because whatever she meant, it’s in the past.’

This was true. She heard Gramps footsteps in the hallway. He had been in diplomatic service then too. Had he been a spy for the Americans? No, she couldn’t see that at all. But thinking of Allan with his dashing looks, he fitted the movie star picture of a secret agent, which meant he had probably been too obvious.

59. Diana

59

Diana

4 August 1962, 9.50 p.m.

Back again, Diary.