Lottie twisted the doll in her hands and the middle one dropped to the floor. Her hand shook as she picked it up and put it back on the windowsill and whispered, ‘Gran was a spy, too.’ She glanced at the door, half expecting Alex or Gramps to appear.

‘What?’ Her mother stood.

‘Yes.’ Lottie put the doll down.

Her mother put her hand against the doorframe. ‘No, I would have known that.’

‘Why would you know? You were young.’

Lottie closed her eyes, she was about to betray Gran. ‘She was a spy and she had no choice.’

‘My mother was a spy?’ She turned and walked to the window. The very end of Carrickowel was visible. Her mother picked up the middle Russian doll and opened it revealing the smaller one. She turned around. Her expression was thunderous. ‘She had to do it . . .’

Lottie steadied herself as her mother took two steps towards her.

‘My mother killed my father.’

Lottie nodded. ‘And I think it killed part of her.’

‘Surely he couldn’t have been that important?’

Lottie twisted her hands. ‘It was the Cold War. You were living in Moscow.’

‘Christ.’ Her mother sank down on the bed. ‘She’s asked me to forgive her.’

‘Yes.’

‘But I bet she can’t forgive herself.’ She put the smallest doll down and walked to the door.

‘What are you going to do?’ Lottie tried not to wince as she said this.

‘I don’t know.’ She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I should call the police.’

‘Mum.’ The word stuck in Lottie’s mouth and came out more like a stutter. Gran was going to die without forgiveness – with the secret she’d held until her deathbed exposed to the world – and it was her fault.

‘What a bloody mess.’ Her mother sucked in air in gulps. ‘What a waste of lives.’

Lottie reached out to her, but her mother walked out of the door. As Lottie closed her eyes, she saw the three Russian dolls glowing in the afternoon sunlight.

78. Joan

78

Joan

5 August 1962, 9.00 a.m.

Eddie Carew, dapper in his panama hat and cravat, is lighting a cigarette for Anthea. She looks like she has the hangover from hell. Her husband has gone back to bed. A week ago, I had planned the events for today. Croquet, a walk to the pub in Charlestown, and a picnic on Silvermine Beach. The weather is ideal for these events, for once. But now my guests wander without a purpose until the detective inspector arrives. George went for a walk. No doubt to the phone box to report. He has said no more than the required words to me. I know this is right, but I am lost.

‘Go and take a bath. You’ll feel better for it.’ Mrs Hoskine gives me a piercing look. ‘You don’t look at all right.’

I glance back at her. Did she know?

‘I’ve washed your gloves for you.’