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S. W. Barton Auctioneers was empty as Dad and I entered the building and walked through the artwork-lined hallway and past a Louis XIII chest of drawers tucked under the stairs.

I loved these Sunday mornings when Mum was volunteering and it was just the two of us in the auction house.

This was the routine he and I had fallen into ever since he’d first brought me here on a Sunday when I was six.

We’d been doing it for five years and it was always an adventure.

‘Well, Kerensa, what shall we do?’ he asked as we bypassed his office and went into the showroom.

Paintings covered the dividers and walls.

Sometimes there were three or more hung above each other and sometimes just one large one, like my favourite abstract picture all in blues. It was like the sky on a summer’s day.

Dad picked up a strange still life off the top of the display case.

Everything he’d chosen in the past had come with a story.

It could be a tale of exotic origins, previous owners, even murderers.

The more stories an item held, the more interesting for me and the more value to Dad.

I think he secretly wanted to run a museum rather than be the person selling on these things.

He’d told me stories about a ruby from a scorned lover, a handbag from a minister’s mistress, a self-portrait of an artist who hated themselves, and my favourite, a stuffed rabbit that had inspired a children’s tale.

He held out his other hand and together we went to the biggest room upstairs. There was an old sofa against the wall that had been sold but never collected. It was covered in a fabric that looked like a Turkish carpet. We sat down on it and he handed me the funny painting.

‘What can you tell me about this?’ he asked, like he always did.

The first thing I noticed was it was heavier than I expected. It was of a vase with red roses in a slim gold frame. ‘Why does it weigh so much?’

He took off his glasses and polished them. ‘You tell me.’

‘It’s not like that Russian painting all done with a palette knife and so much paint.’

‘True.’ He leaned back.

I loved this game we played. We never rushed it.

My favourite time had been with an Easter egg covered in bright green enamel and coloured jewels.

Its story had been sad but it held a small chick, which chirped loudly when the egg was opened.

I’d so wanted to keep it, but like all these things, it went to sale.

Dad said that was how we became part of the object’s story. I’d rather have kept it.

‘Well?’ he prompted.

I turned it over like he’d taught me. The canvas was a bit scrappy, with uneven edges. It distracted from the stretchers that made the canvas taut. ‘The wood of the stretchers is different to the usual.’

‘How so?’

I studied them. ‘They’re a darker colour and the grain of the wood is denser.’

‘Good.’ He watched me with a big smile on his face.

‘There’s no writing or mark to say it’s been sold through an auction house.’

‘Well remembered.’

I made a face at him. ‘Why wouldn’t I remember? You only told me to look out for that last month.’

He laughed.

Normally I figured out the story quickly, but with no marks and no signature, this was hard.

I flipped it over again. It was a boring painting, and I couldn’t see what was important about it.

Or had I missed something? He’d told me that many times the back of the painting could be more interesting and more important to us Bartons than the front.

By looking closely, we could see what others had missed.

This meant we could tell a better, more complete story about the object, which would increase the interest in it.

I hadn’t understood this at first, but now I did.

The more intrigue in the story around the piece, the more it was worth.

He’d explained it was like the Duchess of Windsor’s jewels.

Without her ownership they were simply diamonds and emeralds.

But because they were hers, they had extra glamour, history and value. The story made all the difference.

I balanced the canvas in my hands. One side was heavier, and one half of the back was dirtier. I peered from the canvas to Dad before I turned it over again.

‘This is like the ones they sell on the park gates in London. There’s nothing special about the artwork,’ I said with more confidence than I felt.

‘You have a very good eye.’ He looked at me over his glasses. He was so clever. This auction house was all his – well, his and Uncle Stephen’s. One day I’d be the owner of S. W. Barton’s and I’d be clever like Dad. ‘So why is it here?’

It was a terrible painting and it was unsigned. I bit my thumbnail and studied it again.

‘You’ve told me half the story.’

I put it down between us in frustration. ‘It looks like the roses you see at petrol stations, the ones with no smell. Not like the ones in our garden.’

‘I agree.’ He removed his glasses and cleaned them.

I picked it up again and turned it over one more time.

Looking more closely, I saw the canvas had empty nail holes.

It must have been put on different stretchers.

Also, on the right-hand side, the lighter side, the canvas had been bent away from the wood.

It was creased. ‘If it’s nothing more than a street painting, why did the owner replace the stretchers? ’

‘Why do you think?’

‘There has to be a reason.’ I huffed. He’d never given me something so tricky before.

He raised an eyebrow, and I ran my fingers carefully along the wood so as not to get a splinter.

There were no woodworm holes either, and I’d been told with furniture that usually meant a hardwood.

‘The wood looks like the table Uncle Stephen was so excited about.’

Dad smiled. I was on the right track.

‘There has to be something special about this painting or we wouldn’t be auctioning it.

’ I looked at the back one more time. Lifting the canvas on the dirty side, I saw a small indent.

I slipped my finger in and wiggled it, but nothing happened.

I thrust the painting at Dad. ‘It’s there but I can’t do it. ’

He turned the painting top to bottom and with his right thumb he popped the piece of wood open.

‘Smuggling!’ I clapped my hands. This was good.

‘Well done. It was used to smuggle diamonds and other gems.’

‘Clever.’ I could imagine it all, the glistening stones tucked inside, making the weight equal. ‘Was it used by a bank robber?’

‘No, something far more interesting.’ He polished his glasses again. ‘A woman used it to move jewellery out of Germany just before the war for her Jewish friends.’

‘That’s great, but she had bad taste in paintings.’

Dad laughed. ‘Not bad, just different.’

I made a face. ‘No one would want that.’

‘Exactly.’

An ugly painting being good made no sense, no matter how I twisted this around. I waited while he put his glasses back on. Only then did he speak. ‘The painting was carried in and out of the country like a souvenir.’

‘Is that why it’s of boring roses?’

‘Indeed.’ He held it up for me to look at again. ‘Customs officials took no notice of it.’

‘Why are we selling it?’ I looked from the painting back to Dad.

‘It tells a story.’

I shrugged. ‘Who wants to be part of this story?’

‘That is what we will find out.’

‘Who gave you the painting to sell?’ I needed to know.

‘Correct question to ask.’

I smiled. ‘Provenance.’ I’d heard this word so many times. It was the god of auction houses, according to Dad.

‘Indeed, and that is why you will run this company one day.’ He ruffled my hair.

‘I want to, but that’s a long way off.’ The thought of this place of stories being mine filled my dreams.

‘True.’

The painting was so ugly I kept looking at it. ‘Who gave you the painting to sell?’

‘The artist who painted it, Sheba Kernow.’

I pulled my chin in. ‘Why would she own up to painting this?’ It was oil paint but so thinned it looked more like watercolours.

‘Because Sheba needs money to fix the roof after the big storm we had two weeks ago.’

That made sense. I knew all about the damage big storms could do because I’d heard my best friend Tash’s mum complaining about the cost of fixing the garden room on their house.

It was a lot of money, but I didn’t think that even with an interesting story this ugly painting would pay to fix a hole in the roof.