Page 27

‘Hello, Ren Barton.’ I answered the phone automatically on the car speaker as I turned into the drive at Harbour House.

‘It’s Rory Crown.’

Tash poked me in the side.

‘Thank you for coming back to me.’

‘How can I help?’ he asked.

‘While sorting through the estate of two artists, I’ve come across a manuscript of sorts filled with poetry, incredible poetry. From what I can tell it has never been published, but it reminded me of the work of Simon Forster.’

‘Interesting. Is there any connection that you are aware of between the artists and the poet?’

‘Only a signed edition of one of his books that we’ve found so far. The paperwork in the house is in a bit of a mess, as people were hunting for wills.’

‘You’re in Penzance, yes?’

‘Yes, although at the moment I’m in Newlyn, at the home of the artists.’ Sun broke through the cloud cover and bathed the house in light for a brief moment.

‘Will you be there for long? Is that where the manuscript is?’ he asked.

‘The answer to both is yes.’

Tash gave me a big thumbs-up.

‘Great. If you text me the address, I’ll be there in an hour.’ ‘That’s wonderful. Thank you.’

Tash looked at me with the biggest grin while I texted the details.

‘He is the sexiest man.’ She practically swooned. ‘He could read the phone book to me and I’d—’

‘Stop. He’s a professional, we’re asking for his assistance.’

‘He can assist me with anything,’ she said, getting out of the car. ‘He’s divine.’

I opened my mouth to disagree but couldn’t.

He was divine. Because Paul disliked him, I could only binge his series in peace when I was out of the house, at the library or museum.

With his delicious Scottish accent and way with words, he had seduced most of his female viewers.

The way he read a poem was enough to have you begging him to take you to bed.

I blinked. I must put those thoughts firmly away, especially as he would be here shortly.

‘I told Gareth that if Rory Crown ever made a pass at me, I wasn’t saying no,’ Tash added. ‘And his one pass is with Margot Robbie.’ She grinned. ‘Fair is fair. I wouldn’t blame him for Margot, as I could quite fancy her myself.’

I burst out laughing.

‘That’s much better. The whole journey here you looked like death.’ She stopped halfway to the door. ‘Do you think if we ask he might recite John Donne to us?’

‘Probably not, if he doesn’t want us in puddles of desire on the floor. But he might read the poetry in the manuscript aloud.’

‘That’s some pretty hot stuff.’

‘It was intense, but . . .’ I sent her a look. Had I missed something, or was I just numb from too much going on?

‘I couldn’t resist reading a little bit more, and it gets quite spicy.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Trust me.’

I cast her a sideways glance as we entered the house.

Despite the grey day, light streamed through the skylight and onto the painting.

The woman seemed to be smiling at us today.

Bastard walked out of the upstairs hallway and swayed down the staircase like she was a runway model.

The cat had a sass and a confidence that I could only be jealous of.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she leaped onto the hallway table and leaned her head towards me, waiting.

‘She’s clearly fond of you,’ Tash observed.

‘I feed her,’ I said, stroking Bastard’s head.

‘I think it’s more than that, since she can obviously take care of herself.’

‘You are an example of strong womanhood,’ I told Bastard, scratching behind her ears.

‘Strong, did you say. Bloody warrior woman,’ Tash said over her shoulder as she headed to the study.

Before following, I took one more glance at the woman in the painting.

‘Who are you? And more importantly, who painted you?’ I asked her.

I half expected a reply, but she was not giving up her secrets so easily.

It was only then I noticed that on the end of the chaise on which she was reclining, there was a sheet of paper and a pen.

From this distance there was no way to tell if there was anything written on the page.

But it was an interesting detail to contemplate.

Bastard jumped down and walked into the study with me. Tash sat at the desk, pulling letters out of the lower drawers.

‘I’m going to see if the writing in any of the letters matches that in the manuscript.’

‘Good thinking,’ I said, taking out the inventory file, which now contained my father’s notes.

I sat down and began to read. Emotion wrenched me. It was like walking through the house with him. He had loved the place, which was no surprise. He had never been here before, although he’d known both artists for years, having sold the odd piece for them.

This house should be kept as a museum.

There are several high-worth items including a Dame Laura Knight, a Lamorna Birch, a Peter Lanyon, a Charles Naper, a Patrick Heron, and many others, plus the artists’ own works.

There are two valuable examples of Chippendale furniture.

It is my recommendation after my first walk-through that we hold a special sale on the estate, including putting together a proper catalogue that tells the story of these two remarkable women.

I brushed my tears aside and blew my nose. He was absolutely right.

‘Are you OK?’

I nodded. ‘Something isn’t right. Stephen is trying to do something underhand. But I’m not sure why.’

‘Wouldn’t inheritance tax have to have been paid by now?’ Tash clutched a pile of letters.

‘Normally it would. It’s six months. It accrues interest after that point.’ I paused. ‘I haven’t a clue what happens when no one can find a will and no one knows which of the two women died first.’

‘I’ll ask Dad,’ said Tash.

‘Thanks.’ I put my father’s notes into my bag because I didn’t want Stephen to get his hands on them again. ‘I’m going to catalogue the paintings in Sheba’s studio.’

‘Good luck.’

I would need it, given the state of the room.

But I hoped the overwhelming task would help to push my concerns about the business and my mother from my mind for a bit.

Yet at the same time I knew I needed to focus on those or I’d never be able to return to London.

Taking a deep breath of the fresh salty air, I realised that not heading back there might not be the worst thing in the world.

As I unlocked the studio, Bastard entered first and weaved through the canvases stacked against the walls. There had to be hundreds, of all shapes and sizes.

‘OK, Bastard, where do we begin?’

The cat glanced at me and then walked to a stack facing the wall. She sat and looked from me to the paintings.

‘It’s as good a place as any.’ I turned the first canvas around.

It was a study in bright blues and greens.

The sea and fields. It reminded me a bit of Peter Lanyon’s work, with that same sense of the landscape.

Sheba felt it, and because she did, the viewer did too.

The more I studied the work, the more I loved it, picking out the lines representing hedges and stones.

The perspective was odd, and yet it wasn’t.

I was above looking down, and yet I wasn’t.

I was in the scene and in the moment. It was a good place to be.

The two-foot-by-two-foot painting was signed, dated and titled on the reverse of the canvas in pencil. Penwith 2008, July Moments .

Bastard scratched the side of the next painting. Fortunately leaving no damage.

‘Be careful, my friend,’ I scolded her softly.

‘These are masterpieces.’ And as I turned the next canvas over, I was even more convinced that Sheba’s work had been wrongly overlooked.

She deserved to be up in the pantheon of the top Cornish painters.

This canvas was worked in greys, and I felt the weather riding in off the sea.

I could almost taste it. It pulled out the buried longing in me to be here.

It reminded me that I was part of Cornwall: earth, stone, air and sea.

I lost track of time and place as I experienced each piece. It was like a spell had been cast over me.

‘Ren, Rory’s arrived.’ Tash stood in the doorway.

‘What?’ I took a few unsteady steps towards her.

‘Rory Crown is here. I thought you’d like to speak to him.’

She moved aside, and standing in a ray of light was the sexiest man I’d ever laid eyes on.

He was far more interesting in person than on my phone screen, where I normally watched his programmes.

Intelligence was sexy, and this man had it in spades, as well as movie-star good looks.

But as he stood there with a smile on his face, I knew he didn’t see himself that way at all, which only made him more attractive.

Damn him. I hadn’t had such an immediate physical reaction to a man since I’d first met Paul, and that had been only half of this.

It must be the effect of Sheba’s paintings. I couldn’t explain how I was feeling.

Forcing myself forward, I left the safety of the studio. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Not a problem. I always love a mystery manuscript.’ His eyes met mine and I felt a jolt of desire.

‘Good,’ I said, hoping I didn’t sound idiotic. I might not have finished my master’s, but I did have a decent brain, or at least hoped I did. But right now, said brain had gone into hiding and clear thought was proving impossible. Yet I had to say something. ‘Follow me.’

‘I’ll make some tea.’ Tash looked back and forth between us and grinned.

‘Thanks, Tash,’ I said as Rory walked behind me through the house. I held the study door open and he smiled at me. My knees went weak. Bloody hell, I needed to get a grip.

Bastard rubbed up against his legs, and I was jealous as he bent down to scratch behind her ears. ‘Gorgeous cat.’

‘Bastard is a beauty.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘Not the name I gave her, but from the two artists who rescued the poor bastard from the quayside.’

He laughed. ‘I like that.’

The cat leapt onto the desk, knocking off a pile of letters.