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In the kitchen, I laughed when I saw Paul’s version of making tea. The teapot was on the counter. The box of tea bags was vaguely close to it and the kettle had been filled.

‘The man is useless,’ Tash said through gritted teeth.

I couldn’t argue with that.

‘Please tell me he is at least good in bed. There has to be some redeeming quality.’

I didn’t reply.

‘Christ, Ren, what the hell are you with him for when the likes of that hot hunk of manhood Rory has eyes for you?’ She almost spat the words into my ear as she poured boiling water on the tea bags in the pot.

Rory entered the kitchen. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ He picked up a tray from beside the cabinet and began stacking mugs and the milk onto it. ‘Anyone take sugar?’ he asked.

‘Paul,’ I said.

‘Such a shame Frank had the last of it.’ Tash grinned. ‘If he needs sweetness, he could look inside himself, or try a biscuit.’

I shrugged. She knew that the half a teaspoon Paul took in his tea was the only sugar he had.

There had been an incident when I’d begun dating Paul, and Tash had cooked a big dinner for the four of us to get to know each other.

It was a disaster from start to finish. She had cured a piece of salmon but had done so with sugar.

The main course had included sugar-glazed carrots, and the pudding was a trifle with crystallised sugar on the top.

Paul had picked through his food to the point of being rude.

She had worked so hard, and he had eaten only the chicken breast and drunk far too much wine.

It had not been a good start. He had explained that sugar depressed him, but at the end of his meal when he demanded tea with precisely half a spoonful, it was a wonder that Tash hadn’t thrown the rest of the trifle at him.

I turned away and started looking in the kitchen drawers for the right tools to take the canvas of the woman out of the frame. There had to be some clue on the back to the artist, if not the sitter. From Sheba’s sketchbook, I knew the woman was K and she was in love with her. But how had Viv felt?

My phone beeped. It was a message from my uncle.

The great-nephews have been in touch and wish to come to the house. Need to provide the keys.

No , was my first thought. If they came here, they would need to be accompanied. A bad feeling was lingering in my gut, and I couldn’t explain it, but I had to protect the reputations of these women. I would not have their work stolen or dismissed. It was important.

I replied.

Will discuss later when I return to the office.

I needed to speak to the court-appointed administrator to understand exactly what rights the great-nephews had to access the property. I stopped moving. Of course, that was if they’d actually made the request in the first place. It could be my uncle, and I didn’t trust him.

I followed the others out of the kitchen. Paul was on the landing, facing off with Bastard. From the blood on his hand, it appeared that Bastard had won.

‘Who does that cat belong to?’ he asked. ‘And is there a first aid kit around?’

‘Bastard belongs to the house, and yes, I have one in my car.’ Tash put the teapot down on a table. ‘Follow me . . . and you should know better than to approach a cat.’

‘I didn’t. I was approaching the painting.’

Rory sent me a glance as they walked out to Tash’s car and we went into the study.

‘So, Paul is your partner.’

I nodded.

‘He’s a huge advocate for women artists, but it’s funny he doesn’t seem to be able to see what is here.’ He put the tray down. ‘This house is full to the brim of some of the best work of the mid twentieth century I’ve seen, and yet I’ve never heard of either artist.’

‘It’s a disgrace, but it could be partially of their own choosing.’

‘In what way?’

‘They lived a quiet life and rarely held exhibitions, and although my father knew of them, they were barely on his radar, yet he knew the work of Sheba’s parents well.

’ I walked to a painting above the fireplace.

‘This painting of St Ives Bay was done by her father in 1941.’ I swung around and pointed to the small Albert Wallis on the wall by the window.

‘Wallis’s work has been widely praised, but although Sheba’s mother’s work was well known during her lifetime, that recognition disappeared after her death.

She barely receives a footnote in the history of the St Ives School, although during her life she was a main figure. ’

‘This is wrong,’ he said, pouring the tea.

‘I agree. But leaving that aside, you rushed back for a reason, I assume.’

‘Yes, Tim Pearce is certain the manuscript is Forster’s work as I mentioned in my email.’

‘I don’t agree.’

‘The painting?’ He handed me a cup.

‘That just confirmed it for me.’ I took a sip of tea. ‘I’ve been going through the correspondence, and I’ve seen the handwriting of the person who annotated the poems.’

‘Do you have a name?’

I added a splash more milk to my tea. ‘Only the initial K.’

‘Can you show me?’

‘The originals are at my mother’s, as I’ve been going through them at night. But I took a photo of this one.’ I opened my phone and handed it to him.

Please protect these. They were written for you and written for her.

He must not have them. It is only since having Isabella that my eyes have truly been opened.

Thank you for seeing me through the haze of drink and drugs in Venice.

Thank you for loving me and reminding me I am worthy, worthy of love and worthy of credit for my words, which is why I’ve sent these to you.

He stole your poem from me. I am so sorry.

It was meant for you alone, but maybe it is the payment we equally share for me breaking my marriage vows.

Each word is yours and I am sorry you must share them with the world.

Please hold the enclosed close to you. He must never know what happened to them.

I love you.

K

He stared at the screen for a long time. When he looked up, his eyes held tears. ‘Do you think K is Simon’s wife Katherine?’

‘The wife who died in the Blitz?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’ He handed the phone back to me. ‘Before this letter and seeing the poem in the portrait, I would have bet my career on those poems being Simon’s work, but even the syntax in the letter leans to it.’

‘Bet your career on what?’ Paul asked, coming into the room. ‘That I’m right about the painting upstairs?’

I cast Rory a stern look and prayed he’d understand that what I’d just shared with him was confidential.

Tash glanced between us as she joined us in the study. The tension in the air was thick, giving me some idea that words had been said outside while Tash wielded her first aid kit. Paul probably had more scars now than he did from Bastard.

The cat sat elegantly on the windowsill watching us, and I decided the best thing to do would be to pour the rest of the tea and give everyone a biscuit in the hopes of salvaging the day, or what was left of it.

I needed to head back to the office, but first the frame needed to come off the painting.

I signalled to Tash and she followed me out of the room. K’s words to Sheba stayed in my mind.

Grabbing the tools from the kitchen, we made quick work of loosening the painting from the frame. The canvas sides revealed nothing other than a few stray blobs of paint. Lifting it so that the afternoon light lit it, I studied it again.

‘I think Sheba painted this.’

Tash stepped back to study the whole painting. ‘It’s nothing like her style.’

‘Her later style.’ Placing the painting securely down in the master bedroom, I raced down through the house and out to the studio.

Once I’d located the key, I went to the far corner, where there were a few canvases I hadn’t attributed to her.

Looking closely now, however, there was something about them.

They were landscapes, and I brought them outside into the bright daylight to see if there were any markings or signature.

In the rocks on the beach on one there appeared to be two Bs.

‘I can see where you are going with this.’ Tash walked out of the kitchen with a fresh packet of biscuits in her hand.

‘Yes, but if there is a signature, it’s BB.’ I tilted the painting back and forth so that the sheen on the painting revealed the brushwork.

‘Where?’ She squinted at it. I pointed to the rocks.

‘Got it.’ She went into the studio and picked up one of the other canvases. Coming outside, she said, ‘Here it is again.’

They were not dated, so I had nothing to guide me in that way.

But I stopped. One of the paintings of St Ives didn’t seem right.

It was a watercolour sketch of the frontage of the Broadway Kinema.

I did a quick search on my phone. The cinema was built in 1920 and was renamed the Regal in the thirties.

This must have been painted before the name change.

Sheba would have been a young teenager at the time.

Tash had been looking over my shoulder, but now she dashed away. I followed her, locking the studio, double-checking it was secure.

Paul met me in the hallway. ‘You need to tell Tash that she isn’t needed. She isn’t qualified, and I am, and I love you.’ He stroked my arm. I had to remind myself that this was a sign of love. But it seemed possessive rather than loving.

‘Come and look,’ Tash shouted.

I raced upstairs to find her lying on the floor with her nose almost touching the canvas. Even I had to admit she looked ridiculous.

‘Ren, she has signed it. Look at the shoes.’

Down on all fours, I examined them. On one buckle was a clear BB . ‘This is good. But it doesn’t prove yet that it was Kernow.’

Paul stood at the top of the stairs. ‘I’ve been looking at Kernow’s artwork and how she signs her paintings “Sheba”, so BB wouldn’t be her.’

I couldn’t argue with his logic, although I wanted to. BB. Her full name was Bathsheba Kernow. No matter who it was, it was the same artist as the three paintings in the studio.

Tonight, when I had time, I’d do more research.

Back on my feet, I said, ‘I need to go and meet with my uncle. Tash, can you lock up and drop off the key with me either at the office or at Mum’s.’

Rory came out of the study. ‘I have to be over at Helwyn House. For the next few days I’ll be working on the prep work for next year’s Hebe Courtenay prize for historical fiction.’ He picked up his jacket and handed me the manuscript. ‘I suggest that this goes into a safe.’

‘Good idea.’ I took it from him.

‘You know how to reach me, and if you find anything further, let me know.’

As Rory left, Paul stood with his arms across his chest.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he said.

‘I can drop you at Mum’s.’ She was out playing mahjong and shouldn’t be back until six. Hopefully this would mean he wouldn’t have any more private conversations with her.