Page 52

Penzance

Finally back in the office a few days later, I had the complete inventory of Harbour House ready to send.

But before I did that, I had a meeting arranged with Tilly, the gardener.

She was due in five minutes. Every time I’d been to the house this week to check things and look for other paperwork, she had been just leaving.

Bastard was behaving oddly. She wouldn’t leave me alone, and eventually I would end up following her to the main bedroom, where she would sit down, paw the carpet and stare at the corner. The same conversation would take place.

‘What do you want, Bastard?’ I’d give her a scratch and wait. She’d continue to stare at the corner. ‘I don’t understand,’ I’d tell her. Then I would head back downstairs, none the wiser.

Tash, Rory and I had been through every piece of paper in the house.

Thankfully we had found Sheba’s journal from Venice, which provided evidence that Katherine had written the poetry.

Rory was putting together the case for a major programme to prove that she was the real author of Simon Forster’s work.

But despite the presence of the poem on the chaise, we still didn’t know whether the woman in the painting was Katherine.

It could be, and my gut said it was, but without proof we were stuck.

Marcia escorted Tilly into the office.

‘Cup of tea?’ she asked.

‘Yes please,’ we both replied in unison.

Tilly’s eyes were wide as she looked about. ‘Bet it’s hard sitting in your father’s chair.’

‘Terribly,’ I said, longing for his company. Being here brought it home that he was never coming back, and my heart ached with that knowledge.

She sat down. ‘Thank you for doing right by my ladies.’

‘I feel like they’re mine too, but we’re not quite there yet.’

Marcia came in with two mugs and a packet of biscuits. ‘You haven’t had any lunch, Ren. You need something.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Jaffa Cakes don’t offer much in the way of nutrition.’

‘This is true, but it was all I had, and they were your father’s favourites.’

‘Thank you.’ I smiled and looked to his picture, which I’d propped up on the desk. Somehow I was going to make this all work out, but I wasn’t sure how yet.

‘Tilly, we have turned out every cupboard and catalogued every piece of art, but we haven’t found the wills. Jack Thomas remembers that originals were lodged with the firm he trained at, but everything was lost in a fire fifteen years ago. Did Sheba or Viv say anything to you?’

‘Not something we would talk about.’ Tilly sipped her tea.

‘OK, the other thing: was there a child living at the house at one point?’

‘Oh yes. Sheba and Viv both spoke with great sadness about Isabella.’

‘Isabella?’

‘She was Sheba’s.’ She put her mug down.

‘But Sheba never married.’

‘No, she never did. Viv was the love of her life.’

‘Do you know what happened?’ I asked.

‘It was before my time, but there was some falling-out, I think.’ She drew a breath as her glance darted about the room. ‘They never said.’

‘Do you know when?’

She shook her head. ‘I came to work for them in 1980, and I had the feeling that it was quite a while before then.’

I wasn’t hopeful about this, but I had to ask. ‘Did they ever tell you who the woman in the portrait was?’

‘That was Sheba’s other love, according to Viv.’ Tilly laughed. ‘Would have driven me mad to have a former lover hanging on the wall, but Viv was the least jealous soul I ever knew.’

‘Yes, I don’t think I’d care for it either.’ I took a sip of tea, making a note about a daughter. Why had no one mentioned her? It wasn’t really my place to become involved in this. Barton’s had been hired to do a job. But this was all part of the story, and that made it crucial.

‘What’s happening to the house and their things?’ Tilly asked.

I’d arranged an extension for the sale due to what we had discovered about the manuscript.

I’d also highlighted a few pieces that could be sold quickly if required.

But it was all complicated by the lack of wills.

Jack had explained to me in great detail the ins and outs of two people living together unmarried and dying within a month of each other without wills.

I glanced up. Tilly was watching me. I hadn’t answered her question.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘I think they would have left it to charity over the great-nephews. The first time I ever saw either of them was at the funeral.’

‘Thank you for this. Now that I know about Isabella, I will try and find out more about her. Sadly I can’t use the censuses as they aren’t released for that period so I’ll have to find some other way.’

‘Thank you for caring.’ Tilly drained her mug, took a biscuit, and left without another word.

The online records told me that Sheba bought Harbour House in 1941, for cash.

But there was nothing else I could search without more detail as Isabella Kernow brought up nothing but a bunch of social media profiles.

If Isabella was still alive, she would be in her late eighties. I don’t think she was on TikTok.

Who might have known them?

I ate a biscuit, then picked up my bag to reapply my lip gloss.

In the bag was my new phone with a new number.

Paul had been bombarding me with messages alternating between conciliation and threats.

It had been constant, and one of the ways he had kept me on edge.

Changing numbers caused so much extra work, but it was worth it for the peace.

Gloss applied, my next task was at Harbour House where I was meeting the team from the local BBC to talk about the painting and Sheba and Viv.

* * *

Bastard greeted me on arrival, but then returned to the study, where Rory was hard at work. He looked up and grinned. ‘Camera-ready, I see.’

I rubbed my sweaty palms down the sides of my skirt. ‘I don’t see why you couldn’t do this.’ I paused. ‘You know how to be in front of a camera.’

‘There are many reasons, the most important one being that this is your story to tell.’

‘Fair, but . . .’

‘You’ll be wonderful.’

I made a face at him, then went to Francis Kernow’s painting hanging in the study. I hadn’t really paid attention to the inscription on the back when I’d catalogued it.

My dearest Baba,

This little painting of the lighthouse is to remind you, as you look out from the windows of your new home with its new perspective, that this is where you are from. It is good to see your past as you step into a new life.

Baba, you aren’t a black sheep, but an artist of true talent. Your mother would be so proud. She would also apologise for your name. But I won’t. I love the artist and woman you have become. It is time as you embark on your new life here in Newlyn to leave the BB behind and emerge as you.

Dad

When I’d first seen this, it hadn’t made sense, but now it was clear. BB was definitely Sheba when she’d signed her early work.

I spotted a cameraman walking past the door. ‘Must go and do this, as you won’t,’ I said.

Rory laughed, and I went out into the hall.

‘Thank you for coming.’ I said, stopping by the portrait, which was sitting on one of Sheba’s easels. ‘You’re here about this.’

The reporter didn’t reply; just stared at the portrait. ‘Wow!’

‘I know. She is magnificent, but we’re not certain who she is, although we have a theory.’

‘Right. We’ll take a few shots of the outside of the house and then talk about the missing wills.’

‘And apparently there was a daughter, Isabella.’ The handmade bear still on the bed upstairs came to mind.

‘Ooh, this is intriguing,’ he said. He looked about. ‘Anything else we should know?’

‘It was all in the email except for the bit about Isabella; that I only discovered today.’

Rory walked out of the study. ‘Daughter?’

‘Isabella Kernow. I think she might have been born in the 1930s.’

He shook his head and took me into the study. There was a photo album on the desk. ‘This can’t be a coincidence.’

I frowned.

He opened the album. There was a picture of a young girl on Sennen beach. Long hair, aged about ten, and facing out to sea. I picked it up to study it more closely.

‘Katherine and Simon had a daughter named Isabella, born in 1935,’ Rory said.

I put the album down. ‘Katherine and her daughter died in the Blitz.’

‘So it was reported at the time.’

‘Are you saying that Viv was Katherine?’ I stepped back. This didn’t make sense. Viv’s information was too sound.

‘No, Katherine was fourteen years older than Sheba.’ He paced. ‘It can’t be a coincidence. Both women couldn’t have given birth to a daughter in the same year and called her Isabella.’

‘Well, it’s possible, but I agree it’s unlikely. Sheba was gay and in love with Katherine, from what her diary says.’

‘Sorry to interrupt, but we are ready to film you.’

‘Right, coming.’ I sent a look to Rory, then headed to the hall and stood beside the portrait. I hated being in front of the camera, or a crowd for that matter, but now I had no choice. It was for Sheba, and also for the business. What I felt inside didn’t matter at this point.