Page 6

The situation of the house right above the water was idyllic and I was certain the place would go for a pretty penny, even though it was almost untouched since the early seventies judging by the Formica countertops I’d noted in the kitchen.

But it also meant that its Georgian bones were intact.

Was it listed? It would be awful if someone bought it who wasn’t interested in the architecture of the house, only its location.

The door to Vivian’s studio opened towards me and the light from the north-facing windows and skylights flooded the space.

A large piece of marble sat in one corner and a half-finished sculpture in the middle of the room.

It pulled me to it. A twisted trunk of a scrub oak was still half covered in bark and the other half was smooth and sinuous.

Sensual and sad. A figure seemed to merge into the tree rather than emerge from it.

I swallowed. Sorrow. Loss. It called to the grief animal that lived in the centre of me at the moment.

I turned away and viewed the other pieces – some finished, many only partially so.

On the sill of one of the windows sat a cat sculpture.

It was incredibly lifelike, similar to the one by the fireplace.

I wanted to stroke it, but as I stepped forward, its head swivelled and bright orange eyes viewed me with disdain.

‘How did you get in here?’ I asked, holding my hand out so the feline could sniff. Then it leaned its head over for a scratch. Some of its semi-long black fur was bleached and told me it wasn’t young. There was also a grey tuft near its right ear.

‘That’s where she is,’ a voice from behind me said.

I jumped. ‘Yours?’

Tilly, the gardener, walked to my side. ‘No, belonged to Sheba and Viv.’

‘They’ve been gone four years.’

‘Tried to bring her home with me but she won’t stay. Kept finding her back here so gave up trying to tempt her away.’ She shrugged. ‘Now I just make sure she’s OK and has enough food, but Bastard’s a real mouser so she won’t go hungry for long.’

‘Bastard?’ I asked.

Tilly laughed. ‘Yes, that was Sheba. She found the kitten abandoned by the harbour and called it a poor bastard. And it stuck, even when they took Bastard to be neutered and discovered she was a girl.’

Bastard sent me a look, daring me to call her anything different, except maybe Queen of the World or Empress of All.

She reminded me of the cat I’d had as a child.

I’d longed for one since, but Paul had jokingly said I could barely take care of myself so how could I look after an animal?

And more importantly, it would scratch the furniture.

Bastard leaned in with her chin for a rub and my heart went with my fingers.

‘She’s taken a shine to you,’ Tilly said. ‘More prone to take your eyes out, but you must be all right.’

‘Cat lover,’ I said in my defence. I’d never met a cat I didn’t adore, even those that had scratched me. I paused. ‘Is the other shed Sheba’s?’

‘Right mess it is. They wouldn’t let me touch anything but the garden.’ Tilly pushed her hair back, revealing a pretty freckled face. ‘Thought I might pinch something.’

I frowned. ‘Who?’

She harrumphed. ‘The court-appointed administrators. No one can find the wills. Think there are two great-nephews, one each, but never seen them. Not sure my ladies had either. Just doesn’t feel right.’ She drew a breath. ‘I’m off now. Make sure you lock up, and you can feed Bastard tomorrow.’

I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t sure if I’d be here tomorrow, but she was gone.

Bastard jumped down and weaved her way through my legs, marking me thoroughly.

After I’d taken a few pictures of the studio, I went to Sheba’s with the cat close by my heels.

Tilly was right. The place was a disaster.

Despite the glorious light, how could any work have been created in this chaos?

There was no order at all. It looked more like someone had tried to burgle it.

I stopped. Was that what had caused this mess?

Had someone been looking for something specific?

There was no way to know what had happened unless Tilly decided to enlighten me.

She gave off the vibe that information would come only when and if she felt I was worthy. But I had passed the Bastard test.

With the studios locked, I went back into the house, and Bastard followed before slipping past me straight up to the first floor. All the doors upstairs were shut bar one, which was where Bastard headed to.

This bedroom faced the sea. The curtains were open and the grime that covered the windows was not as thick as on the ground-floor ones.

I stood and almost breathed in the view.

To wake to this every morning would be bliss.

Paul’s flat faced the Thames, which was nice, but this was heaven.

It reminded me how much I missed the sea air and the light.

I’d convinced myself that being beside the Thames was enough, but it wasn’t.

Here my lungs expanded and I felt lighter.

Bastard jumped down from the chest of drawers with a thump and flattened a silver picture frame.

‘Be careful, Bastard,’ I said, righting the frame.

It was a picture of a woman standing in St Mark’s Square, Venice.

The black and white image was sharp and captured the woman’s almost conspiratorial smile.

Her hair was pulled back off her face in the style of the thirties and she was dressed in trousers.

Under her arm was a paintbox. Was this Sheba?

She was young and beautiful in a tall, angular way.

Her eyes looked directly at the camera. She knew the person taking the photograph.

I’d say she knew them well. The photographer understood composition.

Behind her was the column bearing the lion of St Mark, and the Grand Canal with its gondolas was just visible.

But none of it distracted from Sheba. She was like the column in her posture, yet she was fluid somehow.

I took my hat off to the skill of the person behind the camera.

Without overthinking it, I opened the back of the frame.

Written in pencil on the reverse of the photo was St Mark’s, June 1934 , and initials that had faded too much for me to see in this light.

I took a picture of it, hoping the phone was better at picking up the faint marks, and made out the letters TK .

One thing I had learned in my years doing research for the television programme was that artists frequently congregated together, and this could have been taken by someone of note. But TK didn’t ring any bells.

Bastard sat on the corner of the carpet and yowled.

I ignored her and studied the painting hanging between the windows.

It was Sheba’s work, yet different from the others of hers I’d seen, though I couldn’t pinpoint how.

After a final glance about the room, I left and peered into the other four bedrooms and the two bathrooms. It was a beautifully proportioned house, yet cosy.

The artwork, in abundance, softened the lines.

There was never one picture where more could fit, and I liked their style.

In fact, I liked these women, and their cat, who stayed right beside me.

On the main hallway stairs, I stopped to study the portrait and noticed other paintings around it. When I’d first walked in, it was as if they hadn’t been there, but now I realised that the woman was surrounded by Sheba’s signature abstract landscapes, mostly of West Penwith from what I’d read.

Downstairs, I checked the kitchen door to make sure I’d locked it, and then went back to the hall.

Bastard had disappeared. I couldn’t lock her in for the night, so I did a quick search.

She wasn’t in the library, sitting room or dining room.

That left the study, and sure enough, there she was, sitting in one of the drawers I’d opened but hadn’t closed.

‘Comfy as that drawer is, Bastard, we have to leave.’

She licked her paw and began to clean her face.

I knew enough to know that if I picked her up, I would finish with scars.

To interrupt such a regal creature during her toilette was a crime.

But time was running on and I had a meeting with my uncle that I needed to attend. Being tardy wasn’t an option.

With my sleeves pulled down, I quickly scooped her from the drawer and ended up with some paperwork too. I had no choice but to continue out of the study. Only then could I put the cat down. Bastard was not impressed. She cast me a look and sauntered out the front door.

I glanced at the papers I’d lifted from the drawer.

One was an old train ticket. Paris to Venice, Simplon Orient Express, 24 May 1934.

Images of the various adaptations of the Agatha Christie novel appeared in my mind.

How exciting and glamorous. What a fascinating life Sheba had lived.

It must have been her ticket, as Viv would only have been fourteen at the time.

The other sheet of paper looked like a letter at first glance. But as I scanned it, I realised it was a poem. Probably a first draft, as there were annotations all over it.

Sunlight is blessed

It can touch you

I cannot

Water is lucky

You frolic in the sea

It beads and rolls across your skin

Where I would linger