Page 7

I stopped reading. It was almost too personal, and in a strange way, vaguely familiar.

It reminded me of something I’d studied for my English A level, yet I couldn’t quite place it.

It would come to me, but time was flying.

Quickly I put the items back in the desk, collected the file from the vestibule and left, making sure I’d locked the front door properly.

Tomorrow was Saturday and I wasn’t needed for the auction preview that was taking place, so I could spend more time here.

And as I looked over my shoulder, I knew I wanted to. My father would have loved this work.

My shoulders fell. I wasn’t him. This job was too big for me.

These days I researched one item at a time and had experts to work with.

I rarely had to leave the flat. What if I failed again?

So much for my bravado in the small hours of the morning.

Sorry, Sheba and Viv. I was the wrong person to set the record straight.

I hadn’t even recognised an original Cézanne when it had been in front of me.

The worst thing was that I should have. I had done my undergrad thesis on his early work.

I could still hear my father’s voice saying that I had been right to be cautious as Cézanne was one of the most forged artists of all time.

Bastard sat on the garden wall watching me.

She slowly blinked, and I returned the message.

The cat liked me and she needed to be fed tomorrow.

That I could do. I’d have to find someone to help me with Harbour House.

This wasn’t a simple job like my uncle had implied.

There were a hundred paintings in the house alone.

God knows how many in the studio. Then there was the sculpture work.

I took a deep breath. I’d take it up with him when I reached the office.

‘See you tomorrow, Bastard,’ I called to the cat, which earned me a stern look from an older woman walking past the drive on her way into town.

* * *

My phone rang as I pulled into the car park at Barton’s. I turned the engine off and answered. ‘Paul?’

‘Just checking on you.’

I glanced at the file on the passenger seat. ‘Thanks. I’ve just come back from an initial assessment of Harbour House.’

‘Did that belong to your father?’

‘No.’ I tapped the steering wheel. He was right. I was not here to work. Playing with my locket, I tried not to think of why I was here. ‘It belonged to two artists and Dad was working on it when he died.’

‘And?’

‘I’m about to go and have a meeting with Stephen.’ A seagull shat on the bonnet of the car. I bit my lip in frustration and looked to see if my water bottle was to hand so I could wash it off.

‘Don’t let him walk all over you. You’re too kind and he will take advantage.’

‘True.’ I found the water. ‘Thank you for the reminder.’

‘Always. Of course, it’s selfishness on my part. I love and miss you.’

I climbed out of the car with the water and poured it on the guano. ‘You could come down. It’s almost the Easter holidays.’

‘You know I have the deadline on the paper.’

‘Sorry, I forgot.’

‘Your father’s just died. I get it.’ His voice softened. ‘Just come back to me.’

‘Love you,’ I said, then slammed the door closed, already thinking of the meeting ahead.

‘Be quick,’ he said before he hung up.

Easier said than done. I must not forget to ask my uncle about the furniture at Harbour House. There was nothing really high-end that I saw during the walk-through, but it wasn’t charity shop either. Had my father done a preliminary viewing? If so, where were his notes?

Pulling the main door open, I hoped that Stephen would have the accounts ready for me to look at. Only then could I call Jack Thomas and begin making things happen quickly as Paul had asked.

‘How was Harbour House?’ Marcia looked up from her computer.

‘Fascinating.’

‘I bet.’ She grinned. ‘Always wondered what it was like. It’s in such a stunning location.’

‘Gorgeous, if dated on the inside.’ I paused. ‘It’s a bit of a time warp of early- and mid-century furnishings, with a few fine earlier pieces and more art than seems possible.’ I glanced at the wall clock above the bookcase. ‘Is Stephen in his office?’

‘No.’ Marcia pushed back from her desk.

‘No? He said he would have the accounts for me.’

‘He never mentioned it to me.’ She shook her head. ‘He went off to check his warehouse. Something about a broken pipe.’

‘His warehouse?’

‘Yes, he bought it a few years ago. He’s been doing up furniture in his spare time, I think.’

He was passionate about furniture, which was why I was surprised about what he had said about the contents of Harbour House. ‘Do you have the accounts?’

‘No, that’s his territory. Never lets anyone near them.’

‘Oh.’

She looked at the clock. ‘He’ll be back later, or if not then, tomorrow morning, as he has an appointment with Mrs George.’

‘During the preview?’

Marcia nodded.

I hadn’t planned to come here tomorrow, but needs must. I sent Marcia a smile and tried not to let frustration overwhelm me.

Without the accounts, I couldn’t move forward.

It would be tempting to go into Stephen’s office and look for them, and once I might have done that.

I was part owner too and I had a right to know the state of the business, but up until this moment I hadn’t cared.

That wasn’t true. I cared a lot. In fact, it broke me.

In my father’s office, I sat down and typed Bathsheba Kernow’s name into his computer.

After the Wiki entry there was a piece from the Hypatia Trust on Cornish women of note, with a short obituary but no mention of the exact date of death.

Next, I put in Vivian Sykes. The Trust had a brief article on her too; in her obituary, only the month she died was mentioned.

I printed both articles off and went back to Marcia.

‘Here are the obits for the two ladies, but there’s no date of death.’

Marcia blinked. ‘Oh no, there isn’t one.’

‘What?’

‘They’d been dead for at least two weeks, maybe more, when the gardener found them on her return from holiday.’

‘Ugh.’

‘Exactly, poor woman.’

‘How did they die?’

‘Old age, I imagine.’ Marcia tidied the pens on her desk.

I threw my hands up. ‘More detail, please.’

‘Well, apparently I heard they were in bed together, wrapped around each other.’

‘Suicide?’ I was happy that they had been together, no matter what had happened.

‘Apparently not.’

‘So that’s why there’s a problem.’ I sat on the corner of Marcia’s desk. ‘They can’t tell which of them died first.’

‘Yes, and it’s such a shame because they were both so lovely.’ ‘You knew them?’ I asked.

‘Wouldn’t say that, but every so often they would come and sell something.’ She paused. ‘They were both very private, making sure never to draw attention to themselves.’

‘Was there a reason why?’

‘Today two women living together as a couple is normal, but back in the forties, it would have raised an eyebrow or two.’

I drew a breath. ‘True.’ The world had made huge leaps in accepting diversity, but there was still a long way to go.

Marcia made a face. ‘I want to say there was some scandal.’

I opened my eyes wide, waiting.

‘Not scandal exactly, but something that made people talk.’ She clasped her hands.

‘And what was it?’

‘Before my time.’ She shrugged.

‘Dad knew them?’ I asked. A memory came back to me and that was why Sheba Kernow’s name seemed familiar.

‘Oh yes, he thought they were super.’

‘That smuggling frame?’ Even now I remembered the feel of it in my hands.

‘Yes, that’s it.’ Marcia smiled. ‘Miss Kernow said that in many ways it was her finest work.’

‘Even though the painting was terrible and nothing like the ones that fill her home and studio.’

‘Her friend, a writer, had used it to smuggle jewels out of Germany as Hitler’s grip was tightening and Jewish families struggled to leave.’

‘A wonderful story.’

‘The best part was . . .’ Marcia paused. ‘The painting went to one of the people who benefited from the jewellery.’

‘I’m not sure I ever heard the result of the sale.’ That Sunday long ago with Dad in the room above was like a different lifetime. A wave of grief hit me. I pushed it away. Now wasn’t the time.

‘There was quite a bit of news coverage, but Miss Kernow wouldn’t be interviewed by the press.’ Marcia drew a breath. ‘She did talk to the buyer, though.’

‘Do you remember who it was?’ I picked up a porcelain bowl that was on top of one of the cabinets. It was a fine pink lustre piece with a house depicted on it. It reminded me of the collection my mother used to have, before it was sold.

‘It will be in the sale records.’

I headed to the filing cabinets.

‘Why do you want to know?’ Marcia came and opened the right drawer.

‘That is a very good question, and my answer at the moment is pure curiosity. I want to know who this woman was who lived such a quiet, private life, died in her lover’s arms and called her cat Bastard.’

‘Bastard? Really?’ Marcia handed me the file.

‘A regal feline that Bathsheba Kernow saved.’

Marcia laughed. ‘An interesting woman indeed.’

‘And as Dad always used to say . . .’

‘It’s all in the story,’ we finished in unison.

‘And the first step in telling a good story is asking the right questions – and, of course, research.’

I pulled out the paperwork on the sale from that auction all those years ago. It might lead to nothing, but it was worth a try. The house had whetted my curiosity, and it was quickly shifting to something of a compulsion to discover more with each new piece of information about the artists.