Hidden Treasures

*

The next morning both women had rather woolly heads. Helen woke up first and turned over to look at Penny. ‘I thought we were too old for sleepovers. Thank God you didn’t let me drive home.’

Penny opened her still mascara’d eyes. ‘Mmm, I took your keys while you and the waiter were dancing on the table. So embarrassing.’

‘Oh God. I didn’t, did I?’

‘No, but you asked him to, which was bad enough.’

Helen shoved her friend in the ribs.

‘I did not! … He was lovely though, wasn’t he?’

‘Too young for either of us, but nice to look at.’

‘Not like that git Piran Ambrose. That’s at least three times he’s caught me doing something embarrassing.’

‘Yes, you’ve told me that several times, and however handsome he was, you wouldn’t look twice at him now, blah blah blah. You weren’t happy he was having dinner with someone else though, were you?’

‘Was he? I didn’t notice.’

‘Oh that’s right, you didn’t notice, So much so, that you couldn’t stop turning around and looking at him and asking me who she was. As if I would know!’

Helen opened one eye and looked at her friend, ‘No I didn’t. I was surprised to see him, that’s all.’

‘Hmmm. We’ll talk about Piran when you’re sober.’ Penny hitched herself up on one elbow. ‘Full English with room service?’

Helen managed a nod and then closed her eyes for a little more sleep.

*

By lunchtime they felt almost human and took a bracing walk around the town. Penny phoned her PA and told her not to expect her back for the week as she had a lot more research to do than she’d thought.

‘Liar, liar, pants on fire!’ teased Helen.

‘Well, I’m the boss and I don’t often spoil myself. And you are my best friend who I haven’t seen for ages – so, why not! Ready for a hair of the dog, yet?’

‘Penny, you’re incorrigible!’

12

Back at Gull’s Cry, Helen dragged the large tin box out from under her bed and took it downstairs to Penny, who was peeling spuds for their supper.

‘This is it. Have a look and see what you make of it.’ She put it down on the kitchen table next to Penny.

Penny rinsed her fingers under the tap and after drying her hands on a tea towel, opened the lid. She took out the shawl first.

‘Lovely shawl, I could use this for a period drama. And the brooch. Nice bit of jet … touch of rust on the pin though. A photo. What a good-looking couple. They look so old, don’t they, but I expect they were only in their twenties, judging by how young the children are. The baby is wrapped in a shawl like the one in the box … Have you got a magnifying glass?’

‘I think so. Perhaps in my desk drawer.’ Helen rooted through the mess and found a small plastic magnifier from a cracker.

‘That’ll do.’ Penny took it from her and, after a few moments screwing her eyes up, said, ‘I can’t tell. It might be … let me look at the brooch the mum has on her blouse collar.’ Another breath-holding wait, the boiler made a whoomf noise as the central heating came on, and then, ‘Blimey, girl. It looks like she’s wearing the brooch we’ve got here. Look.’

‘My God, it is. So could the baby be Violet Wingham, the woman who used to own this house?’

‘Why not? Who can we ask?’

‘The ghastly Piran Ambrose is the local historian, but I don’t fancy seeing him again. I’ll phone the little museum in Trevay tomorrow, and ask them if there’s anyone other than him.’

‘It sounds like a job for Mr Tibbs. He’s the hero of the Mavis Crewe books I’ve bought the TV rights for. They’re all set in the early 1930s in a small Cornish parish by the sea, and the widowed Mr Tibbs is the local bank manager. He’s very well respected and able to solve all kinds of problems and mysteries, large or small.’ She picked up the biscuit tin with the ashes in and gave it a shake. ‘These are the ashes, are they?’

Helen nodded and winced as the hangover reared its ugly head again.

‘Not enough for an adult, surely? Maybe it’s the boy in the photo. Her brother? Mr Tibbs would have this solved in ninety minutes with five commercial breaks.’ She looked at a limp Helen.

‘You look terrible. Another hair of the dog yet? Or just a cup of tea?’

‘Tea, please.’

‘Right: tea, bangers and mash, and an early night for you.’

*

Helen was downstairs, showered and dressed, and feeling totally refreshed after a good night’s sleep. She had the phone in her hand.

‘Hello, Trevay Heritage Museum. How can I help you?’ said a cheery voice on the other end of the line.

‘Hello, my name is Helen Merrifield. I’ve dug up an old box in my back garden and it’s got several interesting things in it. I wonder if I could bring them in and show them to one of your historians?’

‘Oh, we like things like that, don’t we! Let me see who’s around today. Erm … the roster says it’s Janet – Janet Coombe. She’ll be in around ten-thirty. Shall I tell her you’ll be in?’

‘Fantastic, thank you. See you then.’

Helen still marvelled at the wonderful service you got down here and how friendly everyone was. And she was mightily relieved that Piran clearly wasn’t on duty today.

*

After a quick cup of tea and some toast, she got to the Starfish in time to meet Penny. Together they got the box out of Helen’s car and walked with it down to the museum.

By the look of the architecture it must have been the old seamen’s mission: 1903 was the date carved into the granite arch above the entrance. The front door had peeling red paint and was held open by a huge brass cabin hook. The sign on the pavement outside said OPEN 10 TILL 6 MONDAY TO SATURDAY INCLUDING BANK HOLIDAYS. A smaller handwritten sign said, There is no admittance fee, but we rely on donations to keep our history alive. Please give generously.

Behind a sliding-glass window was a woman in a caramel-coloured twinset, caramel-coloured hair and caramel-coloured glasses. She looked up and, smiling, opened the glass panel.

‘May I help you?’

‘Yes, I phoned earlier to speak to Janet Coombe?’

‘Mrs Merrifield, is it? I would have phoned you to save you a trip, but I didn’t take your number. Janet’s just called in sick, I’m afraid. But if you’re quick, our Mr Ambrose will see you before he goes out to a field study he’s working on.’