LITMIR.BIZ

      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.’

      Helen’s heart slipped. ‘Oh no, it’s OK. I won’t bother him. I’ll come back to see Jan—’

      ‘Mrs Merrifield and Penny, isn’t it?’ The rich, sardonic voice was unmistakable. The women turned to face Piran. He looked almost piratical today. The wild curls were glossy, and for the first time Helen noticed a small anchor tattoo on his hand. He was still in his red fishing smock and little Jack was at his heels. ‘How are you ladies feeling after your convivial evening?’

      ‘Fine. Did you enjoy your night out, too?’ Helen looked him straight in the eye, but he out-stared her until she looked down.

      Penny attempted some levity: ‘She wants you to look at her box.’

      ‘Really? The pair of you had better come into the curator’s office then.’

      *

      Once he’d silently examined the objects, Piran said, ‘So what do you want me to do?’

      ‘I just wondered if we could find out who they belonged to. That’s all. But if it’s too insignificant for you, I’ll do some detective work myself.’ Helen went to close the lid and leave.

      Piran put his hand on her arm and stopped her. ‘Now don’t get in a huff because I’m not clearing my diary this minute and getting on with it. I do have a lot of work on. You’ve seen me in the churchyard, over at Holy Trinity. I’m trying to get a complete survey of the graves done before the winter sets in. After that, I have to report my findings to the bishop and the coroner. So unfortunately, your little box is not a priority.’

      Helen gazed out of the dusty window with a look of bored sarcasm.

      ‘Don’t look like that, woman. You may be used to having men dance to your tune – your poor husband and the naïve vicar. But not me. I will help you find out about this box, because it is actually quite interesting and there is clearly a story there, but I’ll do it when I’m ready, OK?’

      ‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Come along, Helen, let’s give the man some peace.’ Penny, realising that Helen was very close to simmering point, yanked her friend out of there before her temper well and truly boiled over.

      *

      ‘That bloody man! What is his problem? I have never met anyone so rude.’ Helen plonked herself down into one of the comfy leather chairs in the Dolphin. Penny sat down opposite her, feeling the warmth of the open fire on her back.

      ‘He fancies you.’

      ‘I hardly think so.’

      Dorrie

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