Hidden Treasures

*

‘Hello, hello. Come on in. Nippy tonight, isn’t it?’ Helen opened the door wide for him and he stepped into her pretty kitchen. He viewed the neatly laid table. It looked rather romantic and his hopes rose higher. From behind his back he produced a bottle of Rioja, which earned him a kiss on the cheek from Helen.

‘Go and sit in the living room. I’ve got the fire going nicely. It doesn’t smoke any more now Don’s used some of his magic on it.’

Simon went and sat down gladly, before his legs buckled beneath her kiss. Helen talked to him from the kitchen about Don and the work he’d done and what a wonder he was, then joined him with a glass of cold white wine.

‘I’ll keep the Rioja for later, if that’s all right. I had this open already. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

He took a mouthful and was grateful for the steadying effect it would have on him.

‘It’s really lovely in here,’ he said. ‘You have a home-maker’s instinct.’

There was a hissing noise from the kitchen.

‘Oops, spaghetti’s boiling over. Chuck another log on the fire, would you? And then come and eat.’ The last few words were thrown over Helen’s shoulder as she went back to the kitchen.

Simon did as she asked, then followed her through and sat at the table.

‘Tony and I found some treasure in the garden today.’ Steam was billowing around her as she drained the spaghetti into the sink. ‘Take a look at that tin box on my desk.’ He got up and went to the small desk, more of a table really, in the corner between the sink and the Aga.

‘Go on, open it up.’

He did so. ‘Oh my. What’s all this?’ He took each object out carefully and examined them. He was particularly interested in the photo.

‘Do you know who any of them are?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder on the way to dishing up the pasta.

‘No. I have never seen any of them before. It might have something to do with Vi Wingham. She lived here before you came.’ Simon reached for the wine bottle and topped up their glasses. ‘She was a wonderful woman. Very self-contained and independent. Baked delicious sponge cakes in the old range where your Aga is now. She would donate them to raffles or bring them out when she entertained, although that wasn’t very often. A couple of times a year she’d invite me to tea. I enjoyed her company very much.’

‘Let’s eat and talk – pass me your plate.’ Helen spooned steaming pasta on to his plate. ‘Queenie told me that Miss Wingham had lost a fiancée in the war.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. She revealed very little about herself. After she died, the only thing I found out from the solicitors was that she’d bought this cottage in 1930 when she was only nineteen. She lived here with a succession of cats for seventy-seven years and never modernised it, apart from putting electricity in. You must have seen that she didn’t have a bathroom when you bought it, only the privy in the garden.’

‘However did she manage? I turned her spare room into my bathroom – I couldn’t do without it.’

‘She would be pleased for you, I’m sure. But although she was always immaculate, she had more than a touch of the Trojan about her.’ He ate a forkful of spaghetti bolognese. ‘This is excellent.’

Helen felt very relaxed with her new friend. Conversation with Simon was easy and she liked the way he was around her. No hint of sexual undertones. No hidden agenda. She topped his glass up again.

‘Tell me more about Miss Wingham.’

‘One morning after church, about three years ago, she invited me round for a quick sherry. She’d never done that before, so I thought, rightly, that it was to discuss something important. She told me that she’d just had her ninety-sixth birthday and, though still able to look after herself, felt it was the right thing to move into a care home. I didn’t try to dissuade her because she had always conducted her affairs exactly as she pleased and seemed in full possession of all her faculties. She told me that she had already found the right home, on the road to Newquay, where she would have a room with a sea view, and that she would be going the next day. She asked me to tell the parishioners the following Sunday in my Church Notices. She would be happy to receive visitors, but only if they really wanted to see her. She died a year later, peacefully in her sleep, and two years after that, the house was sold to you.’

‘Was her cat still alive? Queenie said they were all named after birds and that the last one was called Raven. Did she have one called Falcon?’

‘Not in my time here as vicar, which is almost twenty-two years. There was a Sparrow and a Robin before Raven.’

‘Where was MissWingham buried?’

‘Ah. Well … I haven’t discussed this with anyone before, but … I don’t suppose it matters now. I’m sorry to say that she’s in the bottom drawer of my desk.’

Helen stopped, her fork in mid-air. ‘I think that needs a bit of explanation.’

‘When she died, she left express wishes regarding her funeral arrangements. No mourners, no flowers. She wanted me to give her a proper funeral service in the church and then escort her to the crematorium. It was only myself and the funeral directors at the service where I blessed her and said goodbye. About a week later, they phoned to tell me the ashes were ready for collection, and ever since I have been wondering what to do with them. There was no instruction from the solicitors.’

‘Golly, what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m sure I shall receive a sign.’ He stood up. ‘In the meantime, I shall ask Piran to come over and have a look at this box of treasure. He may be able to shed some light on it.’

Helen did her best to disguise her reluctance to this idea, ‘Maybe.’

At the front door Simon said, ‘I’ve had a wonderful evening, Helen. You are very kind to me.’

‘Not at all. I’m so happy to have made a real friend.’ She reached up and gave him another of her kisses on the cheek and they said goodnight.

Simon waved at the gate before his short walk across the green to the vicarage.

Helen washed up, turned the lights out and went to bed with a good book. Simon walked home as if on air.

11

The next couple of weeks were busy for Helen. She and Tony went to town on the garden. Along the path from the gate to the front door they planted lady’s mantle. In the cracks of the drystone wall she pushed violas and primroses. The great Cornish palm looked splendid in its sheltered corner, while the two blue pots containing the agapanthus were placed either side of the old gate. She couldn’t wait to see them in bloom.

Tony, meanwhile, took over the vegetable plot. It was dug and composted to within an inch of its life ready for the spring plantings, but he also put in a row of asparagus, and some rhubarb. The rest of the garden Helen filled with roses, daphnes and hydrangeas, with jasmine and clematis left to ramble over the wall which divided her from the churchyard … and any spying from Piran Ambrose.

Her final pièce de résistance was a wisteria, which she hoped would clamber over the privy. She and Tony had cleared the privy of its broken gardening tools and rusty watering cans, but they found no other treasure in there. Tony had taken to using it as his main bathroom now, not having running water in the shepherd’s hut. The flushing loo and cold water tap served him just fine. It was better than always knocking on Polly’s door when he needed to fill his kettle or have a pee. Helen rather liked his presence in the garden.

She had put the tin box under her bed and out of her mind after the supper with Simon. She didn’t relish his suggestion of taking it to Piran, but perhaps there would be no alternative.

Anyway, Penny was coming down that weekend, and she might have some bright ideas.

*

It was drizzly with a biting wind when Penny arrived in Trevay at 4 p.m. The journey down had been OK and her comfortable Jaguar XJS had taken all the strain out of the drive, but when she tried to open the door in the Starfish car park, the wind whipped it shut again. She struggled out with her long blonde hair in her eyes and mouth, pulled her warmly padded Donna Karan coat around her, and walked into reception.

The young girl behind the desk greeted her warmly and introduced herself as Kayla. ‘I expect you’d like a tray of tea and some crumpets after your long journey?’ The thought hadn’t entered Penny’s head but, now she came to think of it, it seemed like a fabulous idea.

‘Thank you so much.’ She looked around. ‘What a beautiful building.’ Outside it may have looked severe, built in local granite by the Victorians, but inside it was as contemporary as any London hotel. Although painted all white, the clever and discreet lighting made it warm and cosy. The slate floor, with vast, jewel-coloured Indian rugs, felt warm underfoot. But it was the touches of designer chic that really brought it all together. Huge four-foot bell jars filled with lime-green apples and twinkling candles, and on the wall above the wide, polished oak staircase was a stunning oil painting of a starfish lying on a sparkling ocean floor.

‘Yes, Ms Leighton, we like it. Do you have any luggage in the car that needs bringing in? If you give me the keys, I’ll get Darren to collect it and bring it to your room.’

Kayla gave Penny a key attached to a starfish key ring encrusted with Swarovski crystals. ‘You’re in room 207 on the second floor. The lift is on the left. Anything you need, just give us a call.’

Penny took the lift – fashioned like an old bathing hut; kitsch but cute – to the second floor and found her room. The old adage that less is more applied here. Everything was of the best quality, but not overdone. And the view of the harbour with its fishing boats, from what she could make out through the heavy rain that was now hammering down, would be lovely when the sun came out.

She picked up the phone and called Helen.

‘Darling, I’m here! In Trevay! The hotel is fabulous. Shall I book a table for two tonight at seven-thirty? Is that OK for you?’

‘Yes, please. I’ve starved myself all week.’

They chatted a bit more and then Penny ran herself a deep, hot bubbly bath, warming her feet on the heated tiles as she did so. She lay happily in the suds eating her buttered crumpets, drinking her tea and listening to the rain on the windows.

*

At dinner that night, Penny filled Helen in on all the London news. Most of it was about work and a little about friends, but nothing about a social life.

‘What about your romantic life? Anyone special yet?’ asked Helen.

‘No. No one. I’m too old, too set in my ways, too independent, too much of a ball-breaker – or that’s what the last complete prat told me. Who understands men? They say they want a woman who has a mind of her own and financial independence. But when it comes down to it, all they really want is someone they can dominate. And I’m not good at being dominated. I wish I was … but …’ She waved a hand. ‘MEN! They can go and boil their fat, stupid, chauvinistic heads.’

Helen threw her head back and roared with laughter. ‘I’ll drink to that! Fancy a margarita before the food arrives?’

One margarita naturally turned into several. Tequila loosened them both up and suddenly everything was funny. When Helen described Simon, Penny did an appalling impression of an ancient, randy old vicar. Helen wheezed with laughter, holding one hand to her ribs and the other to her mouth. Penny, in full swing now, leant back in her chair, tucked her fingers under her imaginary braces and in her vicar voice said, ‘I’d be very obliged if I might take a dip in your font, madam.’ And with that, she overbalanced her chair and fell straight over backwards.’

‘Hello, Mrs Merrifield. You certainly know how to enjoy yourself.’

Piran Ambrose, with a small, large-bosomed, kittenish woman in her thirties on his arm, stopped at the table. Helen jumped up in shock and knocked her glass over. Penny, with the help of a waiter, picked herself up and offered her hand in greeting.

‘Good evening. I’m Penny, a friend of Helen’s.’

Piran glanced at her and then back to Helen. ‘I remember the first time I had a drink too. Enjoy your evening.’

The kitten woman pulled him away with a parting, malicious smile aimed at Helen.

*

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.’

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 came over with menus. ‘Hello, ladies! Nice to see you, Helen. Are you having some lunch?’

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