Chapter Twelve
Initially, it seemed that only cranks were interested in emailing the website address Sariah had set up: stories@.
In the first week, a man in Newquay wrote asking for love (although in rather more graphic terms) and someone in Roche claimed that the ceramic chamber pot belonged to his Uncle Graham and the museum would be hearing from his solicitors.
He later emailed to apologise. It’s safe and sound under his bed.
But let me know if you’d like to purchase it.
Each member of the committee – Evelyn, Della, Sariah, Alison and Jacob – had access to the email account and Evelyn tended to check it in the evening.
The second week after it went live, there was a short article in the St Austell Bugle and the site started getting lots of ‘hits’, which, according to Sariah, was a good thing.
Hi all. We’ve got an interesting email, Alison put on the WhatsApp chat one Tuesday afternoon. Evelyn logged in and saw it was from a man in nearby Fowey.
Dydh da – Hello there. I don’t have any family connection to these objects, but I do recognise the fishing knots in the frame, he wrote. My father taught me a couple and I’m proud to say I can still do them. I would be happy to talk further about this.
Meur Ras – Thank you, Michael Bower.
Happy to chase this up, Alison added to the chat. Then she wrote, @Evelyn New email just come in. Best you to deal with directly.
Intrigued, Evelyn checked the inbox on her phone and saw the next message was from George@PortheastAntiques. With a sinking feeling, she opened it. The message managed to be both cryptic and to the point:
Dear Evelyn, it would be best if you removed some items from the website. It will only stir up trouble for us. Best, George Rook.
‘Us’? There was no ‘us’. He was probably hoping to piggyback on any media attention and get publicity for his shop. Without delay, she sent a reply:
Mr Rook, please cease and desist from contacting us. I have no association with Portheast Antiques, nor do I wish there to be any. Sincerely, Evelyn Silver.
As I tried to mention discreetly, it’s a matter of provenance, came the reply.
Staring at the phone in her hand, Evelyn had a strong urge to throw it at the wall.
To distract herself, she began to rearrange the books on her desk.
Then she bashed out a label for an item on her typewriter: Walking stick, oak, with fish carving atop.
Then, in a rare fit of efficiency, she carried the newly catalogued walking stick over to the Traditional Attire area and propped it up.
‘There,’ she said to no one in particular.
George could not tell her what to do. ‘Nothing but a knocker,’ her father had said, each time they passed by the window of the antiques shop. These days, Portheast Antiques didn’t even deserve its name, specialising in twee tat that George Rook should be ashamed of.
At the end of the day, Evelyn was doing her last walk around the museum when she heard footsteps. ‘I’m about to close,’ she called out. And then she didn’t say another word, because George Rook had closed the door behind himself and deftly turned the key in the lock.
‘I think it’s time you and I had a chat,’ he said gravely.
She still had her phone in her pocket, so she could dial 999. Or she could WhatsApp the group. Failing that she could shout out, because Della might still be next door. But Evelyn did none of those things, because a low knot of dread told her that, on some level, she knew why George Rook had come.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Take a seat.’
She nodded at the fold-out chairs and sat back down at her desk.
‘How can I help?’ she said in what she thought of as her ‘kindly curator voice’.
On the occasions when Evelyn had observed George Rook in his shop, she’d seen him putting on quite the performance: strolling back and forth like a puffed-up pigeon, gesticulating and talking up whatever piece he was trying to flog.
As an affectation, he kept a magnifying loupe tucked into his top pocket and, when he got the scent of a sale, he would whip it out and make a show of inspecting a supposedly rare postcard or piece of costume jewellery.
But now, there was none of that bluster.
‘Well, I’m afraid there are several things. First of all, it’s the painting,’ he said. ‘When I saw it on the poster, I thought, well, no harm done. It’s only going to be seen in Portheast. But now you’ve gone and put it on a website, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. Sariah made the website. And Alison is doing publicity,’ she said, trying to sound authoritative. ‘The campaign seems to have struck a nerve. Finally, people are seeing that local history is important.’
George gave a sigh. ‘And you think that’s a good idea – putting it all on a website?’
‘Well, we have to do something. Otherwise I’ll lose the museum.’
‘I understand that, Evelyn. But let’s start with that Alfred Wallis painting. It’s not what you think it is.’
Deep down, Evelyn had suspected as much. The composition had a feeling of constraint, as if the artist was trying a little too hard, and it had none of the unfettered joy of Wallis’s other work.
‘I see,’ she said flatly. Her dream of presenting an undiscovered gem to the world and getting a windfall that could save her museum was fading before her eyes. ‘Are you sure? I mean, Jacob thought it had belonged to his grandmother.’
‘Well, that much is true,’ George said forlornly.
‘It was painted to order, you see. It was my dad’s idea – he approached Sir Jasper and said he might have a pretty little collectible painting coming up, but it had to be on the QT.
Back then, must have been in 1987, Sir Jasper was in a pickle: his wife had caught him up to his old tricks again and he was on a final warning.
This was a peace offering to her.’ George raised his eyes.
‘So you – you painted it?’ Evelyn could barely keep the anger out of her voice.
‘Afraid so.’ A shy smile crept over George’s face. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Like it? It’s an abomination. You should be ashamed of yourself. How many other fakes have you done, that unsuspecting people have bought thinking they’ve got the real thing?’
‘Oh, a few Nicholsons; I went through a Pre-Raphaelite stage, but they were a bit fiddly. Did a few Hockney swimming pools. Oh, and plenty of Bridget Rileys – op art was a gift to us,’ he said.
He ran his hand over his shorn head. ‘In my defence, our customers weren’t exactly innocent art lovers.
These paintings appealed to the sort of people who didn’t want to buy on the open market or leave a paper trail.
They had an excess of cash and saw these black market paintings as a way of hiding it, with no questions asked and, more to the point, no tax. ’
‘So how did that fake Wallis end up in a jumble sale in Roche in 2019?’ Evelyn asked.
‘No idea. I was as surprised as you when I saw it again.’
Evelyn let her gaze slide over to the spot where the offending artwork was displayed, hung between a rusty scythe and a rattan carpet beater. ‘Poor Jacob. He must never know. To him, it has sentimental value,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m not about to broadcast it,’ said George. ‘But you might do well to take it off the website.’
‘Right. Yes.’ Evelyn felt the disappointment sink in, heavy as wet sand.
To her horror, she felt the swell of a sob.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been a difficult time.
What with the council wanting to close me down and then all this .
. . fuss.’ She gestured around the boat shed.
‘All these people. They mean well but, you know. It’s all a bit overwhelming. After so long.’
George, who had seemed on the verge of saying something else, nodded. ‘It’s been your little hideaway, hasn’t it?’
Evelyn did not want to be pitied, least of all by this odious man. She gave a sniff and gathered herself. ‘So, you said there were several things you wanted to talk about.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes. And you said, “firstly”. What else are you going to tell me? That you, the appointed expert, have decided that the rest of my collection is worthless?’ Evelyn stood and began walking around the display cabinets.
‘What about this?’ She pointed at a faded Cornish flag, handstitched and allegedly waved during the D-Day celebrations. ‘Is this a fake?’
‘No. Evelyn. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
But Evelyn wasn’t listening. ‘And this – are you going to rubbish this as well?’ She snatched a tablecloth off a pile of fabrics and shook it out with a billow of dust.
George was taken aback: this wasn’t the mousy Evelyn Silver he knew. ‘No. Actually, that looks like rather good Victorian linen.’
‘And this?’ She’d come to a stop by the Miscellanea cabinet.
‘What about this – is this fake – do you want me to take this off the website so nobody sees it?’ she asked, her breath coming in short, tight gasps and her hand resting on the glass above her own piece of Cornish lace, the one speared with a rusted safety pin.
George looked down at the floor. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that’s genuine. And I swear, if I knew anything more about it, I’d tell you.’
There was a long silence. He averted his eyes so that Evelyn could blink away the dampness that was blurring her vision.
George brushed the dust from the tablecloth off his trousers. ‘I suppose it’s only a little website, isn’t it?’ he said eventually. ‘Unlikely to get much attention.’
‘It’s just so that we can get a few human-interest stories,’ Evelyn explained, calmer now.
‘So the website won’t stay up for long?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Once a few people have come forward, we could take it down. We’ve already had one promising email, from a chap in Fowey. It shouldn’t take long to get a few more.’
‘Ah, I suppose it’s not like anyone beyond Cornwall will be looking at it.
’ George tugged at his collar and fiddled with the top button, a gesture that put Evelyn in mind of the boy he’d once been, long before he’d joined the family business: a boy who sat on his own on the school bus, who preferred drawing to football and had once shared a bag of crisps with her.
‘Perhaps I overreacted,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘One little website can’t do much damage, can it?’