Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
A hotness prickled at Evelyn’s hairline because she suspected he was thinking the same thing as her, that the last time she’d set foot in this pub was on New Year’s Eve in 2019 and something unexpected had occurred on the stroke of midnight.
She remembered a cover band singing ‘Mr Brightside’ and how George had said it was good to see her after all these years and then someone started counting down from ten, nine, eight . . .
Her father had been at a Rotary event in Truro.
‘Go out, have fun for a change,’ he’d said and, surprising herself as well as the regulars at The Lugger, Evelyn had followed his advice.
It had taken a day to recover from the hangover, but far longer to put behind her the intense embarrassment of behaving so wantonly.
Come to think of it, their embrace had probably occurred on this very spot.
‘George,’ she said stiffly.
‘Can I get you something?’ He waited a beat. ‘G and T, wasn’t that your tipple?’
Evelyn gave him her sternest look.
‘Something soft then – elderflower – and crisps?’
Evelyn’s stomach betrayed her, letting out a low growl.
At a table in the corner, Evelyn ripped open the bag of crisps and as she savoured the first sharp tang of salt and vinegar she told him she’d only accepted his offer because she was hungry.
‘Naturally,’ George said. ‘Anyway, were you pleased with how the exhibition went the other night?’
Evelyn ate two more crisps, then took a sip of her sugary drink. ‘I don’t know that pleased is quite the right word. Afterwards, I felt quite . . . confused.’
‘But it was a success, wasn’t it? Surely the council bods were impressed? And everyone’s been sending in their forms and emails. It’s the talk of the town.’
‘Well, if by some miracle they do let me stay, it’ll be no thanks to you.’
‘Me?’ George looked affronted.
‘Yes, I saw you. Refusing to move out of the way for that London journalist. Quite uncalled for. We want to attract visitors, not scare them off.’
George wiped a line of foam from his lip. ‘I was trying to protect you, actually. And your museum. I did try and warn you, but you went ahead anyway.’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Evelyn, I tried to do it subtly, suggesting you might not want to attract too much attention. I mentioned the issues of provenance. But you didn’t want to know.’ George moved his head a little closer. ‘You still haven’t taken down the website. Evelyn, it’s there, for anyone to see.’
She waved him away, like an annoying fly. ‘I changed the label on the painting. Nobody was interested in your feeble attempts at fakery, George Rook.’
‘Not even Jacob?’
She fell silent. ‘Well, I haven’t quite worked out how to tell him,’ she confessed. ‘I think he’s more fragile than people realise. Not your average Warburn.’
George leaned forward and Evelyn reared back in alarm, but he was only after the last of the crisps. ‘Your father established your museum with a very specific purpose,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, to give me a job for life.’ Then, remembering her lace, she added, ‘And to give me hope.’
George looked down at a wet circle his beer glass had left on the table and ran his finger through it. ‘I’m sure that was part of it. But it also served Edwin Silver’s purposes.’
All at once, she didn’t want to hear any more because his words were slotting into place with the things Frances Parfait had said about her father in the worst possible way.
‘No,’ she pleaded. Putting her hands over her ears and closing her eyes, Evelyn felt a particular sort of shame, the sort that came from a lifetime of seeing the world in one way and then realising she was in a minority. And now she was being forced to shift her viewpoint, inch by inch.
When she opened her eyes again, George was looking at her with a sad expression.
‘Your father and mine had a long-standing arrangement,’ he began.
‘It started with the odd museum-grade piece that Edwin came by via his contacts. Meanwhile, my father knew people with money who fancied having a pharaoh’s scarab or a Roman mosaic in their Marbella villa.
They also liked the idea of being art lovers, which, as I told you, was where I came in. ’
‘Museum grade,’ Evelyn repeated to herself. Then, to George, she said, ‘I think I might have an idea of who his “contacts” might have been.’
George gave a long, slow nod as if he had an inkling too, but she didn’t dare say more.
‘The thing is, my dad’s customers are starting to die off and a few unsuspecting relatives have tried to get valuations for probate.
My dad covered his tracks pretty well, but I’ve had to field the odd tricky question.
All it needs is some fancy journalist to remark how odd it is that a small, out-of-the-way museum has not only a painting ‘possibly attributed to’ Alfred Wallis, but a 14th-century East Asian green porcelain vase and an ancient Egyptian gold and faience bead necklace and people will start to wonder why.
And then, they will start to question what else you might have tucked away in the dark corners of your museum. ’
Evelyn thought of the stacks of sealed-up cardboard boxes at the back of the shed, some of which reached the highest rafters. Then there were the multiple carrier bags hidden under the bed in the Cornish Life diorama and a few items her father had locked inside the display cabinets.
‘There are boxes I’ve never opened,’ she admitted. ‘You see, once I started collecting things myself, I almost forgot all his stuff was there. He said it was donations from fellow botany enthusiasts. And, frankly, the last thing I needed was more pressed flowers.’
‘The stuff my dad took off his hands – well, it wasn’t pressed flowers,’ George said soberly. They locked eyes, each beginning to comprehend the scale of the problem.
‘Boxes and boxes,’ Evelyn whispered, wondering if it was too late to add a double gin to her elderflower.
‘What I don’t get is why he did it,’ said George. ‘Was he creating a nest egg for you to discover one day?’
Evelyn considered this. ‘I’m not sure. Someone I met in London thought he was more like a magpie, a compulsive collector who took things because he could. My mother and I certainly never saw any money. It makes no sense.’
For so long, her museum had been her place of safety, its clutter acting as a barrier between her and the outside world. But now she felt as if that old boat shed was full of hidden dangers, traps that were lying in wait.