Chapter Forty-Six
‘But don’t they want to come and see it first? It’s an awful lot of money,’ she asked George.
‘Evelyn, the rich delegate jobs like that. That’s why they have art dealers,’ he explained. ‘But the buyer is happy for the painting to stay here on loan, so it can be the star of your exhibition. I suppose it’s a way to introduce the painting to the art world without being too obvious or showy.’
‘Someone rich being obvious and showy? As if,’ she replied with a smile.
But the more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea of an exhibition. Alongside the Lanyon, she could include other paintings and objects relating to the sea.
When George wrote down the final figure offered, she looked at it in amazement.
It wasn’t just the amount she found gratifying, it was more the thought that her mother, Elsbeth Silver, had found this painting and passed it on to Evelyn.
It had nothing to do with Edwin Silver or all the ways in which he’d made the museum feel tainted.
Its discovery could be the start of something new.
When she told Della about the painting and how it would be the centrepiece in a new exhibition, she went into overdrive. ‘Right, we’re going to need a committee meeting,’ she announced and started furiously typing messages in the old WhatsApp group.
‘I’m going to volunteer The Cake Shed, aka myself and Sariah, to do catering.’ Della paused, smoothing down her hair, which had turned from its old livid purple to an attractively faded pink. ‘Don’t worry, I’m strictly on drinks duty,’ she added.
‘How about Alison does the PR this time?’ Evelyn suggested. ‘It might give her a bit of a boost.’
‘Good plan. We’re going to need some people on security, too. This painting is very valuable. It’s probably worth more than all the other stuff in your museum put together,’ she said as if explaining it to a child.
‘Is that so?’ Evelyn replied lightly, making a silent tally of the ancient Roman busts, gold coins and the priceless Egyptian urns that had secretly languished at the back of the museum for decades. ‘I’ll ask around. I know someone who might know someone,’ Evelyn added.
Della looked askance. ‘Evelyn Silver, you are one dark horse.’
Evelyn wasn’t really, but she did know that George had paid a visit to Roy Pinlow’s older brother, Grant. ‘I told him I had a new contact on the force and I’d happily fill them in on the Pinlows’ past business interests unless Roy reined himself in. I think they got the message.’
‘George – I never had you down as a grass,’ Evelyn had said, shocked at such double dealing.
‘Actually, I got the idea from a TV show where someone pulled a similar stunt and the criminals took him at his word.’
Evelyn wasn’t up to date on all the latest crime series, but she’d asked George which one, anyway.
‘Oh, an old favourite: Inspector Morse. I used to watch it with my dad,’ George said and she’d let slip a small smile.
Evelyn left Della typing suggestions (aka instructions) into the group chat and retired to her own boat shed.
If they were going to have an art exhibition, she wanted to include some items that felt meaningful to locals too – like the broken boat name board for the Cora-May.
George said he’d mentioned the idea to Bob, but she was beginning to suspect that Bob was deliberately avoiding her.
She’d seen him a couple of times in the distance, but each time he’d swiftly disappeared.
Once, he’d been walking towards the beach, but when he spotted Evelyn he did an about-turn.
Then she’d seen him alone on the Three Wise Men’s bench and waved, but by the time she’d made it over he was gone.
She didn’t blame him – she knew from experience that it felt easier to run away from grief than confront it.
But she also knew that it caught up with you in the end.
It was a few days later that Bob appeared in the doorway of her museum, a dark silhouette against the sunlit harbourside.
‘Come in,’ she called, encouragingly. She’d been trying to get George’s hulking printer to ‘talk’ to her laptop and introductions were not going well.
‘You won’t stop, will you,’ Bob said, from the doorway, his voice breaking. ‘You keep asking and asking.’
She hadn’t realised talking about the Cora-May going down would be so hard for him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There’s really no need, if you don’t want to.’
‘Ah, it’s only a matter of time before you work it out, so I may as well tell you myself.’ He came closer and she could feel the pent-up emotion radiating off him.
‘No, really . . .’ She came out from behind her desk to meet him. The last thing she wanted to do was upset Gilbert Larkwood’s only son.
She looked at his weatherworn face and saw pain. And then her eyes dropped down, because Bob Larkwood was holding something in his hands, something that looked both new and totally familiar.
It was a small piece of lace with a pattern of daisies and she knew without checking that its ragged edges would match hers perfectly.