Moving On (A Polvellan Cornish Mystery Book 6) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Rachel’s Recipe | Spicy Cheese Straws | Ingredients

  Method

  The Polvellan Mystery Series

  Ghosts of the Vikings

  Murder on the Run

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Chapter One

  The knock on Jess’s front door was not one she recognised. ‘Coming!’ she called, tipping spicy cheese straws off the baking sheet and onto a cooling rack. She slid the tray into hot sudsy water in the washing-up bowl, pulled off her apron and paused to take a deep breath. Opening the door, she looked up into startlingly blue eyes.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Trevanion.’

  ‘Captain Carveth.’

  His smile deepened the lines bracketing his mouth and radiating from the outer corners of his eyes. Six feet tall and lean, he wore a navy polo shirt, chinos and deck shoes. Greying fair hair was clipped short, his face and arms were tanned and he held a large, flat, oblong package upright, resting the lower edge on the flagstone.

  ‘Please come in. I’m Jess.’ As soon as she said it she wondered if he might have preferred formality, but she used her married name as little as possible. For twenty-five years it had signalled her commitment to Alex. Then his death had revealed crushing debt, a mistress and a daughter. Reverting to her maiden name would have created hassle and paperwork, though, and she’d had enough of both.

  ‘Thank you, Jess. I’m Harry. I appreciate you seeing me at such short notice.’

  ‘A mysterious portrait discovered in the attic? How could I resist? I was so sorry to hear about your mother.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so, but unnecessary. Had Susan – my wife – not died I don’t think Mother would have survived her second heart attack. She told me she only hung on to be sure I could manage on my own.’ He pulled a wry face, his smile fond. ‘I’ll be a grandfather in the spring and she could still make me feel like a schoolboy.’

  The fact that he had lost his only son to an IED in Iraq then, barely a year later, his wife to cancer, was common knowledge in the village. So was his stoicism. Viv thought him cold and uncaring until Annie reminded her he was a trained soldier and just because it didn’t show didn’t mean it wasn’t felt.

  Jess appreciated his attempt to defuse potential awkwardness. ‘Age has nothing to do with it. You’re her son and mothers worry. I’m one myself and it goes with the territory.’ She had a sudden vivid image of Rob’s face on his last visit: the contrast in his manner and expression when he spoke of his wife Fiona, whose career mattered more to her than their unplanned child, and Shelley, baby Helen’s nanny. She pushed the thought away. They were adults and it was their business. Yet try as she might she could not entirely banish the concern that followed her like a shadow.

  She stepped back to let him in. ‘Congratulations. Do you know what they’re having?’

  He glanced at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Your daughter’s baby?’

  ‘Oh, Fliss hasn’t said. I’m not sure if she and Matt know. The important thing is the baby’s safe arrival in good health.’ He lifted the package. ‘Where would you like me to –?’

  ‘On the sofa.’

  He laid it flat, bending to undo the string and peel back brown paper then the material inside. Watching his back muscles flex beneath the stretchy fabric of his shirt, Jess thought of Tom, due back from Brittany at the end of the week. She hoped he was having a great time, sailing each day and catching up with long-time friends in the evenings. She missed him but wasn’t sorry he’d gone. Things had been tense between them in recent weeks. He wanted her to move into his house at the boatyard and when she’d refused, he had accused her of avoiding commitment. She wasn’t. But nor did she feel ready to abandon the first home that was entirely hers.

  ‘Here she is.’ Harry Carveth’s voice brought Jess back with a jolt. He straightened up, revealing a framed portrait that he propped upright against the sofa back.

  ‘Is this what she was wrapped in when you found her?’

  He nodded. ‘I left it on to protect the paint surface. But I didn’t realise quite how dirty –’

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’ Standing beside him, Jess lifted a corner of the material. Discoloured by yellowed staining and some small brown marks, it felt silky and supple.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think it’s a linen bedsheet.’

  ‘No, I meant why has it caught your interest?’

  ‘My nan inherited a pair of linen sheets from her mother, but they weren’t anywhere near as fine as this one.’

  ‘Are you serious? Sorry, that sounded – I didn’t –’

  ‘It’s OK, I know what you meant. Yes, it’s grubby and stained. But look at the monogram and embroidery. I’ve never seen anything like that.’ Jess turned the material so it caught the light and was very aware of him as he came closer to examine it. ‘I have a friend in the local quilters’ group who knows a lot about antique material. I’m sure she could help us with its age. Though obviously we can’t assume the painting has been wrapped in this same cloth since it was created.’

  ‘I certainly hope it wasn’t. That would be a terrible waste. Of the painting, I mean. But it never hung in my parents’ house while I was growing up. I would remember.’

  ‘How long has the house been in your family?’

  ‘At least three generations. It could well be longer.’

  ‘So the portrait might have been in the attic for a hundred years.’

  ‘What a sad thought.’

  Despite its fabric wrapping, the ornate frame looked dingy. So did the portrait. The varnish had turned yellow-brown, making the paint appear dull and muddy. Jess saw a young woman wearing a low-cut, high-waisted gown embroidered with leaves and flowers around the lace-edged neckline and on the cuffs of the short puffed sleeves. Her dark hair was drawn into a knot of ringlets high on her crown. Soft curls framed her face and tumbled over one side of her forehead. Her dark eyes were widely spaced and had a slight upward tilt.

  ‘She’s beautiful. It’s remarkably lifelike.’

  ‘If she’s family, which seems more likely than not, she will be from my father’s side.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘My maternal grandmother’s family were members of the Society of Friends, plain Quakers, very strict. Such a portrait, never mind the dress, would have been considered vanity. They disowned her when she committed the sin of marrying out.’

  About to say that religious intolerance had a lot to answer for, Jess bit her tongue and turned to the table to scribble a note on her pad.

  She bent forward and sniffed the painting’s surface, seeing his eyebrows arch as she straightened up. ‘Oil paints take a long time to dry and many years to lose their smell. After you phoned, I did some research on the internet and that was one of the things I learned.’ Stepping back, she gestured at the canvas. Shooting her a wry look he bent and inhaled.

  ‘I can’t smell anything – except dust.’

  She crossed to her printer and brought back a gleaming white sheet of paper. ‘Another tip to help give you some idea of what a portrait would have looked like when it was fresh, you hold a sheet of white paper next to the face. The contrast between the paper and the whites of the eyes will show the degree of discolouration.’

  ‘Th
ere’s certainly plenty of that.’

  Jess peered closely at the lower right-hand corner of the painting.

  ‘There’s no signature that I can see,’ he said. ‘But I did find a name on the back of the frame.’

  As he carefully turned the painting over and lifted it, Jess draped the sheet over the sofa back. ‘There.’ He pointed.

  She leaned down. It was very faint. ‘Ro-something? Rosemarie? I wonder why the artist didn’t sign it. And if that’s who she is, why only her first name,’ Jess murmured.

  ‘Because whoever commissioned it knew her so didn’t need further identification? What are you looking for now?’ he enquired as Jess studied the back of the painting.

  ‘See how brown the canvas is? That’s another sign of age. It would have been white or off-white when it was new. Some artists prepared their own, but many used professionally made canvases. These had the maker’s stamp on the back. If it’s there, it will tell us when and where it was made. I’ll have a proper look later.’ She straightened up. ‘Why would such a lovely portrait be hidden away in the attic?’ She glanced at him. ‘Did your parents have other portraits on the walls?’

  Irony twisted his mouth. ‘Indeed they did. We had them in the drawing room, the dining room and up the staircase. It curves from the hall to a wide, galleried landing. That is a lot of wall space. Every night I ran the gauntlet of expectation and disapproval.’ His tone was light but Jess found the remark revealing.

  ‘Yet you followed in their footsteps.’ Too personal and not her business. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t –’

  ‘No, it’s a fair comment.’ He paused and she wondered if he would explain. But when he spoke again he had shifted focus away from himself. ‘After my father died I suggested to Mother that she might be more comfortable somewhere smaller. She flatly refused even to consider moving. Nor did she want anything changed. She was very proud of our family’s military heritage. My father was in the Blues and Royals. His father was in the Life Guards, and my great-grandfather was in a cavalry regiment. I wish I could tell you more, but as a child I was more interested in Lego than family history.’

  She smiled. ‘Lego construction kits topped my sons’ Christmas present lists for years. We had cupboards full of boxes.’

  ‘Growing up, I focused on my future. The past held no interest. Outsiders assume family connections to a particular profession means your path will be smoothed. Perhaps in some situations that’s true. It certainly applied in the old days when army commissions could be bought. But I chose the Royal Engineers instead of Guards regiment. In fact my son Edward – Forgive me, you weren’t expecting a lecture.’

  Jess realised she hadn’t even invited him to sit down. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ She expected him to decline, say he ought to be going. She wouldn’t be sorry. He unsettled her. Not by anything he’d said or done. Officer and gentleman fitted him perfectly. No, it was – she didn’t know what it was. When their eyes met he didn’t try to hold her gaze. She didn’t feel uneasy or threatened, just aware, a response that left her flustered. For heaven’s sake, less than an hour ago she had been thinking about Tom, who loved her and wanted them to live together.

  Harry Carveth would leave and she would begin her research. She loved finding and following leads. When she hit a wall or ended up down a blind alley she accepted it as part of the journey. Dragged back to the present by stiff shoulders or sore eyes, she was often startled to realise how many hours had passed. Those sessions left her tired but with a glowing sense of achievement. She wanted that now, wanted the security of something familiar. The sooner he left the better.

  ‘How very kind. I’d love one.’

  Hoping he hadn’t seen her surprise, she smiled, indicating an armchair opposite the sofa. ‘Have a seat. It won’t be a minute.’ She opened her laptop then crossed to the kitchen, switched on the kettle, put several cheese straws onto a plate and set it on the low table within easy reach. ‘Do help yourself.’ Sitting down, she opened a search engine.

  He leaned forward, picked one up and bit into it. ‘I say, these are delicious. My wife used to make them but I always found them rather bland. They certainly didn’t taste like this.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Jess confessed.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘The spiciness. One day last winter I was trying to do several things at once and added two lots of mustard powder and paprika. Once it’s in the flour you can’t take it out again. But I don’t like waste so I baked them anyway and they were an instant hit.’

  ‘May I have another?’ He was already reaching for it as she nodded.

  ‘They’re always better fresh and these came out of the oven just before you arrived.’

  ‘That was excellent timing on my part.’

  The kettle boiled. Jess made tea. After placing the filled mugs carefully on the table she returned to her laptop.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ he enquired.

  ‘A site featuring dresses and hairstyles like those in the painting.’ She switched to another site that showed portraits, aware of him getting up and moving round behind her. He hadn’t leaned down, hadn’t invaded her space. Yet she was acutely aware of his closeness. She forced herself to concentrate.

  ‘Comparing these with the portrait, it looks as if the picture was painted between 1805 and 1815.’

  ‘Good Lord.’

  She bit back a smile at his astonishment. ‘Fashions can’t pinpoint a year but they give you a pretty good idea of the decade.’

  He resumed his seat and cradled the mug in his hands, resting tanned forearms on his thighs. ‘How long have you been doing these investigations?’

  ‘Nearly a year, though it seems a lot longer.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Each one has been different. That’s what made them fascinating. I love the challenge, and the more I do, the more I learn, and the more I enjoy it. Can I ask how you heard about me?’

  ‘I read your article in the village magazine. Free papers are usually all advertising and little content. But there’s a surprising amount to enjoy in Polvellan People.’

  ‘I’ll tell Claire. Claire Griffin, the vicar’s wife? She’ll be thrilled. The magazine was her idea. For the first couple of issues she was terrified it would fall flat. But it’s going from strength to strength. At our last get-together she said she was going to have to add a couple more pages to accommodate new advertisements and articles.’

  ‘Are you on the committee then?’

  Jess laughed. ‘Wash your mouth out.’

  ‘Committee is a dirty word?’

  ‘It is to Claire. She’s had experience and says they are the quickest and surest way to screw up a good idea.’

  His brows rose. ‘She does it all herself?’

  ‘No. There are a group of us who meet once a month and help in different ways. Gill Eathorne who runs the post office is the treasurer. She’s the quilter I mentioned. The others, Viv, Annie and Morwenna, are the outreach team. They encourage people who have special talents or interests to contribute an article, preferably with photos as they make a page more eye-catching.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m tea central. Being in the middle of the village means my place is convenient for everyone. Also I enjoy baking and they are my taste-testers. Of course there may come a time when things need to be more official – on the magazine I mean. But it’s still early days.’ Putting down her mug, she reached for a notebook and pen. ‘May I have the names and dates of birth of your parents?’

  ‘Certainly. Father was Henry James Carveth, born on 27th March 1928. He served in the Blues and Royals. My mother was Frances Lydia Treleven before they married. She was born on 6th June 1932.’

  She was aware of him watching her as she wrote.

  ‘My paternal grandfather was Frederick Roland Carveth, and my grandmother was Louise Emma Harvey. She was one of the Hayle Harveys. I don’t know their birth dates though …’

  ‘Not a
problem.’ Jess glanced up. ‘I’ll find them. I’ll probably have to go back several more generations to reach the approximate date that the portrait was painted.’

  Swallowing the last of his tea, he put the mug on the table and stood up. ‘Thank you, Jess. I’ll leave the lady in your very capable hands. Is that all right? She won’t be in your way?’

  ‘If you hadn’t offered to leave her, I’d have asked. There are bound to be other clues. Discovering who she was will take us a long way towards finding out why she was banished to the attic. I can’t wait to get started.’ She hesitated, still diffident when it came to talking money. She knew how hard she worked on each investigation, and so far every one of her clients had been delighted. ‘Captain –’

  ‘Harry,’ he reminded. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to call you Mrs Trevanion.’

  ‘OK, Harry. You know my hourly rate, and I believe I mentioned that fees are charged to access certain sites and for copies of documents. It’s just that research for this one may be more extensive and time-consuming –’

  His gesture dismissed her concerns. ‘Whatever it takes, Jess. I want to know who she was.’ He offered his hand. When she took it his grip was warm and firm. ‘May I ring you towards the end of the week? I’d like to know how you’re getting on.’

  ‘If you like.’

  He released her hand, a smile tilting the corners of his mouth. ‘Should a vacancy occur on your taste-testing panel …’

  ‘I’ll add you to the waiting-list.’

  ‘Fair enough. Goodbye, Jess.’

  ‘’Bye, Harry.’ Smiling, she closed the door. I’d like to know how you’re getting on. He meant the investigation, idiot.

  She carried their plates and mugs from the table to the worktop by the sink then walked round the sofa, turned the portrait over and gazed at it. Her own words echoed in her head. I love the challenge.

  The sound of a knock made her turn. The door opened and a head appeared.