She pulled up at a gateway made of two granite posts, each carved with a Celtic cross. The wrought iron gates were closed, held secure by a big padlock. The driveway was lined with yew trees, bent by a constant west wind, and beyond it I could see only part of a gray stone manor house.

“So who lives there now?” I asked.

“I don’t really know. I understood that it was someone from the City, a financier of some sort, who bought it but wasn’t going to be there most of the time. Granny thought it was an awful waste but of course she had to sell to the highest bidder. We can find out if anyone is in residence. Perhaps there is a caretaker who can show us around. I’d like you to see it. It was such a great house with grounds going down to the river and a little dock. That was where we used to launch our ill-fated rafts.” She laughed at the memory.

“So why is everything beginning with ‘Tre’ around here?” I asked. “Trewoma, Trengilly?”

“‘By Tre, Pol and Pen, ye shall know the Cornishmen,’” Belinda quoted. “The Cornish language. I think ‘Pen’ means ‘head’ but I’m not sure what ‘Pol’ and ‘Tre’ mean. There are certainly a lot of them.”

Shortly after leaving Trengilly Manor we came into the village of Rock. This looked more like a proper village with a church, a row of shops and a pub called the Trefusis Arms.

“See, what did I tell you?” Belinda said. “They own this part of Cornwall.”

We left the car outside the churchyard and went into the newsagent’s, which was also the post office and also sold everything from fishing tackle to sweets. When asked about a possible place to stay the pleasant-faced woman behind the counter frowned. “I can’t think of anywhere right around here, my lovies. Old Bob at the pub stopped letting out rooms when his wife died. I reckon the only place with fancy hotels would be Newquay and most of them close for the winter, don’t they?”

“It doesn’t have to be fancy,” Belinda said. “I’d like to be close enough to the property I’ve just inherited so that I can supervise any renovations.”

“And what property would that be?” The woman looked really interested now. A good topic for local gossip, obviously.

“It’s called White Sails. The cottage on the rocks, the other side of Little Rumps.”

“That used to belong to Trengilly, didn’t it? Old Lady Knott’s place?”

“That’s right. She was my grandmother. I’ve inherited her estate.”

The woman’s face broke into a broad smile. “I knew there was something familiar about you. What was your name again?”

“Belinda. Belinda Warburton-Stoke.”