Olivia pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘There’s some additional correspondence regarding the loss of the ship. The VOC weren’t happy with Maarten when they learned that he wasn’t with the ship when it went down. He was on the mainland in Den Hoorn overseeing some business on behalf of the Governor when it sank. According to his account, he planned to join La Dragon before it sailed, but the storm hit so quickly he couldn’t reach Texel harbour in time. All the crew drowned, along with Blanche and Anna. The cargo couldn’t be retrieved. What a terrible loss. But there were many similar tragedies in the area, unfortunately.’ She clicked open a new document. ‘Looks like Maarten lived a few years longer. He remarried and died in 1656 on one of the Javanese plantations his family owned. And according to his death notice, he never returned to Holland.’

‘Oh,’ I said, my spirits sinking. Poor Anna. She’d probably assumed she was safe with the Horsts. Instead, her decision to leave Catharina had led to her death.

Perhaps Olivia was thinking the same thing because she was quiet for a long time. Eventually, she swivelled around in her chair.

‘I seem to recall a mention of Maarten Horst that may or may not be relevant to your interests. It’s upstairs. There are some exquisite old quilts up there. Why don’t you take a look while I check some more records?’

‘I might go back to the store,’ Nico said, touching my arm. ‘I don’t like leaving it unattended for too long. You’ll be fine with Olivia.’

The quilts in the display case upstairs were indeed beautiful, the intricate floral patterns suggestive of chintz palampore designs, crafted in 18th-century India and brought to the island by visiting merchants. My hand itched to reach through the glass and stroke the delicate fabric, but of course, I made no such transgressions.

‘This is a reproduction of the painting I was telling you about.’ Olivia beckoned me over to a large oil painting of a storm-tossed ship. Towering waves crested over the ship’s bowsprit and its torn sails fluttered in the wind like shredded silk. The vessel had clearly foundered and the storm front had swept it onto a cluster of jagged rocks. The crew, imperilled, could do nothing but pray.

‘It was painted in the 17th century by a local artist Aelbert Van Loo who went on to train under Pieter de Molijn,’ Olivia said. ‘He painted this extraordinary seascape when he was only seventeen. We’re quite proud of the association. We’d much prefer to have the original, of course, but the Rijksmuseum acquired it years ago through a private sale so we have no legal claim.’

She grasped my arm suddenly.