Read Chapter 25: The Broken Beam

The morning arrived with a clean Cornish sky, the kind that made postcards of itself, and Imogen allowed herself a moment of hope. The Saltwater Inn hummed with life—two couples from Bristol taking coffee in the breakfast room, a lone walker studying the tide tables by the window, the smell of fresh bread drifting from the kitchen. Her first proper guests. Her first real test.

She was clearing a table when a shadow fell across the doorway.

Elias stood there, thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets, wearing the expression of a man who had come bearing news he was enjoying far too much. Behind him, a thin woman in a council-branded high-vis jacket consulted a clipboard with theatrical seriousness.

“Imogen,” Elias said, stepping inside as though he owned the place. Which, she supposed, was the point. “Lovely morning. Shame about the structural integrity.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ah. You haven't heard.” He gestured at the woman. “This is Mrs. Dryden from Building Control. Penzance district. She’s been reviewing the surveyor’s report I commissioned.”

Imogen set the plates down slowly. “You commissioned a surveyor? On my building? Without telling me?”

“On the building I intend to purchase,” Elias corrected smoothly. “Due diligence, Imogen. Standard practice.”

Mrs. Dryden cleared her throat. “Ms. Renfrew, I’m afraid I’ve serving a temporary prohibition notice. The load-bearing beam supporting the eastern elevation of the original structure—the one that runs above the dining room—has been found to have significant fungal decay. There’s visible sagging on the upper floor. It’s a safety hazard.”

“Wait. Wait.” Imogen’s pulse quickened. “That beam has been there for two hundred years. I’ve had guests sleeping above it. You can’t just—there’s nothing wrong with it. I’ve been here all summer.”

“With respect,” Mrs. Dryden said, not sounding respectful at all, “you’ve been redecorating, not surveying. The report was conducted by a certified engineer.”

“Who was paid for by the man who wants to buy this property for a fraction of its value.”

Elias spread his hands. “I’m merely looking out for public safety. Can’t have a beam collapse on a family holiday, can we? Think of the headlines.”

Imogen’s hands were shaking. She felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her—the money she’d put into new curtains, new bedding, new signage, all of it spent on a building that might now be declared uninhabitable. “What does this mean? Practically?”

Mrs. Dryden consulted her clipboard. “You have fourteen days to either submit a structural engineer’s report demonstrating the beam is safe—which, given the current assessment, would require substantial evidence to the contrary—or complete remedial works to the satisfaction of the council. In the interim, you’re prohibited from accommodating guests in any rooms above the affected beam.”

“Fourteen days.” Imogen did the math. Repair costs for a load-bearing beam of that age and size, with listed building consent, with an engineer and a specialist timber contractor? She’d priced similar work for clients in London. She knew what it cost. The number was so far beyond her remaining savings that she almost laughed.

“Of course,” Elias said, stepping closer, “I could make this all go away. The covenant buyer, the inn, the whole messy business. I’ll write you a cheque today—more than the valuation, more than you’d get on the open market given this little complication. You walk away. I deal with the beam. Everyone wins.”

“Everyone except the people who trusted me to run this place,” Imogen said. “Except the history I’m supposed to be honoring.”

“History,” Elias repeated, as though tasting something sour. “You know, that beam is probably the one Dorothea’s father installed after the original collapsed in the storm of 1889. Killed two fishermen who were sheltering inside. Did your great-aunt ever tell you that story?”

Imogen felt the words like a slap. She knew he was trying to unsettle her, to remind her that the Renfrew legacy was soaked in tragedy and debt. But she had grown up here too. She knew what the old stories cost.

“Whether Dorothea told me or not,” she said, “it doesn’t give you the right to sabotage me.”

“Sabotage? I’m offering to save you.”

“You’re offering to win.”

Mrs. Dryden shuffled uncomfortably. “Ms. Renfrew, if you could sign the acknowledgment of the notice, I’ll be on my way. I’m sorry for the disruption.”

Imogen signed. Her signature looked like a child’s, jagged and angry. She handed the clipboard back and refused to meet Elias’s eye as he wished her a pleasant afternoon and followed the inspector out.

The guests from Bristol had stopped pretending not to listen. One of them caught her gaze and offered a sympathetic grimace. “We’re on the ground floor,” she said. “We could stay? It’s really lovely here.”

“I don’t—I don’t know yet,” Imogen managed. “I’ll need to check what the notice covers. I’m so sorry.”

She retreated to the kitchen and stood with her hands flat on the worn wooden table, breathing through the panic. Fourteen days. She had twelve thousand pounds left in savings—barely a third of what the repair would cost, even if she could find a contractor willing to work with listed building restrictions on a summer timeline. The insurance wouldn’t cover pre-existing decay. The covenant forbade selling outside the stipulations. Elias had her cornered, and he knew it.

And worst of all, there was a part of her that wanted to take the money. A clean exit. A return to London. No more mysteries, no more salt-damp sheets and sleepless nights chasing the ghost of a woman who had chosen silence over explanation.

Then she remembered Dorothea’s letter. *The tide always reveals what the shore tries to hide.*

Imogen pulled out her phone and found the email from Alfred Trevelyan, the restorer in Penzance. *The concealed ledger behind the deed binding has been successfully separated. I can have it ready for collection by Thursday.*

Thursday. Today was Monday. Fourteen days left. She didn’t know yet what the ledger contained, or whether it would help her keep the inn at all. But it was something. It was the one thing Elias didn’t know about.

She grabbed her keys and headed for the door, texted Toby with shaking hands: *Need to go to Penzance. Now. It’s urgent.*

His reply came almost instantly. *I’m driving. Be there in five.*