She kept reading.The entries continued without interruption.Same handwriting, same level of detail.Daily weather, ship traffic, and routine maintenance.As if nothing had changed.
She pulled out another logbook and found financial records.A separate ledger tracked expenses and income.After March 1943, the entries showed Private Trust Funding as the source for all operational costs.Significant amounts, enough to maintain a full staff and keep the lighthouse running at peak efficiency.
The government funded lighthouses.Who was fundingthislighthouse?
She dug deeper and found a manila folder of photographs.Most showed the lighthouse from various angles and documentation of structural changes over the years.But one photo made her stop.
It showed the interior of the lighthouse.Five men stood around a table covered with equipment.Not navigation equipment.Radio equipment.Sophisticated-looking devices with dials, switches, and antenna connections.
She turned the photo over.Someone had written on the back in faded ink:Henry Lockhart and Academic Consultants, 1940.
Academic consultants?At a lighthouse?
She looked at the photo again.Henry Lockhart stood in the center, a tall man with serious eyes.The other men wore suits and ties, inappropriate for lighthouse work.They looked like professors or researchers, not sailors or engineers.
And that equipment definitely wasn’t standard lighthouse gear.
She took several photos with her phone, then carefully replaced everything in the boxes.Her mind raced with questions.
She found Winnie in the keeper’s quarters, sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of tea and the newspaper.
“Find what you needed?”Winnie asked.
“Yes.The festival photos are perfect.”She set her bag on the table.“But I found something else.Something I don’t understand.”
Winnie’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes.“What’s that?”
She pulled out her phone, scrolled past the photos of the festival, and showed Winnie the photo of the financial ledger entry.“This says the lighthouse was under private funding in 1943.But the government pays for lighthouse maintenance and use, right?How is that possible?”
“The government stopped funding it.We fought for private ownership instead.”Winnie’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact.“My grandfather established a trust to cover operational costs.”
“That must have been expensive.”
“It was important to the family.”
She showed Winnie the photo of Henry Lockhart and the academic consultants.“What about this?Who were these men?”
Winnie studied the photo for a long moment.“I don’t know.I wasn’t born when that was taken.But men in suits came to visit my father sometimes.Important-looking men with briefcases and serious faces.”
“Academic consultants?”
“That’s what my father called them.He’d tell me to go play with Sally when they arrived.Said they had boring grown-up business to discuss.”Winnie smiled slightly.“I thought they were probably university professors.My father was interested in maritime history and lighthouse engineering.I assumed they were colleagues.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“My father didn’t discuss those details of his work with me.I was a child, and then a young woman with other concerns.By the time I was old enough to ask serious questions, he’d had his heart attack and passed away.”Winnie set down her teacup.“Whatever secrets he kept are buried with him.”
She looked at the photo again.Something about it nagged at her.The equipment, the formal dress, the serious expressions.It didn’t look like an academic consultation.It looked like something else.
“What about the private trust?Is it still active?”
“Yes.It provides some funding for lighthouse maintenance.The cottage rentals cover the rest.Usually.”Winnie stood and refilled her teacup.“Why all these questions?I thought you were researching the festival.”
“I am.I was.But this is interesting.”
“History usually is.”Winnie returned to her seat.“But some history is just history.Old photos and financial records from years ago.Fascinating for researchers, perhaps, but not particularly relevant to your festival planning.”
It was a gentle dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless.
