The Moonlit Garden

by Bomann, Corina

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 Corina Bomann and Ullstein Buchverlage GmbH

  Translation copyright © 2015 Alison Layland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Der Mondscheingarten by Ullstein Buchverlage GmbH in Berlin in 2013. Translated from German by Alison Layland. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503950641

  ISBN-10: 1503950646

  Cover design by M. S. Corley

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Prologue

  London, 1920

  Helen Carter gazed in bewilderment at her reflection in the mirror. Her deathly pale cheeks were marbled by rivulets of tears mingled with makeup, and her exotic, amber-colored eyes gleamed strangely below thick layers of dark eye shadow, making her look like a silent movie star.

  Helen had never been particularly interested in the cinema—her passion was for music alone—but at that moment she really did feel like a character in a movie. The scene that had just played out could easily have been penned by one of those scribblers who hung around outside film studios, screenplays in hand, in the hope of catching the eye of a producer.

  Helen laughed bitterly before letting out a brief sob. Once again, her eyes filled with tears, which were stained black before sliding down her cheeks.

  A few minutes ago everything had still been fine. Her glittering career as a violinist beckoned; the world was her oyster. She had been due to play Tchaikovsky on the stage of a London concert hall in half an hour. King George V would be present with his queen consort, an honor they only rarely granted to musicians.

  Helen had always been lucky. She had been discovered as a child prodigy at the age of seven, and now, having just turned eighteen, she was fêted as one of the best musicians in the world. In Italy, the newspapers were already declaring her, an Englishwoman, to be the true heir of Paganini. When her agent had shown her the headline, she had smiled. Let people believe what they would! She knew to whom she owed her success. She remembered only too well the promise she had made.

  And now that woman had turned up. She had followed her like a shadow almost everywhere she went for three days now. As Helen walked the streets of London, she caught glimpses of her. Whenever her gaze wandered out the window while practicing, she saw her across the street. The first day Helen had thought it a mere coincidence, but as the sightings were repeated over the next two days, she began to feel nervous. Every so often she encountered crazy admirers, women included, who would do anything to get her on her own for a moment.

  Trevor Black, her agent, had dismissed her concern when she told him about it.

  “It’s only an old woman, harmless, if a little mad.”

  “Harmless? Mad people are never harmless! Perhaps she’s hiding a knife in her bag,” Helen had replied, but Trevor seemed convinced that the old woman meant her no harm.

  “If she’s still bothering you after the concert, we’ll inform the police.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because they’d only laugh at us. Just look at her!”

  Trevor had pointed through the window to where the stranger could be seen at the end of the street. Her figure was a little stooped, her clothes old-fashioned, and her features Asiatic. Helen had no idea why this woman should be stalking her. She was momentarily reminded of her childhood, but she quickly pushed the thought to one side.

  She was now sure that the stranger really had been watching her, waiting for an opportunity to speak to Helen alone. She had somehow managed to worm her way into the dressing room shortly after Helen had sent Rosie off to see how full the auditorium was.

  Helen’s first instinct had been to call for help, but there had been something hypnotic about the woman that made it impossible for her to cry out. What the visitor told her during the brief conversation made something give way inside her, and Helen shouted at the woman to leave.

  She had obeyed, but her assertion still hung in the room. Of course it was possible that she was lying, but something told Helen that was not the case. Everything fit together. Long-forgotten images, memories of words spoken, thoughts—they all suddenly made sense.

  Helen looked at the violin lying nearby. Before her visitor had appeared, she had wanted to practice a couple of particularly difficult passages one final time, but there was no hope of that now.

  With shaking hands, Helen gripped the instrument and turned it over. As her fingers slid over the rose burned into it, a face appeared in her mind’s eye. The face of the woman who had given her this violin. Was it really possible?

  As the door behind Helen was pushed open, the violin made a strange, hollow sound. A broken string lashed her skin, leaving a red welt. Shaken, Helen watched drops of blood well up along the cut as the memory of her cruel music teacher stirred a surge of anger inside her. In her rage she felt like jumping up and throwing the violin into a corner, but Rosie’s kind face appeared behind her in the mirror.

  “We have a full house!” Her smile faded. “My goodness!” Her dresser’s hand flew to her mouth in shock as she saw the blood oozing from Helen’s wrist. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s nothing,” Helen replied, summoning her self-control. She hardly felt the pain, as the anger inside her was stronger, drowning out all physical sensation. “One of the strings broke. I was careless.”

  She should have dealt with the violin right away, but she was unable to rise from her stool. She doubted she would ever be able to rise again.

  “Can I fetch you anything, Miss Carter?” Rosie asked helplessly, but Helen shook her head.

  “No, it’s fine, Rosie, I don’t need anything.” The words felt heavier on her lips than they should have.

  “But you’re due on stage soon, madam. The violin.”

  Helen nodded absently. Yes, she was due on stage. Just as the woman’s visit had changed something deep inside her, it had also stolen her confidence. Perhaps it would mean the end of her career, but at that moment all Helen wanted was to be away from there and rid of that damned violin—the instrument that had been given to her by a dead woman—which had now injured her as her music teacher had.

  With the violin in her hand, Helen rose and, head held high, walked out of the dressing room. She ignored Rosie’s call, just as she ignored the broken string that swung against her calves. From the concert hall she could hear the sounds of the musicians tuning their instruments. A wasted effort since the
concert was not going to take place. The expectant murmuring of the audience was also in vain.

  She made her way determinedly to the rear exit, ignoring the astounded looks of the stage crew. I don’t belong here. I don’t want all this. I only want peace; I want . . . clarity.

  As Helen pushed open the door, the violin in her hand gave out a grating note, like a warning. Clammy, cold air rushed against her. At this time of year the London nights were particularly unpleasant, but she didn’t care. The cut on her wrist throbbed; the violin was suddenly heavy. The dead woman’s eyes haunted Helen, driving her to run into the street outside the concert hall.

  Helen heard a bloodcurdling horn blaring. She froze and raised her arms to shield herself against the glaring lights that sped toward her.

  1

  Berlin, January 2011

  With the hands of the big grandfather clock showing just before five, Lilly Kaiser was sure that no one else would be coming into her shop. Huddled beneath turned-up coat collars, with caps pulled down over their faces, people were hurrying past the window without so much as a glance at the display.

  No one was interested in antiques during the first few weeks of the new year. Purses and bank accounts were empty, and people weren’t looking for special pieces for their loved ones. Things would improve in spring and summer when the tourists began to return. Until then she had to find a way to get through the slack period.

  With a sigh, Lilly sank down on a small Louis XV stool and looked up through the window at the sky. Snow had been falling incessantly for days. Her gaze fell on the reflection of her face in the shiny polished side of a little cupboard that belonged to her growing army of unsold items.

  Her delicate, almost girlish features looked pale and drawn, with her red hair and green eyes providing the only spots of color. The Christmas holidays had not done much to revive her—her annual visit to her parents had once again ended with them entreating her to find herself a new man.

  However much she loved her parents, that had been too much for Lilly. She returned to Berlin, her nerves in shreds, to spend New Year’s alone in her apartment before carrying out an inventory of the stock in her shop.

  That was now done, leaving nothing to do but wait for customers. Lilly hated to be idle, but what else was she to do? She wondered if she should simply close up shop and go on an eight-week vacation. On her return, the snow would be gone and the shop full again.

  She was torn from her thoughts by the sound of the bell over the door, a piece from a country house that always conjured up the image of servants scurrying hither and thither.

  An old man stood on the threshold as if wondering whether to come in, snowflakes glistening on his coat and slowly melting in the warmth of the room. His weathered face could have belonged to a salty sea dog from a commercial. Under his arm was an old violin case, battered and worn. Did he want to sell it?

  Lilly rose, briskly brushed down her knitted cardigan, and moved to greet the man.

  “Hello, what can I do for you?”

  The man studied her, then smiled hesitantly. “I assume you own this shop?”

  “Yes, I do.” Lilly smiled as she tried to size up her customer. Was he an elderly musician on his way home from a recital? A violin teacher who fought weekly battles with mediocre pupils? “How can I help you?”

  The man looked at her again as if searching for something in her face. Then he took the violin case from under his arm.

  “I have something for you here. Will you permit me to show it to you?”

  Lilly did not want to buy anything else that month, but it was so rare for someone to offer her a musical instrument that she was unable to refuse.

  “Could you come over here?”

  She led the man to a simple table near the counter, where she sat the customers who came to offer her items. There was usually little she could use—people tended to think that the trinkets they found in their attics or inherited in relatives’ wills were more valuable than they turned out to be—and she was all too often subject to a torrent of reproach when she claimed that a precious porcelain figurine was merely bric-a-brac.

  But as the old man lifted the cover of the violin case, Lilly suspected she was about to see something special. The threadbare, moth-eaten lining, which must once have been deep red, cradled a violin. An old violin. Lilly was no expert, but she estimated that the instrument must have notched up at least a hundred years, if not more.

  “Feel free to take it out,” the old man said, watching her closely.

  Lilly obeyed a little hesitantly. She had the greatest respect for musical instruments, even though she did not play anything herself. As she curled her fingers around the neck, she thought of her friend Ellen, whose profession and passion was restoring treasures like this. She would have been able to estimate the value of this one in seconds.

  As Lilly gazed at the violin—its beautiful varnish, its uniquely formed scroll—she noticed a drawing of a rose on the back. It looked sketchy and very stylized, almost as if it were the work of a child. Though it was definitely recognizable as a rose.

  What violin maker would decorate an instrument with an ornament like this? Lilly made a mental note to call Ellen that evening. She was sure she would be unable to afford this violin, but she nevertheless wanted to tell her friend about the image—and perhaps the man would allow her to take a photo.

  “I’m afraid I probably don’t have enough money to buy this from you,” she said as she laid the instrument carefully back in its case. “It must be worth a fortune.”

  “There’s no doubt that it is,” the old man replied thoughtfully. “I detect a note of regret in your voice. You’d like this violin, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, it’s . . . it’s so special.”

  “Well, what would you say if I told you I’m not here to sell it?”

  Lilly raised her eyebrows in amazement. “So why are you here?”

  The man smiled briefly. “It belongs to you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lilly looked at him in confusion. Surely she had misheard him? “You want to give me this violin?” She realized she had spoken this absurd thought aloud.

  “No, that’s not strictly true, since you can only give something away if you own it. This violin belongs to you. At least it does if the registry office is to be believed. Unless you’re not Lilly Kaiser.”

  “Of course I am, but—”

  “Then it’s your violin. And there’s something else that goes with it.”

  His warm smile did nothing to dispel Lilly’s bewilderment. Common sense told her that the whole thing must be a trick, or at least a mistake. What reason could this man have to give her a violin? She had never seen him before in her life.

  “Look beneath the lining,” he persisted. “Perhaps you’ll find something there that explains things.”

  Hesitantly at first, then with trembling hands, Lilly drew out a piece of mildewed paper and unfolded it.

  “Sheet music?” she murmured in surprise.

  The title of the piece was “The Moonlit Garden.” The notes looked shaky, as if they had been written out in a great hurry. There was no composer’s name.

  “Where did you get the violin?” Lilly asked. “And how did you know—”

  She was interrupted by the doorbell and looked up from the sheet music to see the man striding quickly away, like a thief about to be arrested by the police.

  At first Lilly just stood there, frozen, but then she ran to the door, tore it open, and ran outside to the accompaniment of the bell’s angry clanging. But the old man, whose name she didn’t even know, had vanished. The frost bit hard into her cheeks and hands, mercilessly penetrating her clothes and eventually driving her back into the shop.

  The violin was still lying there in its case, and it was only then that Lilly noticed she was still holding the page of sheet music.

  What was she to do now? Again she looked out, but there was no sign of the old man.

  A shiver ran
down her spine as her gaze fell on the distinctively colored violin, its taut strings against the slim neck, and the delicate lines of the scroll. What a wonderful instrument! She still couldn’t believe that it was really hers. And what about the sheet of music? Why had he drawn her attention to it?

  A bang startled her. She turned around in fright to see a crowd of kids running noisily past the shop. A snowball clung to the first letter of “Kaiser Antiques” on the window.

  Lilly breathed again, and her gaze returned to the violin. I ought to show it to Ellen. She may know who made it—and with a bit of luck she’ll also be able to find out who composed the piece.

  Now certain that no more customers were about to appear, let alone another old man with some mysterious musical instrument, she went to the door, turned the sign to “Closed,” and fetched her coat.

  2

  With the violin case under her arm, Lilly climbed the steps to her apartment on Berliner Street. The house was old and stood next door to a boarded-up theater that had been vacant and waiting for an owner or tenant for several years.

  The steps creaked beneath Lilly’s feet, her familiarity with the house enfolding her. A variety of smells hovered on the staircase, a different one for each floor. On the ground floor it was cats; on the middle floor, cabbage; and at the top, the musty smell of damp laundry, even though none of the tenants hung their clothes out to dry on the landing. Here and there the smells faded at the edges, but they were regularly renewed as someone cooked a Sunday dinner, let the cats out, or did whatever else caused that floor’s characteristic smell.

  Lilly’s floor was the one with the hint of damp laundry. She had four more sets of stairs to go before she could block out the mustiness by closing her door behind her. As she climbed, the feeling slowly came back into her frozen cheeks. Her hands were also numb, despite her gloves. Lilly could hardly wait to make herself a cup of coffee and ring Ellen.

  She was halfway to her sanctuary when she met Sunny Berger, the twenty-year-old tattoo-covered student who sometimes helped out in her shop and had a very good eye for antiques. Customers would occasionally look askance at her when they noticed the images on her skin, but Sunny usually won them over quickly with her charm.