“I wish I could,” Lilly said dejectedly. “It’s been a while now, but I still find myself waiting for Peter in the evenings, wishing I could talk to him.”
“That’s only natural. And I’d be heartless if I advised you not to. But maybe you really should get out more, meet new people. The fact that you’re here with me now is a step in the right direction, but there must be some great places to go in Berlin.”
“Of course, but . . . ” Lilly pressed her lips together. Ellen was right, but whenever she was out and about, she found it difficult to enjoy herself. It hadn’t always been like that.
“But what?” Ellen insisted.
“But everything feels wrong without him. If I walk in the park, I seem to see happy couples everywhere, and it tears me apart to see them kissing in each other’s arms. I see families and think, that could have been us.”
Ellen thought for a moment in silence. Lilly was aware of a raven’s croak and the beating of its wings as it flew overhead.
“I don’t want to sound harsh, but what has happened is something you can’t change or ever get back,” her friend finally ventured. “Peter would have wanted you to carry on, to live your life. He would have wanted you to see the world, for as long as you’re able. He wouldn’t have wanted you to get bogged down in memories.”
“But how can I free myself from them? How can I get him out of my head?”
“You can’t and you shouldn’t. But perhaps there’s a way of . . . of getting your life back.”
Getting her life back? At first Lilly wanted to protest, but she soon saw that Ellen had a point. She breathed, she saw the world around her, she existed. But with Peter she had felt completely different—more full of life.
They walked on through the garden for a while in silence, circled the small well that was surrounded by a cast-iron fence and covered with boards, and passed two elegantly painted benches that waited for the snow to melt so the house’s occupants could once again sit and enjoy the sunshine.
“Have you really not found a man you could be interested in?” Ellen said, restarting the conversation.
Lilly shook her head. “No, no one. I only seem to meet old men who give me some mysterious gift before disappearing without a trace.”
“Well, that’s something I’ve never experienced. I’m really looking forward to seeing your treasure. I’ve told Terence to rearrange an appointment I had tomorrow morning to give me time for you.”
“Terence?”
“My secretary.”
“What are you going to do?”
“My usual procedure. I’ll examine it closely and then send a few samples of the varnish to our laboratory. We’ll see what happens then.”
“And if it’s only fit for the flea market?”
“Then we’ll have an amusing story to tell. Anyway, we ought to be getting back now so I can start on dinner.”
Ellen linked her arm through Lilly’s and led her back to the house.
An hour later, the meal was ready. Ellen had succeeded without major mishap in conjuring up something involving meat, herbs, tomatoes, potatoes, and white wine, to be followed by a rice pudding flavored with vanilla, cinnamon, and muscatel.
Sitting on the broad window seat in the kitchen, Lilly felt comfortingly enfolded by the warmth and the wine that she had drunk with Ellen as she cooked. The effects of the wine came on quickly, making her head feel light and pinning her body to the seat. I could stay here, she thought.
From the kitchen window she had watched the light disappear behind the bare trees, the violet sky turning deep blue and revealing thousands of frosty stars. Back home the nights never looked like this; in Berlin there was light, light everywhere, light that swallowed the stars and gave the sky an orange glow, even when the skies were at their clearest. Lilly wondered if she had noticed on previous visits how beautiful it was outdoors in this place.
A pair of headlights sliced through the darkness as they approached the house.
“Dean’s on his way,” Lilly announced and set her glass down on the table.
Ellen untied her apron. She threw Lilly a hesitant glance as if to make sure it would be all right for her to give her husband her usual cheerful greeting. Lilly smiled at her, the same conspiratorial smile they used to share in school when they had covered up for each other’s silly mistakes.
As Dean came through the door, he greeted Ellen as warmly as he always did and gave her a kiss before turning to Lilly with a broad grin.
“It’s so lovely to see you. I was beginning to forget what you look like.”
“Oh, it’s not been that long, surely,” Lilly countered, accepting his brief hug.
“Well, it’s been long enough. If I were an elderly aunt of yours, I’d be remarking how much you’ve grown.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not my aunt or I’d have rolled my eyes in irritation.”
Dean led her into the living room, where they chatted about this and that, especially his construction business, until they were called in for dinner. The table was laid with stylish simplicity, Lilly’s candelabrum taking pride of place alongside an arrangement of artificial flowers that looked deceptively real.
“Now, tell us all about your violin,” Ellen said after they had cleared away the main course and were starting on the pudding.
Lilly cleared her throat, put her spoon to one side, and considered how to make the story as exciting as possible for Dean and the girls. She quickly realized that the very fact of a total stranger placing a violin in her hand before disappearing without a trace was actually exciting enough in itself. She began with the afternoon when she had been about to close up shop and finished with the moment when she realized that the old man seemed to have vanished into thin air.
“It sounds as though someone mistook you for a spy,” said Dean, who was known to have a weakness for stories of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. “You have checked that there are no plutonium rods hidden away in the lining? Or any secret messages?”
Lilly grinned. “You think the sheet music is some kind of code?”
“Why not?” Dean replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“My husband’s obviously wanting to start a new career as a crime writer,” Ellen said, laughing.
“Is it such an absurd idea? There have always been secret messages smuggled into the possession of people who know nothing about them so they can unwittingly get them to the right place.”
“But then the man would have had to tell me where to take the violin,” Lilly replied.
“Perhaps to Sherlock Holmes!” Jessie chipped in. “I’ve read about him.”
“You’ve read Conan Doyle?” Lilly asked, a little surprised.
“At school,” Jessie said. “A story in which Sherlock Holmes played the violin.”
“I don’t think I’ve been drawn into any conspiracy with this violin. It’s more likely to have been a mistake. If the old man realizes it and comes back, I’d definitely give it back to him.”
“Maybe there’s a dark secret in your family,” Dean said, clearly unwilling to be diverted from the idea of secret agents. “Perhaps you had a musician among you?”
Lilly shook her head. “No, not that I know of. The only musical person I know is your wife. My parents and grandparents had no musical appreciation, and that’s a good thing, too, or I’d have been a huge disappointment to them.”
“And yet a stranger believed the violin belonged to you. Weird.”
Dean took a drink of wine and pensively studied the liquid clinging to the sides of the glass.
“Oh, just leave Lilly in peace,” Ellen said finally. “After all, that’s why she’s here, to find out about the instrument. Now, Jessie and Norma, you haven’t told me anything about school yet. I didn’t know you’d been reading Conan Doyle.”
As the two girls began on a report of their day at school, Lilly leaned back, completely at ease and enjoying being part of the family. The girls were both wea
ring the T-shirts Lilly had given them, and she was pleased they fit so well.
“We’re going to take the bags with us to school tomorrow!” they said in chorus, as their account brought them to the time of Lilly’s arrival.
After the meal, when the girls had gone to watch TV, Ellen asked Lilly to fetch the violin so she could take a look. Dean asked if he could be there, which Ellen found a little strange, remarking that he was usually only interested in somewhat larger timber structures.
Lilly carried the violin case in front of her as if it contained a valuable relic. She had tucked the page of music back under the lining. She wanted Ellen to have the same experience she had had when opening up the violin case.
In the living room Lilly laid the case on the side table next to the chesterfield. Ellen had put on a pair of white cotton gloves that looked like something a butler would wear.
She lifted the lid carefully and stepped to one side. The light from the central fixture above them gave the red-hued varnish a deep glow so that it almost seemed to pulsate. For the first time Lilly noticed that the strings looked a little worn, and the violin seemed to be showing its age a little more. Lilly was not only interested in the age and value of the instrument but also wanted to discover why the old man believed it should be hers.
When Ellen saw the violin, she sucked air through her teeth in anticipation. “At first glance it looks perfectly normal, apart from the unusual varnish. May I?”
Lilly nodded, and her friend gently lifted the violin from the case. “A beautiful, delicate sound box,” she stated as she turned it in her hands. “And there it is.”
Ellen lightly ran a hand over the spot where the rose lay beneath the varnish.
“Completely undamaged apart from the usual signs of use. The rose must have been applied to the wood before it was varnished.” She plucked the strings. “Totally out of tune,” she remarked, and slowly began to tighten the strings. “But the pegs are in incredibly good condition.”
Once she was satisfied with the sound of the strings, she removed her gloves and picked up the bow, tightened the horsehair fibers, and applied some rosin before setting the instrument under her chin.
“Could you play from the sheet music perhaps?” Lilly asked.
Lilly drew the page from beneath the lining, and Ellen put the violin down again.
“‘The Moonlit Garden,’” she murmured. “No composer’s name. Perhaps your old man wrote it.”
Lilly shook her head. “I don’t think so. The paper appears to be quite a bit older than that, and look at the writing. I sometimes get books with handwritten inscriptions or dedications. Just look at the ink! Black, but browning at the edges. If you ask me, this music is at least a hundred years old.”
Ellen stuck out her lower lip, frowning. It was a clear sign that she was trying to absorb the melody. Lilly watched her for a moment in anticipation as Dean refilled their wineglasses. After a few minutes Ellen lowered the page of music.
“So?” Lilly asked. “Does it make any sense to you?”
“Yes, it does, but it’s very unusual . . . ” Ellen turned the page over, but apart from a few spots of mildew there was nothing on it. “You may be right about the paper, but if a composer of the late nineteenth or early twentieth century wrote this, they must have been very progressive.”
“Then I’d suggest you play it for us, love,” Dean said. “Who knows, perhaps we’ll be the first in a hundred years to hear this piece.”
Ellen had at first seemed determined to try out the violin, but now she hesitated.
“Please, Ellen,” Lilly said. “I’ve been wondering ever since I got it what it would sound like.”
Ellen picked the violin back up and drew the bow across the strings. She played the first note, and a strange feeling ran through Lilly. The piece sounded very exotic, but at the same time strangely familiar. It was not as if she had heard it before, but the sequence of notes somehow gave her a warm, safe feeling.
Perhaps the title had something to do with it. She suddenly had a mental image of her first date with Peter. It had been a spring evening, and they had sat, hugging each other close, beneath a magnolia tree with a pale moon shining down on them. The fleeting impression vanished as quickly as it had come.
Lilly listened, enraptured, to the end of the piece.
Ellen lowered the violin reverentially. “Wow!” she said, staring at the instrument in wonder, as if the melody had magically played itself. “I haven’t heard a sound like that for a long time.”
“So it’s not a bad instrument, then?” Lilly was still moved by her friend’s performance.
“No, it’s not bad at all. The person who made it must have been a master craftsman. Just like the person who wrote that piece.”
“It reminds me a bit of a Pacific island,” Dean said. “But as you know, I’m totally uncultured.”
“No you’re not,” Lilly said. “I thought it sounded exotic, too. Like . . . like a night beneath a blossoming magnolia tree.”
Ellen smiled again. “Listen to your vivid imaginations. But perhaps the composer really did want to evoke the feel of a garden. You know Vivaldi’s Four Seasons? The Spring Concerto—it’s almost like you can hear the birds and the storm.”
“My favorite of The Four Seasons is Winter, but I know what you mean,” Lilly said.
“I’m dying to know more about it—for two reasons. Firstly, to find out about the composer, and secondly, to discover who made this beauty.” Again Ellen turned the violin over and studied the rose beneath the gleaming varnish.
Lilly looked across at Dean, who was sitting on the sofa gazing at his wife in fascination, as if her musical side were completely new to him.
“He was probably a total unknown,” Lilly said, a little disappointed.
“There are many excellent violin makers who have been forgotten with the passage of time. Let’s have a look whether its creator has left a mark inside.”
Ellen took a small flashlight from a drawer and shone it through the f-holes. It was not long before she clicked her tongue in disapproval.
“No label and no mark. The guy can’t have been proud of the instrument.”
Lilly knew that by label Ellen meant the manufacturer’s mark on an instrument, in the form of a strip of paper inserted into the finished violin with pincers and glued in place.
Ellen looked at the violin once more, then carefully laid it back down in the case.
“Ah well. It could be difficult but isn’t a hopeless task, I’d say. Come with me tomorrow, and we can take it further. The lady may be keeping herself aloof, but I’m sure we’ll succeed in unlocking her secret.”
That night Lilly was unable to sleep on her soft mattress and lavender-scented linens. With the moon’s pale light streaming in through the window, she stared at the ceiling and felt she could still hear the tune of “The Moonlit Garden.”
What was all this with the violin about? According to Ellen, it was a good instrument, but why should she have any claim to it?
Lilly thought long and hard, trawling her memory for stories from her mother and Grandma Paulsen, but she could think of no indication that anything strange had happened. Her grandparents were solid, respectable people, good citizens of Hamburg. There had been a wealth of mementoes in their attic, but with an adult’s hindsight she could see there was nothing mysterious about them.
Her grandparents had both been dead for a few years now, her grandfather passing away a little before her grandmother. The keepsakes in the attic had been sold along with the house. Had the violin been one of them? She had never heard any mention of either of her grandparents playing a musical instrument. And even if the violin had been found hidden away somewhere in the house, why would the purchaser have had any reason to give it to Lilly? He could just as easily have sold it.
Lilly frowned, her thoughts once again roaming through the attic. Was there a family secret unknown even to her parents? Valuable artifacts weren’t kept in an attic
—they were perhaps hidden in a safe place, but one the owners knew about. At least that was what Lilly had always done if she had something she didn’t want anyone to find.
Perhaps she should call her mother.
Then it hit her. The video surveillance camera! Three years ago, at the request of her insurer, she’d had one installed in her shop. The old man must have been recorded by it. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
Lilly immediately sat up in bed. Sunny! Perhaps she could ask her to upload the camera footage onto her computer and send it over to them.
She instinctively reached for her cell phone, which was on the bedside table, but remembered that Sunny would probably be in bed. She would have to wait until the morning and call her at the shop.
With a sigh she lowered her head back onto the pillow. She felt even more on edge now. If the old man had been caught on video, it might be possible to trace him and ask him about it all. Lilly still had no idea how she was going to pull it off, but she was sure she would find a solution somehow.
At last she grew sleepy, and as she fell into her dream world, she thought she could detect the closing strains of “The Moonlit Garden.”
6
Padang, 1902
“A wonderful view, don’t you think?”
Paul Havenden, young lord and, since the recent death of his father, head of an extensive, extremely prominent family of English aristocrats, breathed a deep lungful of the warm air laced with the rich scents of the harbor.
The view of the sea was magnificent.
The water was a magical mirror lying beneath a cloudless sky. A few palms swayed in the warm, moist onshore breeze that whispered through the city. The buildings around the harbor were predominantly colonial in style, with a clear Dutch influence. He had seen plenty of houses like these, with their broad columns and sweeping roofs, in Amsterdam, but here they were interspersed with the exotic vernacular buildings that gave the city its special charm.
Since their arrival here his troubles had eased considerably. Almost by the hour he could feel his body recovering its strength, his skin shedding all the problems that had plagued him in the cold English climate. How he had longed for this warmth, especially during the last few months.
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