“A letter from Governor van Swieten?” she wondered aloud as she broke the seal and opened the envelope. “What can he want?”
“He must want you to play for him!” Mai cried in excitement.
Rose gave her a stern glare, causing her dresser’s face to fall. But Mai’s guess was correct.
Dear Miss Gallway,
It has come to my attention that you are currently giving a guest performance in our city, and I would like to take the opportunity to invite you to give a concert in my house on the twenty-fifth of this month.
I have admired your playing ever since I heard you at the conservatory in London, and I would consider it a great honor to receive you for a recital at Welkom. If you wish to accept my invitation, please contact my secretary, Westraa, who will clarify the details with you.
Yours in admiration,
Piet van Swieten
Rose whistled in amazement. She would never have counted Mijnheer van Swieten among her admirers. He had been governor of the island when she was a child and would not have cared one jot about Rose Gallway. Things had changed since then.
“Mai, will you please bring me my calendar,” she asked her dresser, who darted away as quick as a flash. Appointments were usually her agent’s business, but Rose wanted to be certain, and noted it down in her own diary.
She checked that she had no prior engagements on the evening in question, though even if she had, she would probably have dropped them like a shot for this more important appointment. She looked forward to spending a few days in her hometown, which would at last give her a chance to visit her parents.
“It looks like we’re in luck,” she said cheerfully to Mai, who was making herself useful by gathering together all her mistress’s things that were scattered over the room. Mai knew only too well how her mistress hated idleness and only rarely allowed herself moments of peace and quiet. If she was not about to go on stage, she was either tuning her violin or playing, playing, playing. “We’re going to play at the governor’s residence—isn’t it wonderful?”
Mai nodded dutifully but immediately returned her attention to her work.
Rose stood. After carefully laying her violin back in the case, she went over to her desk, where she composed a reply to the governor and gave it to Mai together with a note for her agent, who was bound to be somewhere with the owner of the concert hall where she was to play the next day.
“Don’t lose it, you understand?”
“Yes, miss.” Nodding eagerly, Mai stuffed the letters in her jacket pocket.
“And hurry up. I’ll need you again soon to prepare for the concert.”
“Yes, miss, I’ll be back right away.”
As the door closed behind Mai, a smile spread over Rose’s face. The governor of Sumatra had invited her to play. It was almost as good as playing personally for the sultan himself. No, it was actually better, as it was well known that the sultan hardly held any power on the island anymore. The more influential people would be at the governor’s house. And who knew, perhaps she could make a few contacts to help give a boost to her international career. She would like to tour Europe and Asia perhaps, but her dream was America. To play there really would make her the best violinist in the world.
7
London, 2011
The next morning, Lilly rode into town with Ellen to begin their investigation. As her friend drove, Lilly stroked the violin case absently, Ellen’s recital from the previous evening running through her head. What wonderful sounds she had coaxed from the violin!
“Why did you never take your violin playing any further?” she said, thinking out loud. “When you played yesterday . . . I’d never realized that you could play so brilliantly.”
“You call that brilliant?” Ellen shook her head with a laugh. “No, all you heard yesterday was technique. Merely recalling finger movements I learned as a child and have never forgotten since. Any serious critic would have put their hands over their ears and dismissed my playing as totally wooden.”
That was not what Lilly felt. “It sounded wonderful to my ears. Anyway, it was a completely new piece. You played as if you’d been practicing it.”
“It’s like riding a bike—there are some things you never forget,” Ellen insisted.
They were both silent for a few moments until Lilly asked, “And you really have no idea who could have made this violin?”
“No, I wish I did, but I don’t. The sound reminds me a bit of a Stradivari, but it’s quite a bit softer. I don’t know of any violin maker whose instruments could produce a sound quite like it. But perhaps Mr. Cavendish knows something.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s my head conservator.”
They had arrived at the institute, and Ellen drove into the parking garage beneath the building and parked in her reserved space.
Lilly had never been to the Morris Institute before, and she was full of anticipation, eager to see where her friend worked.
The elevator brought them to the third floor, whose walls were adorned with modern art and floors covered with simple but expensive-looking carpets.
“This is where I receive my clients. The second floor is where the restoration workshops are housed.”
“I’d really love to see those,” Lilly said, feeling like a small girl walking through a museum, amazed by all she saw.
“And so you shall—but first I’d like to show you my office.”
Ellen led Lilly to a door at the far end of the corridor, which opened onto a kind of lobby, where they were greeted by an extremely well-groomed young man.
“This is Terence, my secretary. Terence, this is my friend Lilly Kaiser.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Not only was Terence incredibly good-looking, but he also had an incredibly masculine handshake. Lilly was bowled over. How long had it been since she’d laid eyes on such a fine specimen of a man, let alone been introduced to him?
“Terence, you’ve kept my schedule free for this morning, haven’t you?”
“Of course, Mrs. Morris. And this time I’ve even managed to keep Mr. Catrell of Sotheby’s at bay. He’ll call back tomorrow.”
“Oh my goodness, that means another three-hour conversation.” Ellen groaned playfully. “Thanks very much, Terence, for sparing me that today at least!”
As they disappeared into Ellen’s office, Lilly pointed back at the door, her mouth agape and eyes wide.
“I don’t get it. How have you managed to get yourself Brad Pitt’s double as secretary?” The first time Ellen referred to Terence, Lilly had imagined an elderly man with elbow patches on his sleeves.
“Yes, Terence does look a bit like him, doesn’t he? I admit, if I were single I’d find it hard to keep my mind on track. But unfortunately there are other factors, quite apart from my wedding ring, that would make a relationship with him impossible.”
“You’re his boss.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t really be a reason.”
“He’s gay?”
“Bingo! Good fortune for the men, bad luck for us.”
Ellen led Lilly over to the tall windows that offered a good view of the Thames and London Bridge.
“It’s wonderful,” Lilly exclaimed.
The telephone rang, and Ellen went over to the desk to pick it up. Lilly was unable to hear who was calling, but she could tell that her friend had been expecting the call.
“That was Mr. Cavendish. He’s ready for us. We should go down to his office now.”
Lilly was fascinated by the way Ellen spoke about this man, her employee. He was clearly an eminent authority in his field, and she felt her excitement mounting as they hurried past the workshops.
Ellen knocked briefly, and when a deep male voice called “Come in,” she opened the door.
Lilly had imagined a restorer’s workshop to look completely different from this, and the restorer himself. In films such people were depicted bustling around sterile rooms in long white coats. This roo
m may not have been crammed with antique furniture, but it nevertheless had a certain cozy feel to it. A tall bookshelf stood against one wall, and behind the desk was an old, well-worn chair. A jumble of books and papers lay on the desk. On the workbench near the window was a white cloth, and on it a violin that did not appear to show the slightest sign of damage. Tools were stowed neatly to one side, indicating that the work on the instrument was complete.
At first glance, Mr. Cavendish reminded Lilly a little of the actor who played Q in the old James Bond films. Slightly stooped, he was wearing a tweed jacket and cords, with a snow-white starched shirt and elegant tie. All that remained of his hair was a gray fringe at the back, but the light in his dark eyes behind tasteful, silver-colored glasses recalled the young man he had once been. Lilly was sure he must have been a real ladies’ man, and he still looked quite good now.
“Good morning, Ben. May I introduce my friend Lilly Kaiser?”
“Ah, the lady with the strange violin.” With a smile he looked her in the eyes before turning his attention to the violin case under her arm. “I’m pleased to meet you. You and your violin.”
The hand he extended to Lilly was warm and gentle.
“If we were playing by old-school rules, now would be the time to exchange a few pleasantries, but the old times are past and, as Ellen can confirm, I’m not known for my patience. As an old man, I’ve no time for patience anymore, so I’ll merely confess that I’m incredibly curious about the violin and can’t wait to look at it.”
“Of course.” Lilly glanced at Ellen, who moved over to the workbench.
When Lilly opened the case, Cavendish moved to stand beside her, his hands already sheathed in white gloves. She wondered briefly whether to tell him the story, but in the end stepped to one side without a word.
He carefully lifted the violin from its case and studied it with his keen eyes. “Do you intend to play this violin, or lock it away?”
“To begin with, I’d like to know why it’s in my possession in the first place. Someone gave it to me because he claimed it belonged to me, but I haven’t the faintest idea why.”
Cavendish turned the violin in his hands and then gasped audibly. “Well, well, just look! What have we here?”
“Does it mean anything to you?”
“Oh yes, a lot. You’ve gotten a good catch here. This violin is in very good condition. A few parts could be replaced, but it’s not really necessary. It only needs cleaning and polishing. I estimate that it dates from the early eighteenth century, but I couldn’t say for certain until the varnish has been analyzed.”
Lilly looked at Ellen.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “we won’t remove it all. We only take a tiny sample—after it’s been cleaned and polished, the scratch will be practically invisible.”
“Yes, I can assure you of that,” Cavendish said, now holding the violin beneath the workbench lamp. “A very beautiful piece.”
“And the rose? Do you know what that signifies?” Lilly asked.
Cavendish considered before replying. “No, unfortunately I don’t. It’s certainly unusual, and the way the rose has been drawn confirms my suspicion that the violin dates from the start of the eighteenth century.”
Cavendish called something up on his computer before inserting an endoscope into one of the f-holes. An image of the inside of the violin appeared on the monitor. Lilly thought it must be the perspective a mouse would have if it skittered around inside the instrument.
“No maker’s mark. And if I’m right, there’s never been a label, either.”
“So would it be possible that the violin was an embarrassment to its maker? He didn’t like it and so didn’t want to associate it with his name?”
“Or someone stole the violin from its maker before he had a chance to insert his label.” Cavendish withdrew the tiny camera. “But it’s good craftsmanship in any case.”
Lilly thought for a moment, then on a whim produced the sheet of music.
“Mr. Cavendish, could I ask you to take a look at this? This sheet of music came with the violin. Neither Ellen nor I know the composer, but perhaps you will have an idea from the style.”
Cavendish took the music and looked at it briefly. “Well, if you ask me, you’d be better off getting Gabriel Thornton’s advice. He’s head of a music school in London that was once a very famous conservatory. As far as I know, he likes to research its former pupils. Perhaps you’ll be in luck, and he’ll be able to recognize the style as that of someone who used to attend his conservatory. Of course it would be rather incredible if a previous owner of the violin was the composer.”
Lilly was briefly unnerved by the mention of Thornton’s name. Could it be him? Perhaps it was just a coincidence, and the man sitting next to her on the flight merely had the same name as the head of this music school . . . But it seemed rather unlikely that two men with the same name both ran music schools.
“What’s up?” Ellen asked, clearly taken aback by her expression.
“I met Thornton yesterday on my flight to London. Sounds crazy, I know, but it’s true.”
“Well, what a coincidence!” Mr. Cavendish clapped his hands in delight.
Ellen raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me anything about that.”
“Why should I? I didn’t know who this Thornton was. I thought he was any old music teacher.”
“Oh, he’s much more than a music teacher,” Cavendish said. “He’s an outstanding musicologist. And, what’s more, an authority on any instrument played by the conservatory’s former pupils.”
“What exactly do you know, Ben?” Ellen asked. Lilly could tell she was near to bursting with curiosity. She was, too, even though she still wasn’t sure what excited her more—the violin itself or the question of why it should belong to her.
But Cavendish remained completely unperturbed. “Well, there’s a story I heard many years ago. I’d stowed it away somewhere in the recesses of my brain without giving it much thought, but now, given this violin and the music—”
“Don’t keep us on tenterhooks!” Ellen said, beginning to pace agitatedly up and down.
Lilly was watching Cavendish, who seemed to be combing the depths of his memory.
“The story goes that a pupil of that conservatory had a very special violin, one with a rose on the back. I don’t remember what she was called, though I’m not sure if that’s because I didn’t pay enough attention or because time has eroded my memory—who knows? But I’m sure Mr. Thornton will be able to tell you plenty more.”
8
After they had photographed the violin from all angles, printed out the images in their office, taken a copy of the sheet music, and handed it all back to Lilly, Ellen called a taxi to take Lilly to the Faraday School of Music—Thornton’s “music school” that had formerly been a kind of conservatory.
“Grill the man about everything he knows, and report back to me,” her friend said as she sent her on her way. She waved, and Lilly hurried out to the taxi, which was already hooting impatiently.
On the way, she couldn’t help shaking her head. How was this possible? First the violin and now this coincidence with Thornton! Could the theory be true that the beating of a butterfly’s wing could set off a chain of events that trigger a storm? Had the old man’s appearance been the beating of that butterfly’s wing? And what kind of storm was about to strike?
“Is everything OK, ma’am?” asked the driver, whose dreadlocks reminded her of a young Bob Marley.
“Yes, of course, I was just lost in thought.”
“Very strange thoughts, from the way you’re shaking your head.”
Had she been so obvious? Lilly smiled, then asked, “Do you believe coincidences have meaning?”
The taxi driver laughed. “Of course. They make the world go round. Yesterday I met an old friend, quite by chance, whom I hadn’t seen since we were at school. It was only the day before that I’d been wondering what had happened to Bobby, and the very n
ext day we more or less bumped into one another.”
“Perhaps you’d summoned him with your thoughts?”
“Could well be, but I believe that coincidences happen for a reason. And sometimes they change something in us. When I spoke to Bobby, it was as if the ten years we hadn’t seen each other hadn’t happened. Now I’ve found out that he’s moved to London, and this weekend he’s coming to visit me and my girlfriend. Amazing, hey?”
“Yes, really amazing,” Lilly replied.
“What about you? The way you were shaking your head, it was as if you couldn’t believe you’d seen him again.”
“It’s more the case that I can’t believe I’m about to see him again.” When the taxi driver raised his eyebrows in anticipation, she added, “I met a very nice man on the airplane yesterday. And now I’ve just discovered that he’s someone who could help me with something. A strange coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Oh, that’s no coincidence,” the driver said meaningfully. “My grandmother would say that’s fate. God’s will. I’m sure this man will be able to help you, whatever it is you need.”
Really? Lilly wondered. Could Thornton really have an answer to how she had come by this strange violin?
The driver eventually stopped in front of a two-story classical-style building.
“Here we are!” he announced superfluously. Lilly paid the fare and got out. “Good luck, lady!”
“You too,” Lilly said as the taxi roared away.
She shivered in the icy breeze as she looked up at the facade bathed in the midday sunshine. It looked just as she would have imagined a music conservatory to look, but as she approached, she saw that the building also housed two other organizations. According to a sign in the foyer, the ground floor was shared by a property-management company and a concert agency. The second floor housed the Faraday School of Music.
She immediately started up the marble stairs, which must formerly have been ascended by all kinds of well-heeled gentry. Once at the top she began subconsciously to appraise an old bureau, which must date back to the period in which the house was built. The piece was now used to display brochures about the conservatory and notices of forthcoming events.
The Moonlit Garden Page 7
