‘Had she always lived on the island?’ asked Fern, wanting to know everything about her great-aunt.
‘No, Matilda grew up in London, but holidayed here as a child and a teenager, as her grandmother was a resident. Matilda’s account of things was that they grew up in a home where music wasn’t just encouraged, it was the heartbeat of their world. Her mother was a classically trained violinist, her father an amateur jazz pianist, and from the moment she could reach the keys, Matilda’s world was wrapped in sound. As you know, she trained in London, with dreams of becoming a composer and concert pianist. Her future was bright until…’
‘Until?’
‘He came along.’
‘Who? Nathaniel?’
Dorothy nodded.
‘When the wedding was called off, her family disowned her.’
‘Why would they do that?’ asked Fern, noticing that Dorothy looked torn.
‘Alistair described her as fragile.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not exactly sure, but on that Christmas Eve he claimed she was delusional, unstable, and her family agreed, which was why they disowned her.’
‘Did you think that?’ asked Daniel. ‘Because I have to say, to me, she was one of the most down-to-earth, rational and yet interesting people I’ve ever met.’
‘No, I didn’t think that, but Nathaniel had become close to her parents and they chose to believe him for whatever reason. On that Christmas Eve, Matilda stayed on the island with her grandmother while her parents and her sister travelled back to London. I believe that was the last time she ever saw them.’
‘That is terrible,’ said Fern. ‘It seems Matilda lost everything that day.’
‘She also stepped away from her music career that day. Her grandmother, Florence, owned a rundown holiday cottage, and in her school and college holidays, Matilda had helped to clean in between guests. When Florence passed away, the cottage was left to Matilda. At first, the junk shop wasn’t part of the plan. Matilda started helping an elderly islander clear out a lifetime of possessions, and in doing so, found solace in the clutter, every forgotten object telling a story, and every chipped teacup and worn record sleeve carrying a past that was uniquely its own. Slowly, she began to collect, to mend and then to sell. She turned the holiday cottage into No. 17 Curiosity Lane, which gave her two things she desperately needed: a living and a sanctuary.’
‘And now she’s gone, and we’ve been left with the mystery of what really happened back then on that Christmas Eve. I’d give anything to have a few minutes to ask her some questions,’ Fern mused.
Dorothy looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘You know, therewassomething she was muttering just before she passed away. It was something about how the truth lies in the old music box.’
‘What truth?’
‘I have no clue,’ admitted Dorothy. ‘I asked her the same thing, but she just said the same words over and over again.’
* * *
Ten minutes later they were opening the door to No. 17 Curiosity Lane.
‘What do you make of all that?’ asked Daniel.
‘“The truth lies in the music box”,’ murmured Fern. ‘It seems a strange thing to say, but it definitely meant something, especially as Alistair Montgomery came into the shop and specifically asked about an old music box.’
Daniel stood still and stared at her. ‘You’re right. Like I said before, I don’t ever remember seeing a music box, but let’s double-check. The inventory is on your laptop.’
Fern opened up her laptop. There were hundreds of items now logged but thankfully they’d managed to put everything in a sort of order. ‘M for Music.’ He ran his finger down all the items but there was no music box. ‘Nothing,’ he said, looking over his shoulder at Fern.
‘Well, maybe Matilda stashed it somewhere. Or maybe it was never in here in the first place and she meant something else. A figurative truth, perhaps? Or maybe it has something to do with the vinyl?’
He shrugged.
‘Let’s have another look around.’
They set to work. Fern rechecked the back shelves while Daniel crouched to peer beneath cabinets and lifted up antique tea cosies. They combed through jewellery boxes, decorative tins and old chests. Daniel even opened a Victorian sewing table, only to find nothing more than a lonely thimble and a faded thread spool.
‘Maybe it’s hidden inside something?’ Fern asked, rummaging through a trunk of faded velvet hats. ‘Like… disguised.’
