The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton

while hundreds of tiny lights twinkled like stars. It had done a roaring trade for decades, back in the days when trams had rattled along the terrace and Chinese gardens had flourished in the valleys, but though it had prevailed against such fierce adversaries as fire and flood, it had fallen victim softly and swiftly to television in the sixties.
    Nell and Cassandra’s stall was directly below the proscenium arch, stage left. A rabbit-warren of shelves obscured by countless pieces of bric-a-brac, odds and ends, old books and an eclectic assortment of memorabilia. Long ago the other dealers had started calling it Aladdin’s as a joke and the name had stuck. A small wooden sign with gold lettering now proclaimed the area Aladdin’s Den.
    Sitting on a three-legged stool, deep within the maze of shelves, Cassandra was finding it difficult to concentrate. It was the first time she’d been inside the centre since Nell’s death and it felt strange to sit amongst the treasures they’d assembled together. Odd that the stock should still be here when Nell was gone. Disloyal of it, somehow.
    Spoons that Nell had polished, price tickets with her indecipherable spider’s-web scrawl across them, books and more books. They’d been Nell’s weakness, every dealer had one. In particular, she loved books written at the end of the nineteenth century. Late Victorian with glorious printed texts and black and white illustrations. If a book bore 67
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    K a t e M o r t o n
    a message from giver to recipient, so much the better. A record of its past, a hint as to the hands it had passed through in order to make its way to her.
    ‘Morning.’
    Cassandra looked up to see Ben holding out a takeaway coffee.
    ‘Sorting stock?’ he said.
    She brushed a few fine strands of hair from her eyes and took the proffered drink. ‘Moving things from here to there. Back again most times.’
    Ben took a sip of his own coffee, eyed her over his cup. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He reached beneath his knitted vest to withdraw a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket.
    Cassandra opened the page and flattened out its creases. Printer paper, white A4, a patchy black and white picture of a house at the centre. A cottage really, stone from what she could make out, with blotches—creepers perhaps?—across the walls. The roof was tiled, a stone chimney visible behind the peak. Two pots balanced precariously at its top.
    She knew what this house was, of course, didn’t need to ask.
    ‘Been having a bit of a dig,’ said Ben. ‘Couldn’t help myself. My daughter in London managed to make contact with someone in Cornwall and sent me this photo over the email.’
    So this was what it looked like, Nell’s big secret. The house she’d bought on a whim and kept to herself all this time. Strange, the picture’s effect on her. Cassandra had left the deed on the kitchen table all weekend, had looked at it each time she walked past, thought of little else, but seeing this picture was the first time it had felt real. Everything came into sharp focus: Nell, who went to her grave not knowing who she really was, had bought a house in England and left it to Cassandra, had thought she’d understand why.
    ‘Ruby’s always had a knack for finding things out, so I set her to chasing up information about past owners. I thought if we knew who your grandma bought the house from, it might shed a little light on why.’ Ben pulled a small spiral notebook from his breast pocket and angled his glasses to best observe the page. ‘Do the names Richard and Julia Bennett mean anything to you?’
    Cassandra shook her head, still looking at the picture.
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    T h e F o r g o t t e n G a r d e n
    ‘According to Ruby, Nell bought the property from Mr and Mrs Bennett, who themselves bought it in 1971. They bought the nearby manor house too; turned it into a hotel. The Blackhurst