Who indeed? Lucy thought. She remembered something that Maud had said. “Sorry,” she said, “did you mention that they found a key when they were digging for treasure in 1946?”

“That’s right.” Maud passed her the other newspaper cutting, from the Wiltshire Gazette. “‘Amongst other items found by the treasure seekers,’” Lucy read, “‘were part of a clay pipe, two broken glass bottles thought to be Victorian, some coins, which have been sent to Oxford for dating and analysis, and a small key. No more valuable treasure was discovered but one of the villagers, Isaac Redfern, swore to continue the search. “It’s hidden there,” Mr. Redfern said. “I knows it and I’ll find it.”’”

“He was Marilynne’s father,” Maud said. “The father of Persis and Gabriel’s mother as well. A cantankerous old fellow.”

“I don’t remember seeing a key in the museum,” Lucy said thoughtfully. “I’ll check on my way back.”

“One other thing I should tell you,” Maud said, gathering together the cuttings and books in a neat pile. “I saw Catherine another time. It was winter and by then all interest in the story had died off.” She smiled. “Memories can be short and people are fickle, aren’t they? It was all forgotten. But as I say, it was January and a harsh winter that year. We had been cooped up indoors with the snow but on the very first day of fine weather I went for a walk.”

Lucy smiled, imagining a determined Maud wrapping herself up against the cold and ploughing through the snowdrifts to get some exercise and fresh air.

“When I reached Gunpowder Cottage the gardens looked enchanting,” Maud said. “There were arches adorned with holly and ivy, and pine garlands and lanterns. The paths were thick with snow but the bushes were such bright splashes of color with their juniper and hawthorn and spindleberries. It was extraordinary—like a fairy tale.”

“And Catherine?” Lucy prompted.

“She was in the winter garden,” Maud said. There was a misty look in her eyes; she smiled. “She looked beautiful—and happy. I glimpsed her for a moment only, then she was gone. And when I turned back the garden was gone too. There was nothing but snow.”

Lucy was surprised to find herself blinking back tears. “It sounds as though the garden was very special,” she said. “A haven in all seasons.”

She thanked Maud, was issued with a warm invitation to visit anytime she liked, and went out into the summer sunshine, still thinking about the winter garden. She wanted to talk to Finn about it; archaeology could only tell you so much, she thought. Her admittedly limited reading on Tudor gardens had been almost exclusively about the designs and plants that would look best in summer, but perhaps Catherine had had a vision for the winter as well.

Something was also nagging at the back of her mind, something about a box without a key. She was trying to remember where she had seen or read about it. A couple of cars passed her as she crossed the road and walked along the lane to the museum. This was the oldest part of the village with the core of ancient thatched cottages set around a little village green. A stream led to a millpond; it was postcard perfect.