‘People would go to Rome in Lent to hear the “Miserere” and Mozart went when he was fourteen. He went back to his hotel room and wrote it all down from memory. But to make sure he’d got it right, he went back again on Good Friday with the rolled-up music stuffed in his hat.

‘Was he caught?’ Martin shouts, forgetting to put his hand up. ‘Was he chucked out?’

William looks again to Mr Hawthorn, in case he wants to deliver the punchline, but he smiles and nods at William.

‘He was caught, but he wasn’t chucked out. The Pope said well done and made him a knight!’

‘Very good, Lavery,’ says Mr Hawthorn, sitting down with a book. ‘Have you seen the translation of the letter Mozart’s father wrote to his wife from Rome?’

‘No, sir.’ William is excited.

‘Sit down, well done. I’ll take it from here.’

Mr Hawthorn rests the book on his lap and reads. ‘“You have often heard of the famous ‘Miserere’ in Rome, which is so greatly prized that the performers are forbidden on pain of excommunication to take away a single part of it, copy it or to give it to anyone. But we have it already. Wolfgang has written it down and we would have sent it to Salzburg in this letter, if it were not necessary for us to be there to perform it. But the manner of performance contributes more to its effect than the composition itself. Moreover, as it is one of the secrets of Rome, we do not wish to let it fall into other hands …”’

William finishes writing his paragraph about the Grand Tours of the eighteenth century. Martin’s large head is resting on his hand. William nudges him with his foot.

‘Wake up, I’m going to ask a question.’

Martin shuffles in his seat and starts to write slowly.

‘Sir, I’ve finished. Can I see the letter?’ William says.

Mr Hawthorn holds up the book for William to take. Then, as if he too had just been woken by William, he suddenly stands up.

‘Six minutes left, gentlemen. I need to get your prep sheets from the office. Work quietly. Stay in your seats.’