‘Here’s an article about it,’ he said to Yehudi now, taking one of several copies of the journal out of his briefcase. ‘This fell into my hands earlier today, quite by chance.’

‘Incredible. It must be fate!’ Yehudi, in the dim pulse of the passing streetlights, bent his head towards the page that bore the photo of the manuscript. Ulli heard him humming a rough outline of the solo. ‘Dr Schultheiss, this looks extraordinary. I have to see the whole thing. I have to.’

*

Back in Mainz, Willy Strecker sat poring over La Revue musicale while Ulli stood nearby, shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘They’re up to something,’ said Strecker.

‘Who do you think… ?’

‘At a guess, probably the Reichsmusikkammer, the culture bureau.’

‘This piece says Breitkopf will publish it. First I’ve heard of that.’

‘They can’t. It’s to us that Johannes Joachim gave his permission. At least, I believe that’s the case. We need to stand up to this. We should have a sound plan for bringing it out and having it performed, sooner rather than later.’

Ulli nodded slowly. Every cool-headed argument now must go in favour of Menuhin as the sensible destination for the Schumann concerto if it were to be saved, long-term, from official meddling. Menuhin was the superstar of the moment, the one who drew the crowds and the reporters.

‘We can’t leave it only up to Miss d’Arányi,’ Strecker insisted. ‘Twenty years ago, yes, but I can’t see much evidence in her favour now.’

‘She filled nine cathedrals in a row,’ Ulli pointed out. ‘Everyone adored her when I saw her play at the Queen’s Hall.’

‘That was then. But she’s had injuries, she’s been cancelling performances, she doesn’t seem to have any coherent long-term planning beyond her regular circuits. We need more than that to put this concerto on the map. Yehudi only has to play a scale to land his picture on the front pages.’

Ulli went back to his desk and sat with his head in his hands. He had told Jelly nothing of his visit to Menuhin in Paris; he was afraid of upsetting her at a time when she was already suffering a litany of health problems. Even so, she had insisted on resuming her cathedral concerts for charity. What other artist would do such a thing? He longed to defend her more robustly to Strecker, yet hesitated to reveal their long-distance quasi-intimacy. Blank paper stared up at him while he chewed the end of his pen. ‘My dear Jelly,’ he wrote. He stopped, then pushed the paper aside and on a fresh sheet wrote to Tovey instead, asking if he could please send Jelly some flowers on his behalf.