He decided not to tell her about either the article or Menuhin until the true nature of the situation became clearer, for better or for worse. He had made her a solemn promise that she should perform the concerto – and he could not bear the notion of letting down someone about whom he cared so much, even in if in a ridiculously distant way. She must play the Schumann. Menuhin must play it too. He must find a way to keep his promise to her while also doing his best for Schott’s. And all of this was, of course, to assume that Willy’s plan of action could hold its own against whatever the culture bureau had been cooking up in Berlin.

*

Jelly was indeed having a difficult winter. She had struggled bravely through some concerts and recording sessions with Myra and the cellist Gaspar Cassadó, and played at the Wigmore Hall; but her right elbow had seized up, and the impact of Tom’s death still seemed to be draining her spirit, month after month. Frightened by the newspapers, thrown by reports that the Musicians’ Union was vetoing visits by foreign performers, she applied for, and was granted, British naturalisation. Cinema orchestras were closing down at an alarming rate; many dismissed musicians were desperate for employment, which meant that foreigners would be an easy target for their anger.

‘Sai, that policy is targeting American dance bands, not people like you,’ Alec tried to reassure her, but she had no intention of turning back. Naturalisation was, after all, a gesture of gratitude to the country that had been her home for nearly a quarter of a century – and protection, of course, should foreign performers be banned.

As for her arm, nobody seemed to know what was really the matter. One doctor suggested she might have a form of rheumatoid arthritis, which could flare up, then subside, just as hers seemed to. Another insisted it was plain osteoarthritis. A third said that the problem was probably with her tendons, and time alone would be the solution. Yet another declared that it was all in the mind. ‘You seem very tense, Miss d’Arányi. Perhaps a consultation with a psychoanalyst… ’

‘I don’t need psychoanalysis,’ Jelly assured him. ‘I just have a sore arm.’

She felt guilty about having any problem at all after Myra related what had happened to her in the States the previous year. Suspected breast cancer. Thank heavens it had turned out to be a false alarm, but only after she had had radical surgery. ‘I’m fine,’ she assured Jelly, ‘though it was rather boring to sit around recovering.’ Jelly could scarcely bear to think what must be going through her mind underneath that stoic façade.

‘It’s not life-threatening and I’m sure I don’t need an operation,’ Jelly told the latest Harley Street specialist.