Ulli had said not one word about this to her in any of his letters. He wrote to her often – not always about work, and many times inconsequentially, due, she assumed, to potential interception or censorship en route. He had not even mentioned the military shenanigans in the Rhineland; it was Alec who told her that the German troops had marched across the bridges, including the one at Mainz, to remilitarise the area, without France or the League of Nations being able to do anything to stop them. She wrote back to Ulli, aware that instead of letters to a mortally ill man in Ireland, she was penning missives to one who was perfectly well, but living in an enemy country that could clap him in jail if he had an affair with her. Several months ago an unexpected bouquet had arrived from him via Tovey, tumbling with roses and lilies; what it meant, she could only speculate.

She might adore Ulli, or the fantasy image of him that had lingered since their only meetings; but more importantly, she’d trusted him. He’d made her a promise. Perhaps it was her fault for placing too much faith in him.

Holding the lash of betrayal at bay by reading the article, translating as much as she could, Jelly tried to keep her head; maybe she could pick up the feel of the music from what Springer had written. The first movement, stormy and intense: Schumann’s turbulent, extrovert self. A slow movement that was the jewel of the work. And the finale: a big polonaise, rather slow. The desire to hear it, or better still to play it, took hold of her, so intense that it verged upon the physically painful.

Odd, though: a polonaise, a grand, traditional dance from Poland, seemed a strange way for a German composer to end a concerto. She could think of only one precedent: Beethoven’s Triple Concerto, hardly an obvious model. Jelly considered this, swallowing coffee. Perhaps Myra, who knew Schumann’s piano works inside out, could shed light on his inclinations.

Myra was home when Jelly phoned, though her voice betrayed the fact that she was busy practising. ‘There’s a polonaise in Papillons,’ she remarked. ‘It’s a lovely thing, only his second official work, but it’s deceptive – it’s got some awfully fiddly bits in it.’

‘But what does it mean?’ Jelly pleaded.

Myra paused. ‘I’m not sure it means anything – not the way a polonaise would for Chopin, being Polish… Papillons is supposed to depict a masked ball and I think the polonaise was traditionally the opening dance, wasn’t it? Except that he puts it nearly at the end. Why do you ask?’

Jelly gave Myra a potted update on the Schumann concerto situation. ‘And I’m also anxious about what people will think when I explain how I came across it,’ she added.