On 23 September 1937, Alec, Adila and Jelly set out in the car for Erik’s book launch at his Portland Place residence. Adila wore a blue suit that matched her eyes, with a string of diamonds at her throat; Jelly chose russet red, a rope of pearls and a new hat.

The build-up to the publication of Horizons of Immortality had been long and fraught while Erik struggled with his finalisation of the text and Adila checked and double-checked her transcripts and notes; and once the book had finally gone to print, the two of them busied themselves with more checking and double-checking, this time of the guest list for the party. All Jelly’s energy, meanwhile, was devoted to perfecting the concerto. Less than three weeks remained until the concert, which would follow hot on the heels of Kulenkampff’s German premiere. She might have learned Tzigane in three days, but she was younger then, with memory and bones altogether more supple; the Schumann, moreover, was three times as long and ten times as daunting.

Review copies of the book had been sent to the press. A reporter phoned Netherton Grove a few days before publication, wanting to ask Jelly some questions for an article. He introduced himself as Rollo Myers, a music specialist from The Listener. Jelly, pleased that he was interested in the tale of the Schumann concerto and the spirit messages, answered as best she could, then returned to her work on the tricky last movement. Her anxieties had eased, and in her home circles she had noticed some resurgence of hope, now that Neville Chamberlain was prime minister. He had brought in better conditions – holiday pay for many people who had never had such a thing before, and limited working hours for women and children. As chancellor when Jelly undertook her cathedral tour, he had added a government grant of a thousand pounds to her proceeds; remembering that, she was ready to place her faith in him. Perhaps he could be strong enough to negotiate with Germany and avoid the war that everyone feared if Hitler’s ambitions went unchecked. ‘He’s a great, great man,’ Erik enthused. ‘His heart’s in the right place,’ was all Alec would say.

At the Swedish residence, the door under the portico stood open to the warm early evening. Alec and Adila walked ahead, arm in arm; Jelly tottered behind, her sore feet stuffed into her highest-heeled shoes. Alec, exhausted by constant travel between London and The Hague, where the League had had a complex year, was fighting a recurrent cough and slight fever; he paused in the entrance hall, while Adila pressed a hand to his forehead, tut-tutting with anxiety. ‘I’ll be fine, my dear,’ he insisted. ‘Let’s go up.’