‘Now, here’s my question,’ said Lionel Hartshaw, pencil poised. ‘Why should we believe that messages from the spirit world justify your claim to this famous composer’s violin concerto?’

Jelly hesitated. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Let me rephrase that, Miss d’Arányi: all this frankly sounds a bit like woolly spiritualist balderdash to me and I think to many others too. If you believe it, then why do you believe it?’

Jelly’s throat tightened. ‘This is from Baron Palmstierna’s book. He was there. He saw it all happening.’

‘But you are the lady who’s come along saying that the Nazi chap mustn’t play it first, the Jewish–American chap mustn’t play it first, it’s yours because you got a message from Schumann saying so? Excuse me, Miss d’Arányi, but this is 1937. People will think it’s a fairly outrageous assertion.’

‘But… it is what happened. It is true.’ Jelly grabbed the magazine and pointed. ‘And look. Mr Myers, who wrote this article, agrees. He himself says we are vouched for by people of “absolute integrity”.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ Hartshaw gave her a cheeky smile. He had a dimple in his left cheek. Under other circumstances, it might have been charming. But though the dimple indented, the eyes mocked her. ‘Evidently he means Baron Palmstierna, so it still comes back to what you think of the baron’s activities in the, er, paranormal. How d’you intend to prove it?’

‘Prove? It’s there, in the book, exactly as it happened.’

‘All right.’ The dimple deepened, the mockery with it. ‘So, the first so-called “message” came to you, didn’t it? Not to Baron Palmstierna and your sister?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So, can anybody corroborate your story?’ He leaned forward, speaking too loudly and slowly – the way a nanny might talk to a toddler, or a colonial Englishman to a native abroad. Perhaps he thought that because she was foreign, she couldn’t understand English. ‘Was there anybody with you who can confirm that what you claim is true?’

Jelly was about to protest that her personal assistant was there. But – supposing he phoned Anna? Supposing she wasn’t well enough for the shock of being quizzed by a slimy reporter?

‘Name? Telephone?’

‘A friend.’ She maintained a semblance of calm. ‘But I am not giving you this person’s name and number.’

‘Oh, Miss d’Arányi – that is just too, too tantalising. Surely you want your friend to let us know what really happened? It wouldn’t do you any harm.’

‘Excuse me, Mr Hartshaw, but I think my sister is going to play.’

‘You look rather pale. Shall I fetch you another drink?’

‘Thank you, but no.’ She moved away.

‘If you ask me,’ came the sly voice behind her, ‘it’s an outrageous heap of lies. The pack of you ought to be locked up.’