Not that one could hide from a telephone, but at least she couldn’t hear what the headmistress said to provoke Adila’s lengthy outburst of fury. Adila, a tigress when her cub was threatened, could send the anger at the right target: those beastly schoolgirls who could neither mind their own business nor imagine what they’d feel were they in Adrienne’s shoes, dealing with an apparently deranged aunt.

Next The Times rang. Adila slammed down the phone.

Jelly called one of the paper’s critics, James Gambrell – whom she had visited when she was first trying to locate the concerto four years earlier. He claimed no recollection of the event, then finished the conversation in a hurry, saying he was just on his way out. A telegram arrived from George in Dublin, saying that she had booked a phone call; Jelly, overjoyed to hear her voice, talked to her for ages, going round and round in circles as she tried to explain who knew what, and when, and why, and wondering how she ought to weather this storm. ‘It mightn’t be easy,’ said George, who was somewhat experienced at protecting artists with supernatural difficulties. ‘But stay strong, Sai. I’m here. I’m with you.’

Tovey, who called next, provided some light relief. He had received a note from a lady who was eager to tell them she was psychically in touch with the spirit of a Tibetan lama. ‘She says,’ he added, ‘that the broadcast of Schumann’s Violin Concerto will set loose a wonderful flood of Thought Power across the earth.’

Jelly’s feet seemed to have acquired a life independent from her legs. They wanted to run and keep running. She had to escape. She could go to Battersea Park, get out of the house and away from all this madness. But there people might recognise her. They used to say good morning, tip their hats, smile. Today things might be very different.

Yet another phone call – and Adila, as self-appointed watchdog, summoned her and this time wouldn’t let her escape. ‘It’s Adrian Boult. You’d better talk to him yourself, Sai. It’s not about the report. It’s Germany, and Mehuhin.’

‘Can I call him back?’

‘Sai, speak to him now, and that’s an order,’ Adila thundered. ‘He’s a busy man and you need him more than he needs this.’

He was Sir Adrian Boult now; he had conducted the orchestra in Westminster Abbey for the coronation and since then been knighted.