‘Don’t worry, Jelly, there’s nothing about how you found the concerto that I didn’t know already,’ came the familiar clipped voice from his BBC office. ‘Now, regarding the concert – well, there’s a little spot of bother. As you know, what the Germans have cooked up is that Herr Kulenkampff must play it first, Yehudi Menuhin will play it second, and you will go third with the British premiere. They’ve made it terribly official. We mustn’t blame Kulenkampff – he may be little more than their pawn. I’m afraid that negotiating with the Nazis is not my favourite pastime… but in short, they’ve shifted the date once more.’

It took a moment for Jelly to absorb the implications. She longed briefly for Thomas Beecham. Boult she adored; shy and formal though he seemed, she knew that exterior masked both a ferocious temper and a great heart. But Beecham took no nonsense from anybody. She and Myra both rather dreaded playing concertos with him – you never knew when you might get an actual rehearsal – but Beecham would have stood up to those thugs in Berlin. He’d have defied the lot. ‘What? They’ve moved the concert again?’

‘Precisely,’ drawled Boult. ‘To November. They say there are complications to do with Kulenkampff’s preparation of the violin part, and whether that’s true, I couldn’t say. What’s certain is that, just like last time, we have no choice but to move ours so that it’s after theirs. Young Mr Menuhin, who’s champing at the bit, is having all hell to deal with at Carnegie Hall because he also has to rearrange his concert for after Kulenkampff’s… ’

Jelly hesitated. The concerto’s sheet music would not be on sale until the day of its premiere – so Menuhin must have a photostat like hers. From Schott’s. Apparently he’d been taking a sabbatical until his 21st birthday; now it had passed. Perhaps he’s burned out, Alec had suggested. No, Adila countered: he’s regrouping. And practising, hard. The Schumann was to be his great international comeback, complete with the tale of its rediscovery – which, as reported thus far, contained not one word about a glass game, spirit messages, London, or the involvement of any violinist but the golden boy who pleaded so irresistibly with the Germans for permission to play it that they released it to him… Presumably the American reporters knew nothing of Germany’s race laws, which made prompt nonsense of their words.

‘Why is it Menuhin’s all of a sudden?’ she protested. ‘He never did a scrap of work to have it released.’