‘I’ve been on a little journey of my own, trying to understand,’ Tovey said. ‘I’m writing you a letter about it, before I write to The Times, because I haven’t decided what I should say in print. Be totally honest: where do you think the messages come from?’

Jelly paused. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think there’s another place they come from. I mean, I don’t think that there’s a Valhalla where composers go to live after they die. I don’t know what to believe, but what I do know is that this happened. This happened to me. And I don’t see why it shouldn’t have. Why shouldn’t I believe that Schumann’s spirit wanted to contact me?’

Tovey gave a gentle laugh. ‘Never mind, my dear. You’ll get my letter tomorrow. Then there’ll be an official version. Honestly, I find it strange enough that people can communicate with one another by any means at all.’

The letter was on the mat in the morning. Pages and pages of it, some handwritten, some typed, then handwritten again. She marvelled at the time and effort that Tovey was putting into defending her.

Moreover, his words made sense, in an extraordinary way. Reading them again and again, to make sure she had understood, it seemed he was telling her that human beings are all part of one another, and that an interchange between them involved not only ideas, but in some ways an actual transfer of part of their souls to each other: our inner selves can flow into the mind of everyone with whom we communicate, and theirs into ours, whether we know it or not. Therefore our existence is inseparable from everyone else’s; and that interconnection makes us what and who we are. If so, then music must be the best and the most direct way to reach and feed a shared consciousness within us all.

Tovey’s letter to The Times was altogether more pragmatic, though replete with his acerbic humour. Yet he left no room for doubt: he believed her. He – the most distinguished musicologist in Britain – was willing to stand and be counted, publicly declaring so in The Times, with no need to justify his statement. It was a lengthy letter, exploring the concerto from many angles, but he had saved the best for the end. Having declared his personal, deep knowledge of the people concerned, now and in bygone times, he closed with the words: ‘I assert my positive conviction that the spirit of Schumann is inspiring Jelly d’Arányi’s production of Schumann’s posthumous Violin Concerto. The sense in which I make this assertion is my own private affair.’

While Jelly rejoiced over The Times, though, Adila’s face had begun to darken over The Listener.