On the front step, the wind worrying at her hat and rain bedraggling her old fur coat, she battled with case, dress carrier, violin, flowers and keys. The house was silent and empty. Adrienne had gone back to school; Alec was at work; and there was no dog now to bark a welcome. The latest maid had left them and Adila had not yet found someone new. A note on the hall table told her that Adila was spending the afternoon at Portland Place, where Erik, Ebba and their staff had begun to pack up their household effects.

Alone, Jelly pottered about, putting away her last unworn tour clothes and piling her concert dresses on a chair ready to take to the dry cleaner’s. She arranged in a vase the bouquet that had been presented to her after the Eastbourne concert, then placed it on the music-room bookcase. She swallowed aspirin for her arm, made some tea and boiled an egg for lunch. She was fishing it out of the pot when the doorbell jangled upstairs.

The postman? A delivery? Adila home from the baron’s, minus keys? Jelly hurried up the stairs and flung open the front door.

A stranger stood before her in an overcoat and trilby: a figure only a few inches taller than she was, but with a breadth resembling a sportsman. She registered beneath the hat’s brim a triangle of a face and a gaze aflame behind rectangular spectacles.

‘Miss Jelly d’Arányi?’ A strange accent, one she did not recognise, overlaid with a ribbon-curl of American.

‘Yes?’ A reporter? No camera, no notebook. A fan? No flowers.

‘My name is Moshe Menuhin. I am the father of Yehudi Menuhin.’

Jelly felt briefly winded. Why hadn’t he contacted her first? How had he found out where she lived? ‘My goodness! Mr Menuhin, how very nice to meet you.’ She extended a hand, which he shook briefly, but with a grasp so strong that it made her wince.

‘I’m not sure if you got my letter?’

Upstairs, two weeks’ worth of post had piled up in her absence. ‘I’ve actually just been away on tour, and I only got back about half an hour ago, so… ’ Jelly gave him her brightest smile.

‘I apologise for turning up basically unannounced, then, but I’m only here a couple of days and the schedule is pretty tight, so I thought I’d take pot luck. Do you have a minute to talk, Miss d’Arányi?’

‘Yes, of course, sorry, please come in.’

Moshe Menuhin stepped into the house. She led the way to the music room. Whatever could she give Yehudi Menuhin’s father to eat? Adila must have some cake in the pantry. ‘I’ve just made some tea. Will you have a cup?’