Moshe Menuhin gave a laugh that Jelly thought more sardonic than warm. ‘How English you’ve become – all tea and excuses and apologies. And there I was, expecting you still to be Hungarian. I can hear the accent, though. It’s a good one.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Goodness, how little she travelled abroad these days: nobody had addressed her in such a way in a long time. A national issue, probably. American informality and suchlike. Normally she liked candour. Today she wasn’t so sure.

‘Amazing place you’ve got here. I love the rugs. Persian, no?’

‘Our father bought them for us when we were just girls, with some money an uncle left… ’

Menuhin senior was casting about the music room, peering around – was he looking at the paintings to see if they were signed? Opening the piano to note its brand? Healthy curiosity, perhaps. ‘Ah, a Bechstein. Interesting. A very nice make, not used enough these days.’

‘Are you a musician too, Mr Menuhin?’

‘Dear me, no, I can’t read a note of music. I appreciate it, of course, but the talent belongs to my children. I have the dignity of a father and the duties of a valet!’ He picked up the portrait of Sep that stood atop the Bechstein and turned it around in his hands. ‘Nice sketch. What is this – John Singer Sargent? Whew – very nice sketch. Who’s the gentleman?’

‘A friend. A musician. He died at the Somme.’

‘I see.’ That gaze was prodding her with its spike again; this man was quick on the uptake. ‘What kind of musician?’

‘A composer and pianist, from Australia. He was also a rower – an Olympic champion… Let me get you some tea, Mr Menuhin? And a piece of my sister’s finest fruit cake? Do have a seat, please… ’

‘Thank you.’ Moshe planted himself in the armchair beside the piano.

Jelly flew downstairs to boil the kettle and locate the cake. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast in Eastbourne – cornflakes with the Southerns – and now her egg stood untouched, tantalising her. She took the cut cake upstairs on the best silver tray, together with her mother’s tea set, at least the two cups that remained unchipped.

‘My compliments to the chef.’ Moshe appeared to be enjoying the cake. ‘I gather Mrs Fachiri isn’t in?’

‘She’s out seeing friends. I’m glad you arrived after I came home, or there’d have been nobody here.’

‘I waited.’

What? He’d been outside all that time, anticipating her return?

‘Your very kind neighbour, Mrs Garrett, spotted me walking around your cul-de-sac about an hour ago and asked me in. I find the sense of community here encouraging. People take an interest in one another’s lives.’

Mrs Garrett? Kind? Interested, no doubt… ‘I’m touched that you feel I’m worth waiting for.’ Jelly tried once more to don her charm cloak.