‘But Mr Menuhin, if it hadn’t been for the messages, nobody would have heard that the concerto existed.’ Jelly pointed out. How on earth had he arrived at such an idea? Had someone written to somebody without her knowing?

‘What a tide of cock-a-hoop baloney!’ Moshe was on his feet and Jelly shrank back, for he seemed about to knock over the occasional table complete with his plate of cake and full cup of tea, and it was right beside the piano and her violin case.

‘I’ve heard much in my lifetime that’s outrageous and unfair, you know.’ He began to pace the room. She sat transfixed, incredulous. ‘I’ve lived in the Middle East and seen injustices that could turn your hair white in one day. I’ve lived in Jerusalem and seen British arrogance drive wedge after wedge between different peoples, never mind who suffers. I’ve lived in New York and San Francisco, scraping together the cash to feed, clothe and house my family. I’ve worked every minute that God sends, I’ve paid my dues and supported my son through efforts I could never have made in 2,000 years. And now, here it is: this beautiful concerto, come to light after years of suppression, and my boy will give it its best chance. But, oh no. Everything is scuppered, the dates are changed and changed again, I won’t tell you how much the rescheduling has cost – and what’s more, Yehudi has had to let people down, which he would never do, including the best concert hall in the US of A – and all because Miss Jelly d’Arányi says the Schumann concerto is hers becausea Ouija board told her so! When the concerto is listed in the encyclopaedias and the history books and always has been, and anybody could have found it if they’d looked!’

There was a silence while Jelly worked out how to reply to this diatribe.

‘What are you asking me to do?’ she ventured, finally.

‘Obviously,’ said Moshe, ‘you should consider whether you wish to go ahead with that concert.’

Jelly kept still and met his gaze. ‘Would you save a beloved friend’s life only to see him taken prisoner? I know Yehudi will play it well, but that concerto is not home again until it is here with me.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Then I’ll put it plainly. I will not cancel my concert. I will never give up my Schumann.’

*

When Adila opened the front door, despondent after seeing the Palmstiernas’ packing cases piled high in the library at Portland Place, all was quiet. Jelly’s coat and hat were on the stand. Upstairs, her suitcase lay open on her bed. She must be home; she’d unpacked. She’d changed her shoes.

‘Sai?’