The uniformed, very young porter placed Jelly’s larger suitcase on a stand in a corner of the room. ‘What’s your name, dear?’ she asked him.

‘John, madam,’ he mumbled. Shy, about 14, probably new in the job.

‘Thank you for your help, John.’ She gave him a tip – his ears reddened – then waited for him to close the door behind him before falling onto the bed, still in her damp coat and shoes. Chaos reigning within, she began to take stock of what she’d done.

Thank heavens the room was warm; back in the Twenties the Savoy had installed central heating, apparently powered by steam. A large, comfortable bed; a shining mirror over the mantelpiece; a wooden desk by the wall, bearing a writing set; brocade draperies patterned with white, cream and grey, all of it in up-to-the-minute style moderne, with contrasting grains in the wood panels and forms sleek enough to feel positively aerodynamic. Jelly pulled back the curtain: the view showed her the Thames, glinting back reflections of charcoal and tobacco-coloured clouds. The double-layer window proofed the room against sound and draughts. Funny that it wasn’t terribly British to like such windows. In Hungary, if you didn’t have them, you’d die of cold in midwinter. In Britain, somehow you were thought wimpish if you minded draughts, however bad they were for your bones.

Perhaps she should move abroad. Somewhere warm. Not Hungary, though. Italy? Ah, Italy. Mediterranean sun, olive trees, fresh basil, ultramarine sky. The land of Botticelli and Titian, warm and dry and healing. Was Mussolini as bad as Hitler? She had no idea. When the Schumann was over, perhaps she’d read up on the situation. Nothing could stop her living the life she chose, if she held to her vision strongly enough. Loneliness. Freedom. Free but happy.

Right now, she felt free but hungry. It was dinner time. The hotel offered round-the-clock room service; she could order whatever she liked. Yet it was quiet up here; too quiet. A busy restaurant might be cheery. Or would it depress her to be there on her own? Would anyone recognise her, and if so, how and why? Would there be praise for her playing, or whispers, pointing fingers and sniggers over spirit messages?

A long-ago voice whispered deep in her memory. She seemed to hear Onkel Jo’s voice just as it had been, fresh, clear, a strong tenor that tried to hide the ebb and flow of his Hungarian accent under a brusque Germanicism, the Rs rolled in the throat. She closed her eyes, listened. ‘Dear child, I am with you. I love you and I want you to be all right.’