Jelly thought of Mary Southern’s opening invitation. ‘Hello, is there anyone of friendly intent who would like to talk to us?’

Twenty seconds more went by in stillness. Perhaps it wasn’t going to work? Then, beneath her fingertip, Jelly felt a slip of energy, like the prickle of an electric current.

The glass gave an unmistakable shift. Jelly and Anna breathed and waited. It moved, first left, then right – and was still.

Anna took a deep breath. ‘Is Mrs Antoinette d’Arányi there, please?’

‘Darling, don’t ask for my mama. It’s not a telephone… ’

Jelly was becoming aware of heat gathering in the centre of her palms – a concentration of some intensity, first a superficial tingling, then gradually digging deeper and deeper. Soon her hands seemed to be pierced through with a thousand pins, and around the central spots, numbness began to spread through her fingers and the muscles at the side of her palms. Before she could say anything, let alone make a break for safety, the glass started to glide along the table.

It circled the letters once, twice, and yet again; then swerved towards G and on to its next choice, apparently galvanised by a propulsive force that Jelly knew was not hers and, to judge from Anna’s frightened eyes, could scarcely belong to her, either. Anna, left forefinger on the tumbler, noted down letter after letter. Jelly, transfixed, was wondering what was happening to her hands. Wasn’t this what occurred when someone received stigmata? Yet there was no sign of blood – only the bizarre impression that someone had plugged electrodes into her palms.

In due course they derived from the glass one simple phrase: ‘Glad to see you’ – which was almost the same as the Eastbourne incident.

‘Is that Jelly’s mother?’

The glass slid towards ‘no’. Then, before either of them could ask a question, it plunged onwards, letter by agonising letter, forcing their concentration.

Anna noted down the sequence. ‘This is a little strange.’

The glass slowed and ceased its motion, leaving them to read back the transcript – once, twice… five times.

‘No?’ Jelly stared into Anna’s eyes, feeling winded.

‘I’m not seeing things,’ Anna said. ‘Are you reading this the same way?’

‘Does it say what it seems to?’ The closest approximation to the letters appeared to be: ‘A composer seeks your aid’.

Anna was moistening her lips; Jelly reached out to give her hand a reassuring press and found it chilly with fright. Part of her wanted to switch on the light and declare all of this, in best Donald Tovey fashion, nuff and stonsense. Could the composer perhaps be Sep Kelly? The pressure in her palms was becoming almost painful. She thought she could make out, in the candlelight, a pink spot in the centre of her free hand, as if she had held it over a flame for a moment too long.