‘“It is not my best work”,’ Anna read out the transcript. ‘“But it is better than much music being written today”… ’ She shoved back her chair, clattered to her feet and plunged for the nearest lamp. ‘Jelly, no! Help! That was Schumann! That was Schumann himself! I can’t do this! We have to stop. I’ve never been so terrified in all my life.’

‘It’s all right.’ Jelly’s whole body felt icy except for the heat in her palms, as if all her blood had rushed to them and formed whirlpools there. Electric light swamped the candle; the spell cracked and fell away.

In the brightness they blinked, steadied their breathing and clasped hands. Jelly’s head had begun to throb with exhaustion. They sat without speaking, trying to absorb at least some small measure of what had just happened to them.

‘Why Schumann?’ Anna ventured. ‘Why would it be him?’

Jelly racked her reeling mind for any possible explanation. ‘He was a great friend of Onkel Jo. Actually I think it was Onkel Jo who introduced him to Brahms.’

‘Schumann was much older, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, Schumann would have been in his forties, Jo and Brahms were both in their early twenties, and they both adored him. Don’t you love his music?’

‘I remember Myra Hess playing the Piano Concerto – my hands hurt from clapping, it was so wonderful… So if there is a violin concerto, that would be really important, wouldn’t it?’

‘I suppose it depends on the piece, but if it’s as beautiful as the Piano Concerto – it’s almost unimaginable! You know how often I play the Brahms and Mendelssohn concertos? It could be as significant as those. It could transform the whole violin concerto repertoire; it could transform concert life. Or certainly… it could transform mine,’ she reflected, ‘if I found it.’

‘Wasn’t there some appalling tragedy around Schumann? I can’t remember what happened.’

‘He became very ill – perhaps with manic depression – and eventually he lost his mind and he died in a mental asylum. Donald Tovey still winces when he talks about it.’

‘He went mad? Did that affect his music at all?’

‘That,’ said Jelly, ‘is a good question. I’m not sure anyone really knows the answer.’

*

Many questions hung in the air, most of them unasked. After Anna had gone home in a cab, Jelly sat at the table staring at the letters, the tumbler and the transcript lying where they’d left them. Her hands had cooled, her head cleared. What idiocy was this? She hadn’t pushed the glass. Anna was so frightened that she couldn’t have done so either. There had to be a rational explanation.