If this piece of insanity was to be believed, she had received a message from the spirit of Robert Schumann, or his… representative. Telling her that a violin concerto he had written was lying unplayed somewhere and he wanted her to save it. Astonishing – an extraordinary demand, an overwhelming responsibility – that Schumann should choose her. But supposing it was a trick of some kind, a deception, or worse? If something truly supernatural had taken place, how could she be sure this communication was benevolent and not demonic?

She could wait for Adila to come home, then tell her everything. Or she could clear away the evidence and pretend nothing had ever happened. It had to be nonsense. The very idea of a concerto by Schumann having lain untouched all these years was ridiculous; if such a thing existed, assuredly every violinist in the world would want to play it. Besides, she’d lose face if she admitted that she had been indulging in the glass game, since she habitually poured scorn on Adila and Erik for it.

Jelly read back the transcript one last time – then took it upstairs to stow at the bottom of a drawer in Anna’s desk, in case it might someday come in handy. She’d leave it there, forget about it and tell her sister nothing now, nothing ever.

But while the clock ticked, while Alec and Adrienne slumbered, oblivious, in their bedrooms and Caesar downstairs gave canine snores in his basket, and while around 3am the engine and brakes of a cab signalled that Adila was home, Jelly lay awake, still electrified. If Onkel Jo and his friend Robert Schumann could be there, communicating, then so could Bach and Beethoven, so could Shakespeare, Plato, Aristophanes, so could Napoleon and the Duke of Wellington, so could her mother and Sep and…

Supposing she ignored the messages, dismissing them as the product of her own wishful thinking – and then the work turned up after all? Supposing she were to find it and perform it? Supposing she could free it, save it from oblivion and infuse it with renewed life?

She heard Adila moving about in the bathroom, humming to herself as she shed her evening dress and jewels. The tune was from Schumann’s Violin Sonata in D minor. Still wondering, Jelly let herself fall into an uneasy sleep.

Chapter 3

When Jelly tried to set off with Anna for Norman Hartnell’s salon one morning a couple of weeks later, the Fachiri family car refused to start. Anna, whose duties extended to occasional chauffeuse, sat in the driver’s seat, turning and returning the key. The car’s coughs reminded Jelly of Anna’s own.

‘It’s not going to work.’ Anna climbed out. ‘We’ll have to take a bus or taxi.’ Their part of Chelsea wasn’t well served by trams.

‘I can go on my own,’ said Jelly. ‘You should keep warm, with that cough.’