Jelly, outside to keep half an eye on Adrienne and the dog, watched the men from a safe distance. Erik was more Mediterranean in appearance than any other Scandinavian she knew; the intensity of his heavy-lidded eyes, she thought, could make him virtually glow in the dark. Beside his aristocratic Swedish drawl, Alec’s still-detectable American twists and pointed vowels sounded less subtle than usual, but the baron had built much of his career through his skill at public speaking, while Alec’s was founded upon quietness and concentration. The most obvious thing the two had in common was sizeable moustaches.

The second most obvious thing was Adila. Her vitality seemed to rub off on Erik; her energy fed him like an addictive substance.

‘There you are!’ came her dark voice, and she strode out onto the terrace – her figure as lavish as her cooking, her periwinkle gaze direct between strong, level brows, giving a smile that would be visible from the back of the largest concert hall – and Erik’s face shone like a Christmas tree set with a hundred candles.

‘I’m all right here, Auntie Jeje,’ Adrienne called. ‘I don’t need watching.’

Jelly blew her a kiss, then wandered upstairs to take out her violin: if in doubt, practise.

*

The inevitable began soon after dinner.

They’d enjoyed roast chicken and a fine Bordeaux; now a long marine twilight set in that seemed to concentrate the scents of mown grass, heather and Swedish pipe tobacco. Adila coaxed Adrienne upstairs for a bedtime story; and while the men took cognac in the smoking room, Jelly settled at a table in the lounge to write to Tom. She summoned a cheery tone for her letter that concealed her disquiet at the idea that she should, and could, have been there to look after him herself.

She was on a sixth page, telling him about the dunes, the baron’s fast car and the fact that there was a naturist beach a five-minute drive away, when Erik came in: ‘Jelly, do join us – we have a private salon for our research.’

In a quiet parlour draped with brocade curtains and lit by one lamp, Erik had set up a round table with his own set of letters and a tumbler borrowed from the kitchen. Jelly paused in the doorway. This was the last thing she wanted to do; the dinner had been good, the wine even more so and after that tiring drive she’d have preferred to go to sleep. She’d managed to avoid such sessions since her secret effort with Anna. ‘Where’s Adi?’

‘She’s upstairs with Adri – we wait for her.’ Erik’s face softened. ‘She galvanises our friends beyond.’

‘She galvanises real people too,’ Jelly said pointedly.