‘Please excuse me, Erik, but I must finish writing to Tom. He’s having an operation next week and we hope it may save him, at least for a while… I’m so worried about him, but all I can really do is write to him and pray.’

He let her go; she retreated to the lounge while the team set to work. Each minute that went by she thanked Providence that she was still there, still writing; nothing untoward had taken place and an hour had passed…

It was as if part of her knew what was going to happen.

Adila was in the doorway. ‘Jelly! Come here, quick!’

In the parlour, Erik and Adila had taken the glass while Alec was transcribing the incoming messages. Jelly looked over his shoulder. He had written down: ‘Tell Jelly remember concerto.’

‘What concerto?’ said Alec.

‘Wait, there’s more coming – I can feel it.’ Adila, with a dramatic shiver, pressed her finger to the base of the glass. Erik rushed to join her; heads bowed in concentration, they watched it glide. Did the centre of Adila’s palms grow hot? Jelly didn’t want to ask.

Powerless, she hovered in the shadows beyond the lamplight so that nobody could see her face while the apparently spirit-loaded glass pounced upon letter after letter.

‘Schumann. Museum Weimar. Tell Tovey,’ Adila interpreted. ‘What on earth does that mean? Why Weimar? What’s it got to do with Tovey?’

Three pairs of astonished eyes turned towards Jelly. ‘Sai, what in the name of Beelzebub is going on?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Stop pretending! A concerto? Schumann? Nothing?’

‘I didn’t take it seriously. I mean – Adi, I’m no good at this, you know I’m not.’

‘What didn’t you take seriously? Out with it! I won’t stop asking until you say, so you might as well tell us now.’

Jelly, trapped, moistened her lips. Two minutes later Adila, Alec and the baron knew everything she had been trying to forget while she plotted her cathedral tour.

‘Adi, did Onkel Jo ever say anything to you about a Schumann violin concerto?’ she finished, pleading.

‘Not that I remember. I am certain, no. A hundred per cent, definitely, certain he did not.’

‘If anyone knew about it, it would have been him,’ Alec agreed. ‘It might have been written for him.’

‘This is crrrazy,’ Adila growled. ‘Oh, Sai! How could you hide such a thing? A missing Schumann concerto! Imagine if you found it and played it. It would be yours, all over the world. You’d go down in history as the woman who rediscovered it.’

‘Why me?’ said Jelly. ‘Why not you? You were Onkel Jo’s pupil, not me. And whatever does Schumann know about Tovey?’