‘But why do you think these pieces wouldn’t have done him justice?’ Jelly protested. ‘How can we know, if nobody’s ever heard them?’

‘The chances of there even being a violin concerto are exceedingly slim. Look, he only met Joachim in the early 1850s – as you know, Joachim and Brahms were respectively only about 22 and 20 when they got to know Schumann, so any concerto he wrote for your Onkel Jo would indeed be a late work. It is eminently possible that Clara would have burned it. And if it does exist, it will have been hidden for a reason – namely, that it is probably not very good. Best let sleeping dogs lie.’

Jelly thanked the critic and drank the rest of her coffee, hoping its strength was the only reason she felt so tense. Fancy saying a work must be no good when there was no proof it even existed! Supposing it did exist, and it was a treasure, and she might find and play it and prove its worth, whether or not ‘spirits’ had any part in it? Going home in a cab, she closed her eyes and pictured ecstatic audiences, a new recording contract, a bestselling set of 78s, an American tour, some of which had been elusive of late… but above all, a resurrection, the only one that she could accomplish.

At home, she was battling frustration – an increased chance of the piece being real, but no indication of how to follow its trail – when the telephone rang, bringing to her the one person in the world who might know something concrete. Tovey had been off work for a year with health problems, so in her letter she had intimated merely that she wanted to consult him, should he be well enough.

‘Jelly!’ came the high trumpet tones of Tovey himself. ‘What a plate greasure! How are ye?’

‘Donald, how wonderful to hear you! Something astonishing has happened… ’ Unlike the two critics she had spoken to, Tovey had been close to Onkel Jo in person. ‘It’s so peculiar I need to talk to you about it properly,’ she said. ‘Please can I come up and see you?’

*

Settling into a train compartment alone with her violin, Jelly experienced a naughty if good-humoured guilt at enjoying her solitude. Sharing a home with Adila and her family was adorable, and she felt grateful to them every day; but the holiday with Erik had not felt holidayesque.

It seemed to her that Erik and Adila had fastened on to one another’s spirits and she could not decide which of them was clinging harder. Alec seemed neither worried nor jealous, but Jelly could not forget the jolt of discomfort that went through her upon learning that they had gone to the beach without her and Adrienne. Yet as a guest in her sister’s household – however much Adila and Alec insisted that it was her home too – she could scarcely afford to express any objection.