‘Is there anybody of friendly intent who would like to talk to us?’ Mary intoned. And as they watched, the pointer began to slide over the board towards the letter N.

‘Are you doing that?’ Jelly mouthed at Anna.

‘No! It’s just… moving on its own. How on earth… ?’

‘Mary, it’s you!’ Charles accused.

‘No, it is not. Hush, please.’ Mary was officious, noting down the letters ‘N-O-T-Q-I-T-E’.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Charles said. ‘If there’s nobody there, how can there be someone to say “Not quite”?’

‘Sometimes I am not quite here either,’ Jelly tried to joke.

‘They’re having fun with us, so let’s have some fun with them, or whoever is moving the pointer this time. Let’s ask some real questions. The stock markets. Volatile as hell. So will the Dow Jones move up or down tomorrow?’

The pointer spun from letter to letter: F-T-S-C-V. ‘Gibberish,’ said Mary. ‘Let’s keep on.’

Jelly was indeed not quite there. A wall of tiredness had come upon her – the inevitable delayed reaction after the post-concert euphoria. She half followed the pointer beneath their fingers, with scant concern for the outcome.

The arrow glided to the letter A, then in succession to D-I-L-A. Jelly’s stomach gave a flip. ‘Adila?’ she said.

Jelly’s sister Adila was, according to her friend, Baron Erik Palmstierna, a psychic ‘sensitive’. For her, messages would come through unusually clearly and at considerable length, often whirling the glass along at high speed, in English, French, German or even perfect, grammatical Hungarian. News of Adila’s gift spread rapidly through those circles that interested themselves in ‘psychical research’. She would interpret the incoming messages while a minute-taker – sometimes her husband, but more usually Erik, who was the Swedish minister to London – transcribed them, one letter at a time. Jelly, living with Adila and her family, usually managed to avoid these sessions, finding them most uncomfortable when the messages made sense. Ill at ease with Erik, she would have preferred her sister’s talent to be restricted to the violin.

‘What’s Adila got to do with the stock market?’ Charles demanded.

The pointer chuntered on, letter by tortuous letter.

‘It seems to say something along the lines of “Adila is playing beautifully at this moment”,’ Mary declared, reading back her transcript. ‘Jelly, is she?’

‘No, no, no,’ Jelly insisted. ‘She has a concert today, but it was this afternoon, not this evening. You see? This is just a silly game!’

‘Don’t call them names,’ Mary said. ‘They don’t like it.’

The pointer bowled off again, faster. The letters spelled ‘Gad you’.

‘Glad? Who is it you are glad to see?’ said Mary. ‘Is it Jelly?’

The arrow meandered towards ‘Yes’.

Jelly pulled her hand away as if from spilled acid. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not happy doing this. I’ll go to bed now, if you will please forgive me.’