He kept to himself the impression that this hall looked a little miserable. Taking his seat beside Tovey, he surveyed the ceiling mural, where there sailed some desultory cupids. Over several centuries of composition, Britain had produced nothing better than Elgar and Vaughan Williams. Music simply did not hold the same status here as it did in Germany or Austria; the latter coddled the world’s finest composers with the architectural equivalent of fine gateaux and schlagobers.

‘Are you writing music at the moment?’ he asked Tovey. He was under strict instructions from Mainz not to mention the professor’s recent heart trouble.

‘I am, if a little slowly.’ Tovey seemed pleasantly surprised to be asked. ‘My opera’s going to be done, finally.’ He was shifting his spidery legs about in the cramped seat. ‘How is life in Germany?’

‘Difficult,’ Ulli admitted, lowering his voice. ‘You know they have made a Reichsmusikkammer, an official section for music within the state’s cultural department. One of their jobs is to look at the planned concert programmes and decide which they can sanction, and which not.’

Tovey nodded, glum. ‘I’ve read something to that effect. Who makes the decisions?’

‘Artists. Some of our finest artists. Wilhelm Backhaus, Wilhelm Furtwängler – ’

‘Oh, not Furtwängler? The best conductor I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing… ’

‘And Georg Kulenkampff, the violinist. Not that I rate him quite as much as the other two, but still… ’

‘But these are great, great musicians – surely they’re not in sympathy with the regime?’

‘As I said, it’s difficult… I think they have no choice.’

‘Which violinists do you admire?’ Tovey changed the subject.

‘A few years ago I heard little Yehudi Menuhin. In Berlin, wearing knickerbockers. That was some kind of miracle. He has such intensity in his sound, something almost prophet-like. I’ve heard child prodigies before, but never one like that. I fear he may have ruined me for all other violinists.’

‘Well, I hope Miss d’Arányi will change your mind,’ Tovey smiled.

Where Jelly d’Arányi was concerned, Ulli had a tickling in the nose – an instinct he usually trusted – that the investment of time, money and effort in travelling to London would be repaid. If this missing concerto could be secured, and succeeded, and he was the person who helped to recover it, that could bode well for his own future. He had heard from colleagues that the Streckers spoke of him as likely heir for a senior post. Perhaps in sending him to see her they were giving him a chance to prove himself.

‘What is the latest about the Schumann story?’ he asked.

‘Stalemate. Jelly needs you, Ulli. She needs you to help her with this. Schott’s are probably the only people who can.’