‘Let’s see what’s happening.’ Jelly bent to fasten her shoes.

And at the back of the house, if Ulli had thought nothing more could surprise him tonight, he found he was wrong. An image faced him that he would never forget: Myra Hess in her black lace gown, lying flat on her back across the top of the Bechstein piano, reaching down to the keys beyond her shoulders and playing, from this unimaginable angle, utterly perfect Bach.

*

When the second-last guests left, around 3am, the Fachiris and Jelly, still chattering and singing to each other, set about tidying up. Only the Palmstiernas remained. Ebba had fallen asleep in an armchair; Erik shut the drawing room door softly so that she would not be disturbed.

‘How did you get along with that charming boy from Mainz?’ Adila asked Jelly. ‘I hear he’s working for Richard Strauss’s publisher.’

‘He’s very nice… ’

‘Jelly! Naughty girl, what have you been doing?’ Adila demanded in Hungarian.

‘Oh, just the usual,’ smiled Jelly. ‘And I think I won… ’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Erik. ‘That language of yours… ’

‘Never mind, never mind.’ Adila caught her sister’s eye and the pair stifled private laughter.

‘More seriously, yes, he’s working for the Streckers,’ Jelly said, ‘and he thinks perhaps he can help us with the Schumann.’ A shadow of anxiety crossed her with the simultaneous brightening in the eyes of her sister and the Swedish ambassador. ‘He thinks Willy Strecker knows Johannes Joachim well enough to have an influence.’

‘What about Elisabeth? Doesn’t she? Johannes is her brother, for God’s sake.’

‘She’s not a publisher,’ Jelly pointed out. ‘And after all, we are his cousins and there is nothing we have been able to do.’

She smiled again, this time to herself, thinking of her new friend. Ulli Schultheiss inspired confidence: a tall man, fair and open from tip to toe – face, attitude and mind all matched. Bright, direct gaze, the type she liked best. She had adored Sep’s forthright Australian nature, and Tom’s bright and breezy Irish equivalent; Ulli’s directness was far removed from that evasive, slippery Englishness that often annoyed her. She’d noticed him relaxing as the evening went on; in the Green Room he’d been so tense, goodness knows why – was it the language barrier? ‘He did well at the love poetry,’ she told Adila in Hungarian, ‘and he’s a wonderful tango dancer, too.’

‘Didn’t you think he was devastatingly handsome? He really likes you, I can tell.’

‘I’m too old for him. If only darling Anna were here – he’d be ideal for her… ’

‘For goodness sake! He’s a lovely boy, with a nice behind! Very round and firm. They do not grow on trees. And his job is very responsible, so he can’t be under 30. If I were you, I’d – ’

‘Oh Adi, do stop it… ’

*