“You don’t remember Elliman, the florist? No. Poor fellow, never recovered from the blow—the bomb, you know. Lost all heart. Wouldn’t rebuild, wouldn’t claim war damage compensation—but wouldn’t part with the lease. Amazing obstinacy. Died a couple of years ago, and the executors sold, of course. Uneconomic premises for a single business. Small, no egress at the back. We and the gramophone people block the way. What strange anomalies of building and planning exist in great cities. Fascinating. Rather dull, don’t you agree, if everything were regular and symmetrical? London may be a muddle, but it has a heart, a lively beating heart.”

“It certainly has,” said Nightingale, thinking of the turbulent central divisions of the Metropolitan Area.

“You know,” said Mr. Majendie, “had the Princess’s trunk passed into my possession, I could have offered something of considerable interest to our phonographic neighbours. The Princess had two old records—oh, very old. Brought them away with her. She showed them to me. They were her favourites, she said, but as she’s no means of playing them I might as well take them with the rest. Wonderful, and rather touching, that she should have preserved them for so long.”

“Was she interested in music?”

“Devoted, my dear sir, devoted. She was a Vyestnitsky, and they were all musical. Her brother, Count Sergei—what an elegant man, by the way! I shall never forget his canes so long as I live. I was about to say, he had a collection of records quite famous at the time—which was, of course, the comparative infancy of recording. He was an enthusiast. So was Prince Sevastyan Karukhin. But not a pure enthusiast.” Mr. Majendie glanced up at Nightingale as if assessing his fitness to hear an inglorious revelation. “He had, you see, to outdo his brother-in-law. That was his motive for collecting. He built a studio in which to house and play his records—nothing if not thorough. Converted the hothouses.”

“How did he manage to do without those?”

“But the railways, you see, development of the railways,” explained Mr. Majendie, unaware of sarcasm. “Fruit and flowers could be rushed by special train from the southern estates—often were, especially for balls and banquets. Kept them fresh on blocks of ice, you know.”

“What were the Princess’s records, can you remember?”

“I’m not much up with all that sort of thing. Let me see. Olimpia Boronat—does that convey anything to you? Or have I confused—”

“That sounds possible. She was a Russian soprano. What was she singing—The Last Rose of Summer?”

“That I can’t remember. Now who was the other singer? A hand written label—a man’s name, French, I think. Something, I recall, that put me in mind of cigarettes—”

“Not—de Reszke?”

“Why, splendid, Mr. Nightingale! Well done, indeed. That’s it. Jean de Reszke.”

“Jean!” Nightingale’s voice shot up several tones.

“But is he famous? I confess I’ve never heard of the fellow.”