I descend, for the last time, into the Victorian bowels of a once-great institution. Thunderous pipes run above my head. The walls are tiled in morose shades of brown and yellow. I pass storerooms, kitchens, lavatories, sculleries, fenced off for demolition. Near the end of the corridor, the agreeable Sue Summerfield produces a master-key and throws open my locker. ‘I’ll be in Reception if you need me,’ she reports. ‘No need to lock up. It’s all coming down on Monday.’

A mound of tatty purple paperbacks, ‘Printed in the British Empire’, is all that remains of my former wares. Couple of dozen, hardly worth shlepping back home. I cannot see anything else in the gloom and my ears prick to a scurrying nearby. Near an English river, always expect a rat. I grope inside the base of the huge locker, hoping I am not going to get bitten. It has been years since my last tetanus jab. Three feet in, I touch a leather case, rounded at either end, hollowed in the middle. I locate a strap and pull it out, trembling with anticipation. The light is too poor to see much, but the worn leather tells me that this is not one of my mass-produced Chinese fiddles. It feels like the genuine article, the missing object, the final satisfaction.

Back upstairs, I thank Sue Summerfield for her help, assure her of my continued custom, and ask to hire an office for twenty minutes, which is all I have left before the train leaves. She shows me into a brand-new business suite brimming with computers and telecommunications. I put the violin case on the table and wait until she has left before, fingers fumbling, I crack open the clasps.

Without being Arbuthnot Bailey I can tell a Guadagnini by the orangy varnish and fine-cut scroll. It is looking slightly the worse for wear, not having been played (at a guess) for a good four years, but with new strings and a nice brush-up at Baileys it will return magnificently to full resonance.

So excited am I by its aura, its welcoming smile, that I almost miss the sealed letter, tucked into the roof of the violin case, beneath the bow and sticks of resin.

My dear Mottl,

Since I am leaving without saying goodbye and it is unlikely that we shall ever meet again, I have arranged for the safe return of your property and would like to offer you, for want of an apology, an explanation.

You must have known, when demanding my return to centre-stage, that this was an entirely untenable proposition. It would have compromised my position in the only society I care for and exposed me to the pressures and scrutiny from which I had fled once before.