It happened to coincide with an urgent circumstantial need – not that there is such a thing as coincidence in God’s pre-ordained plan. My colleagues at the yeshiva have been making themselves sick with worry over a financial embarrassment. An Australian alumnus has given us a hundred grand – I am not sure in which denomination – to build a new study wing in the name of his late mother. He is about to turn up for a visit. The wing, however, has not been built and the money has been spent on other exigencies – entirely germane to the yeshiva’s operations but not fulfilling the purpose of the donation. When the man arrives from Melbourne and there is no wing with his mother’s name on it – always a name at the heart of the matter – there will be an almighty row and, God forbid, a police investigation. My dear friend, Reb Yoel, has suffered a minor heart-attack. As mashgiach, I am next in line of authority.

Although I have nothing to do with the yeshiva’s finances, I summoned my senior colleagues and offered to take written responsibility for the missing funds, provided they helped fake my abscondment and put me beyond reach of police – and you. My friends joyously agreed, showering me with thanks. Some may have been relieved to see me go. My mind was sometimes too questioning for their orthodox comfort. Be that as it may, they offered every covert assistance, along with an assurance that my wife and youngest children will rejoin me shortly under a foolproof new identity: my third and, hopefully, my last.

I told my wife, by the way, that I was facing outrageous demands from someone in my former life, which is not a world away from the wholesome truth.

Anyway, as young Peter Stemp (give him my best) would say, I’m out of here. I was glad to see you alive and well, Martin, and sad that we could not spend more time together. I loved you dearly at a desperate time in my life, whether you choose to believe that or not. I repent the harm I caused your family and wish you the happiest of lives, or what remains of life for men of our years.

Be well, Mottl, as I am. May God be with you, Deus noster et non est iniquitas in eo (which I can hear you quoting back to me in the original Hebrew).

Dovidl.

There is no time to digest the letter. I shut the violin case, race to the station and catch the train as it pulls out. Panting on my flash new mobile phone, I tell Myrtle that I am on my way, and all is well. As we cross the Taw, I see the site of the ‘accident’ and smile. Where is he now?