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whether to Paris, London or elsewhere she could not say.
    Giving up on this source of information, I turned to thank the gentleman who had helped me, but he had already disappeared up the narrow, crooked staircase that led to the chambers above. I was left to my imaginings as I went up to my room and proceeded to freshen myself with a pitcher of hot water carried in by an obliging maid not two minutes later. In entirely incomprehensible words proffered in the local dialect, but using the most unmistakeable gestures, she was able to communicate to me the fact that dinner would be served when I should hear the sound of a bell or gong belowstairs, and leaving me with this welcome piece of information, she removed herself and I removed my shoes and reclined upon the bed.
    I felt anxious and troubled, and was worried that I would have difficulty finding sleep in such unfamiliar surroundings. However, after consuming the extremely heavy meal of a bowl of cabbage-and-rice soup followed by breaded veal, together with potatoes cut to tiny ribbons and fried to a crisp golden brown, I felt overcome by exhaustion, and dragged myself up the stairs to my room again, feeling as laden as though I were carrying a weighty suitcase. I went to bed at once, in order to be at Frau Bochsler’s at as early an hour as was reasonable to begin our round of visits.
    Some two hours after we had started forth, bored to tears by endless repetition of banalities, I began to wonder if Frau Bochsler was not becoming as impatient and sceptical of the whole procedure as myself, and was on the very point of calling it all off from sheer enervation, when her carriage stopped in front of an elegant town house, and she rang at the doorbell, saying,
    ‘Now you shall meet a very dear friend.’
    The door was opened by a sempiternal aproned maid, who ushered us into a sempiternal velvet-upholstered parlour. After a young lady, an elderly lady, a middle-aged couple and an elderly couple, it was now a single gentleman who entered the room: a gentleman of a certain age, small, wiry and friendly.
    ‘I am so pleased to meet you,’ he said in excellent English, once Frau Bochsler had explained something of the nature of our call. ‘My name is Leopold Ratner. Please, do sit down and by all means let us discuss this strange story.’ For the fifth time that morning, we sat down and the maid was sent for something to offer the unexpected guests.
    ‘I was greatly interested in Sebastian Cavendish, and terribly shocked to hear of his sudden death,’ Herr Ratner told me with sincere feeling. ‘You see, I follow the careers of as many of the rising young violinists of Europe as I reasonably can. Luckily for me, my dear Tonhalle is one of the very best of all the European orchestras, so that some of the most extraordinary players come to perform right here where I live. I attended Cavendish’s phenomenal concert in December, and afterwards, of course, the charming evening party at Frau Bochsler’s home.’
    I noticed then that half-hidden underneath his grey beard, Herr Ratner had an old, well-rubbed mark on the left side of his neck.
    ‘You are a violinist also?’ I asked.
    ‘I was one, not so long ago,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I was an orchestral musician for several decades. When I was young, I had some talent and I thought I might go far, but such a career is not given to many. Ah, then, when I was still young and energetic and filled with dreams of ambition, I travelled far and wide to hear the greatest violinists of my day, and that is how I came to hear Josef Krieger – or Joseph Krieger, as he called himself after moving to England – and to be inspired to become his pupil. You wish to know what I discussed with young Cavendish during the evening: we talked about my teacher, Joseph Krieger. Alas, what I learnt above all from Krieger was that I would never be a great violinist. He used to shout at me during the lessons, which I believe he gave only