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pitches. It was only the values that didn’t work. Where, according to the laws of fifteenth-century notation, he should have altered the consecutive breves – so one was worth three beats and the following one only two – Earl had accorded both notes equal value. Andrew saw his way out: he’d point out the difficulty of reading this music and put him off.
    â€˜But, er, unfortunately, you’re not altering the note values. This notation works differently; the notes aren’t the value that they seem to have on the page. They alter according to the mensuration sign and the context –’
blind him with science
, he thought – ‘so the same note can mean two different things. This breve here is worth three beats and this one here is worth only two.’
    â€˜That’s a bit stupid, isn’t it?’ said Earl.
    Brass players
, thought Andrew.
Always literal
.
    â€˜I used to play some early stuff – Gabrieli and guys like that – on the sackbut.’
    The sackbut, an antecedent of the trombone, was a sixteenth-century instrument, and this explained why Earl had some experience in the world of early music, and why he was unfazed by the square notes.
    â€˜You guys think too much. I think it should go like this.’ Earl started to sing the notes according to modern notational rules.
    It wasn’t a bad sound that he made, thought Andrew, even if what he was singing was clearly wrong. Someone across the aisle stared at them and Andrew mouthed an apology.
    â€˜I think we’re disturbing the other passengers,’ he said.
    â€˜No class, eh?’ Earl jabbed Andrew in the side with his elbow. ‘I guess we’d better leave ‘em in peace.’ He leaned forward to retrieve the in-flight magazine and started flicking through it.
    Despite the fact that it would have been historically impossible, Andrew was almost inclined to accept the sweating salesman’s literal solution to the notational conundrum. For one thing, the resultant melody had balance and flow, and it sounded more convincing than any of Andrew’s solutions. But it was absurd. How could a fat salesman from the Midwest have cracked the code when Andrew, with all his experience, had been so confounded?
    He dismissed the thought and closed his eyes, as much as anything to indicate to Earl that the conversation was over. And now, as he had done so many times, he surrendered to a fantasy of a future in which his reputation was secure, a pristine world in which work and pleasure were inextricably entwined.
    â€˜And how did you come to discover the key to the puzzle?’ asked the interviewer.
    â€˜Well,’ he would say, turning to Camera Two with accustomed ease, ‘for the benefit of the viewers I should just explain that pieces written at this time used a different system. I tried writing it out according to the rules that applied at the time, but it didn’t work. Then I tried several variations. Composers of the time loved puzzles
–
anagrams, acrostics, hidden messages
–
like cryptic crosswords really
–
so I tried a few different approaches. None worked. But then I thought…’
    The daydream collapsed as quickly as it had formed, the solution still out of reach.
    All he had to do was crack the notational riddle and prove the authorship of the motet and then … then he wouldn’t have to suffer this kind of physical inconvenience. He’d have a big chair, in First Class, and the stewardesses would attend to his every need rather than treat him with the kind of sour contempt he’d suffered on this flight. In fact, he’d probably never travel in Coach again.
    Â 
    â™¦ ♦ ♦
 
    At the stage door Emma was beset by a small clutch of eager concertgoers and obsessive fans. Peter, Susan and Claire were already patiently answering questions and offering appropriate encouragement. The tenors and basses were long gone, probably