Free The Case of the Missing Bronte by Robert Barnard

case she was consulting me as — God help me — ’ (here he put on a self-deprecating grin, which twisted his sunken cheeks) — ‘a literary man, not as a lawyer, or a financial adviser.’
    â€˜One last point, and then I’ll need to trouble you no longer. Tell me, how much of the manuscript did you get to read?’
    â€˜Well, I didn’t get to read any of it. I mean, it was frightfully difficult to decipher. I just cast my eye over it — you know how it is: I just caught the odd name, because of the capital letters standing out. Mendith Crag, I remember. Ling-something Manor. Somebody called Blackmore, I think. But it was all terribly closely written — the speech not separated off from the rest. It would have taken me days to go through the whole thing. I’m a busy man, Superintendent.’
    I could take a hint.
    â€˜Then I’ll take my leave, sir. Thank you very much for all your help.’ At the door, I paused. ‘You may have been wondering why I’ve been asking these questions . . .’
    Timothy gulped a little.
    â€˜Yes. Yes, indeed. I didn’t quite like to enquire.’
    â€˜Miss Wing was brutally attacked two nights ago.’
    â€˜Really? How shocking!’
    â€˜And the manuscript was stolen.’
    â€˜I see. That explains it. It sounds quite barbaric. Really, one rather hopes it does turn out to be the outpourings of Miss Amelia Smith of Halifax, doesn’t one?’
    â€˜Not this one, sir. I hope it’s a Brontë manuscript. Because I’m going to get it back.’
    â€˜Then I wish you good luck. And good morning, Superintendent.’
    So that was that. I trudged along the dreary corridors of the English Department. At the big square with the notice-boards, I paused. Professor Gumbold was on the phone again.
    â€˜As a member of Faculty and a former Dean, I insist the matter be discussed. My position here is being undermined by elements in the Department I can only describe as seditious — ’
    The high-pitched voice went on for some time. A twinge of pity went through me for anyone forced to work under Professor Gumbold. I got myself out of the high-rise block, narrowly escaping once again being trampled underfoot by students escaping from the lecture-room. I trudged over the depressing campus, through the hangars, and the tatty blocks, past the football pitch and the tennis courts, towards my car. It had not been a very revealing interview, but when I set my mind to work, going over it, one or two interesting points emerged.
    The first oddity that struck me was that Timothy Scott-Windlesham had not demanded to know why he was being questioned. Anyone would, and an academic, especially, would be likely to stand on his rights. But I had practically had to force the information on to him.
    The next thing that struck me was Timothy’s mention of juvenilia. This effectively demoted the manuscript to something of secondary interest — a fascinating curiosity,valuable, but of no great literary worth. Anyone hearing of an unknown Brontë manuscript would naturally assume, perhaps, that it was juvenilia. But Timothy Scott-Windlesham had actually seen it, and read bits of it. The names he remembered — Mendith Crag, Lingdale Manor, Thomas Blackmore — sounded much more like the world of the mature Brontë novels than the overheated worlds of Angria and Gondal they had invented in childhood, though to be sure Yorkshire did invade the romantic-improbable nomenclature of those worlds at times.
    And the third thing was the libraries. Leeds and Halifax no doubt did have excellent libraries. But Bradford was no further away, and Bradford, apparently, had a manic collector of Yorkshire literary manuscripts at its head. What was the name? Tetterfield. But that library, it seemed, Timothy had not mentioned at all. Why?
    I felt I could easily get interested in Mr Tetterfield.

CHAPTER 7
MAN OF