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whispers of gossip over the years. And if she had heard the rumours of Wise's activities as a forger of first editions and signatures, and a thief of manuscripts, then Symington felt it would be necessary to place some distance between himself and his former colleague, even though Wise had died twenty years ago; for Symington did not want to be tainted by association; not again.
    He wiped his pen nib clean, and wrote, 'I doubt if anyone, at this time, could unravel the whole mystery of the Brontë manuscripts. I spent many years trying . . .' Symington hesitated, considering whether to add, 'and failing', but decided against it. 'As I am sure you aware, this is a most sensitive matter,' he continued, 'but of course, when someone signed Branwell's manuscripts with a forgery of Charlotte's signature, and in other instances, with Emily's, it was in the knowledge that the Brontë sisters' signed manuscripts would fetch far more money than their brother's, who has been sadly neglected by the literary establishment for over a century now. Fortunately, I have managed to preserve several of Branwell's original manuscripts in my own private collection, where they have remained safe from tampering. And I can assure you, they reveal his work to be of the highest standard.'
    Symington stopped, and crossed out these last sentences. It sounded as if he was writing a reference for Branwell, for his miserable job as a railway clerk. No, this would not do, it would not do at all. He crumpled up the second page of the letter, and decided that he should end instead with his previous comment that no one would be able to solve the mystery of the Brontë manuscripts. That might make a more tantalising opening for Daphne; a veiled challenge to entice her to continue the correspondence. He signed his name with a flourish, underlined the signature, and blotted the page, again. Then Symington put down his pen, and started tapping his teeth with his fingernails, as if in a private code. This was a new beginning, he thought to himself. This was a very good beginning indeed.

CHAPTER THREE
    Hampstead, January
    I am trying. I am very trying. I must try harder. I am trying, though not yet succeeding, to write a proposal for what is supposed to be my PhD thesis on the Brontës' imaginary worlds of childhood, with particular reference to Branwell's influence on Emily and Charlotte. Or perhaps not, perhaps this idea is entirely misconceived, and I should start all over again with a different approach. 'Maybe you're trying too hard?' remarks my husband as he puts his head through my study door just now, and finds me hunched over my computer, looking miserable.
    It's easy for him to say that I'm trying too hard. These things come more easily to him. He is an effortlessly successful English lecturer; though he would not approve of that description. He would say, ' "Effortlessly" is a cliché. Nothing is effortless.' And I suppose it must be an effort, being married to me.
    Oh stop it, do stop this whining and self-pitying. I hate that in myself. That's why my mind keeps straying to Daphne du Maurier instead of Branwell Bronti?, that's what I like about her: her lack of self-pity, her remorseless, pitiless view of the world. You can see it in Emily Brontë, too. Nearly everyone is horrible to everyone else in Wuthering Heights. That's just the way it is, like the weather.
    I wish I could find a way of incorporating Daphne into my thesis, because it was she who got me interested in Branwell in the first place. After I'd devoured all her novels as a teenager, I then read her biography of him, one of her lesser-known books, with a wonderfully gothic title: The Infernal World of Branwell Brontë. But I've already heard my tutor's views on this idea. 'Daphne du Maurier?' he said to me at our most recent meeting, wrinkling his nose as if the mere mention of her name brought a bad smell into the room. 'Surely she is far too minor a figure in twentieth-century publishing