Property of a Lady

‘After we’ve drunk the tea, do we return to Brooke?’ he said.

‘Yes, let’s. We might have to hand the journal over to the police or the coroner or somebody in the morning, so let’s find out as much as we can before we do that.’

‘At the moment I feel quite sorry for him, although I feel sorry for anybody who isn’t me tonight,’ said Michael. ‘Poor old Brooke and his unrequited passion.’

‘But he had his work,’ said Nell. ‘And his books.’





30th November 1884


Like many another man suffering from an unrequited passion, I have turned to books for solace over the last few years. My father had a large library – although his tastes ran to the collected sermons of worthy churchmen and such moral tales as The Pilgrim’s Progress. I grew up with Bible tracts and the New Testament – my father was inclined to eschew the Old Testament on account of the more robust activities of some of its peoples. He did not consider, for example, the Genesis account of the sin of Onan to be suitable for mixed congregations, although I always felt rather sorry for Onan, who was slain by the Lord for the mere accident of spilling his seed on the ground. These things happen. Nor did my father condone all of the Old Testament, considering St Paul on the subject of temple prostitutes, and Leviticus talking about fornication, unnecessarily descriptive. I believe he told the vicar at St Paul’s that if these passages were ever part of a sermon, he (Father) would walk out. The vicar agreed with these views, although pointed out that a good deal of blame must be laid at the door of the later translators, King James included.

Given my father’s outlook on matters of the flesh, I sometimes wonder how I ever came to be born at all, and I’m not surprised my mother died, quietly and unobtrusively, when I was two years old.

However, as well as the religious works, my father also had a shelf of local legends and folklore, in which he took considerable interest. As a boy I was not allowed to read them, and it was only after his death that I did so.

You’d think it a relatively harmless subject. Admittedly, there were a few slightly prurient explanations as to the tribal deflowering of virgins and how best to achieve this without loss of honour or prestige before the rest of the clans. Also directions for what apparel to wear when leaping through the bonfire – although authorities differed on that point, the purists holding the ritual would be tainted if undergarments were worn, the pragmatists recommending several thick layers of flannel in case of errant sparks from the fire. But in the main the books were innocent enough, although I’d question the symbolism of some of the practices.

But – and here’s the real nub of the matter – there’s a dangerously thin line between legend and lore and— Well, the deeper, darker forces.

We’ve lost most of the old beliefs – we’ve forced them out with our machines and our smoke-belching industries and our mechanical dragons rumbling along iron tracks: I heard only last week that the railway is to be brought quite near to Marston Lacy, and while I suppose that’s progress and necessary, I’m sad at the despoiling of the countryside.