I think it was the moaning wind that did it, the remnants of a storm system that’s been passing through for the past 24 hours. And it’s the right time of year; and the coincidence of living styles between the protagonist and me is appropriate. In fact, the only significant difference between us is that I didn’t contrive to murder my professional predecessor in order to climb the career ladder. Apart from that, our natures and living styles are remarkably similar.
I didn’t do it because I regard it as my sworn duty to finish The Tenant of Wildfell Hall before embarking on further literary engagement. It’s all to do with my regard for – or maybe I should say my near-obsession with – the Brontë sisters.
I decided to make some coffee first, during which exercise it further occurred to me that a meeting with the said sisters on the moors above Haworth would have been oddly redolent of Macbeth’s encounter with the three witches on the ‘blasted heath.’ And that led to another thought: wouldn’t it be interesting to write a story about meeting the ghosts of the sisters upon those very moors? It would, but I don’t suppose I'll ever get around to it.
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