Happy Christmas everyone!

The Duel: an episode from my historical novel

(This is another chapter from my historical novel of the mid-18th century. Wilkes, Churchill and Sackville are genuine historical characters; the others are imaginary)

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One day when I entered Child’s club I discovered Lord Staines in a state of great excitement. He brandished a paper at me, and asked me whether I had read it. I saw it was a magazine called the “North Briton”, which everyone knew to be written by John Wilkes, Member of Parliament for Aylesbury. I had often read it with amusement, and considered that it was a true friend of English liberty, though I had not yet seen the most recent issue. Staines told me, with such fury that his hands shook, that it contained a libellous attack upon him. When I took it from him to read it, I saw that it suggested that he was the catamite of Lord George Sackville, for whose sake, I recalled, he had resigned his commission in the army. The names were spelt thus: Lord S*****s and Lord G****e S******e, but anyone who was acquainted with public affairs would instantly know who was meant.   I told him that such low degraded stuff was beneath his attention, and best ignored; and that I was sure that his father would have given the same advice; but he said he had already written to Mr Wilkes, the supposed author, demanding an apology; but having received none, he was determined on a duel; so he had issued a challenge, and wished me to be his second.

   Accordingly, a few days later, immediately after sunrise, we took a coach out to Putney Heath. It was a bright morning, but cold. Dew lay heavy on the grass, and glittered on cobwebs on the bushes. There was no-one in sight except our opponent and his second, and another man I did not know, but was told he was one Doctor Blake, who was there in the event of any serious injury.

   It was my first sight of the celebrated Mr Wilkes. He was well dressed and slender of build, but his face was disfigured by the most violent squint, which caused his eyes to point in clean opposite directions. He talked merrily, and appeared entirely unperturbed by the peril of his situation. His second was a large, burly fellow; and I was astonished to discover that under his cloak he wore a clergyman’s gown. I was informed that this was the Reverend Charles Churchill, the popular poet who was said to be Mr Wilkes’s assistant at the “North Briton”.

   Doctor Blake then asked whether the two gentlemen were determined to proceed with the duel. Lord Staines replied, with no little heat, that his honour had been most grossly traduced, and that nothing but the most profuse and abject apology would satisfy him. Mr Wilkes appeared to make light of the whole matter. He said that Lord Staines could produce no evidence that he, Wilkes, was the author of the offending article, but having read it, his opinion was that it contained more than a grain of truth; and, furthermore, since Lord Staines had seen fit publicly to dub him a liar and a scoundrel, he was the one entitled to an apology. These words angered Lord Staines even more, which was undoubtedly Wilkes’s intention.  

   A case was produced and opened, containing a brace of very fine silver-mounted pistols. Churchill and I checked that they were properly loaded. I attempted to hold my hands steady, lest I revealed my fear by allowing them to shake: it was the first time I had ever witnessed a duel.

   Lord Staines and Mr Wilkes walked twelve paces apart, then turned and presented their pistols. Lord Staines fired first, and grazed his opponent’s coat, but did no further harm. 

Mr Wilkes did not seemin the least perturbed by this narrow miss. He then levelled his pistol at Lord Staines's beast, and held it there for what appeared an age,with a glint in his eye. Staines, I was impressed to see, did not flinch, but stood motionless, regarding his opponent with a cold stare. At last Wilkes, with a laugh, deliberately fired at the ground, so that his bullet skipped across the earth by Lord Staines’s feet. He then laughed and walked forward with his hand outstretched, congratulating Staines on his fine courage. Staines did not take the proffered hand, instead intending to reload and fire again; but Mr Churchill announced that, in his decided opinion, sufficient satisfaction had been given and that the business had been ended with perfect honour to both parties. He proposed that we should all adjourn to a nearby tavern and drink some wine. I agreed with this, and so did Doctor Blake; but Lord Staines said this was no kind of apology, and, again refusing Wilkes’s hand, departed forthwith, not even giving me a glance.

   Doctor Blake did not stay long, but I remained at the tavern with Wilkes and Churchill for the remainder of the morning. I discovered Mr Wilkes to be the most engaging of companions. It was not, I found, his first duel; for he had been challenged by Lord Talbot over a previous article in the same magazine, and that too had passed without blood being shed.

I saw much of him over the next few months, and read the “North Briton” with great enjoyment..
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Louisa in London: a scene from my historical novel

(This is a scene from the historical novel I am in the process of writing; set in the mid-18th century, as mentioned in an earlier post. Here Louisa describes what happened when she ranaway to London)

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It was only when I alighted from the coach, at the sign of the White Horse, that I became fully aware of how extremely foolish I had been, to travel without clear purpose, and with no-one to receive me, to a city of which I knew nothing. Such a hustle and bustle as I never saw, with goods and produce piled up everywhere, and people of all degrees hurrying to and fro about their business! One rough fellow rudely pushed me aside, without so much as a by-your-leave. Deep puddles of dirty water caused me to step warily. The sky overhead was dark with a pall of smoke. I had intended to ask the way to Lord Staines’s home, but now, alone and friendless, I found myself too timid to ask directions from a stranger. On the steps of the inn, an elderly man in an old wig and coat ogled me and laughed; but although his clothes showed him to be a gentleman, he made no attempt to assist me in my plight.

   Only one person marked me and approached as I stood there afraid and unprotected. This was a woman. She wore a vast skirt, red in colour and none too clean, with a dark shawl over a white mob-cap. I could not tell her age, for the paint lay heavy on her cheeks. I felt an immediate dislike of her; but she smiled and her manner was most obliging.

   “Hello, dearie!” she said, “Are you lost? May I assist you?”

   “Thank you!” I replied, “Pray can you direct me to Lord Staines’s home? I have travelled to London to see him”.

  “Lord, my dear: his honour’s house is but a short step from where I live! Let me conduct you there. You have a travelling box? My boy Jacky will carry it. Now; what’s your name and where have you come from?”

   “I am called Louisa, and I am the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Brackenridge Hall”.

   “Oh, Louisa: such a pretty name, and face as pretty as a picture too! And from Brackenridge? Why, my dear, I know that town well! My uncle used to live there! He was bailiff and churchwarden, Robin Clewlow was his name, did you hear of him? No? Ah well, it was years ago, before you were born! Anyway, it’s almost as if we were related!  My name is Margaret. Now I shall with pleasure conduct you to his lordship, but first you must permit this poor old woman to provide you with some sustenance, for you must be most hungry and tired after such a long journey!” She prattled on, scarce pausing for breath, and without putting up resistance I allowed her to take my arm. A coachman made a very coarse remark as she led me from the inn-yard and out into the street, but both of us ignored him.

   We walked on through many twists and turnings until I was wholly lost. We passed old buildings crowded together, and noisome alleys between, where the sun did not penetrate and dirty children played amongst piles of rubbish. The streets were crowded, and passers-by jostled us. In this confusion I was glad that my rescuer had my arm, for otherwise I would have been swept clean away in the throng. Eventually we reached her house, which I thought a rather mean establishment. The front room had no carpet or rug on the bare boards of the floor. Three or four women sat around on benches, and there were pictures on the walls, but before I do more than glance around I was ushered through to a back parlour.

   “Now, my dear, let us have a dish of tea”, said my hostess, and clapped her hands, at which a slatternly maid appeared and was given her orders. Jacky, the boy who carried my box, was despatched to run to Lord Staines’s house to announce my arrival. Whilst we had our tea and cake, she questioned me closely. Was I indeed Sir James Willington’s daughter? Yes, I replied; his only child. Did I know Lord Staines well, and did he know I was coming to London to see him? Not well as yet, I said: I believed our respective parents were thinking of a marriage, though his lordship had not yet made a proposal. His lordship had told me I would greatly enjoy the sights of London, but he did not know I was coming. And amidst all this, she kept complimenting me on my complexion and my figure.

   At this point, young Jacky returned, to announce that Lord Staines was not at home, nor any of his family, and nobody would be received that day. 

   “Well, my dear, here’s a to-do!” said my hostess (who, as I now recall, had never told me her surname), “Is there anyone else you know in the town? No? Then you’d best spend the night with me!”

   She led me up the stairs to a small room. I was now so tired that I scarcely noticed that the room was dirty, with the corners thickly cobwebbed and the bed poorly furnished. I laid down on it and was quickly asleep. It was only when I awoke that I discovered the door was locked. And there I was to remain for many days, with nothing to divert me and no-one to help me; for the small window looked out only on a squalid yard; and though I might bang on the door and call out, no-one came except the maidservant, who brought me food but refused to speak to me. I came to lose all hope of rescue.

A sketch for an historical novel

Time: England in the early 1760s, with the end of the Seven Years' War and the accession of King George III.
Structure: the central character, Charles Huntingdon, is telling the story in the first person a few years later, recalling his adventures. Charles is a somewhat neutral character; Candide-like; he observes and reports, but does not often take any decisive actions: it is necessary for the story that everyone likes him and reveals their thoughts and secrets to him. All the other characters are imaginary, apart from small "walk-on" parts for Wilkes, Churchill, Fox and a few others

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Charles,  an orphan in his early twenties, destined for the Church, is in London to see lawyers, who have informed him that he has unexpectedly inherited considerable wealth from a remote cousin. By chance he meets Lord Staines, eldest son of the Earl of Teesdale, whom he knew slightly at Cambridge University. Staines had been serving in the army in Germany, but has resigned his commission and returned home; in disgust, he says,at the cashiering of his friend,the English commander Lord George Sackville. (The real reasons behind this are left unexplained, as a mystery to be developed later).
     Staines is pleased to learn of Charles's good fortune, and guides him to buy fashionable clothes, rent a house in a good part of the town, and mix with a set of raffish young aristocrats.

  A General Election is due in 1761. Charles's newly-inherited property is near Brackenridge (somewhere in the area of north Staffordshire - north Shropshire - Cheshire), where Teesdale also has land; and Staines suggests that Charles ought to stand for election to Parliament for the constituency, where he has heard there will be a vacancy. (Brackenridge being a typically tiny 18th century "rotten borough",with very few voters, but returning two M.P.s)
     Charles decides to go there to visit his new home and to meet the sitting M.P., Sir James Willington, who lives nearby. He accordingly takes a stage-coach to the nearest market town (Newcastle-under-Lyme? Shrewsbury? Whitchurch?) He is met by his local family attorney, Martin Clifford, to take him to his new home.. On the way, Clifford tells him about Willington: he is a widower who seldom attends Parliament, but lives alone with his only child, a young teenage daughter, Louisa, and a few aged servants. Earlier, he had been a notorious Jacobite, but as Bonnie Prince Charlie's highlanders approached in December 1745 he contrived to be away in London, having left his wife behind at home when the rebels passed through his land. Next year, his wife died in childbirth. Sir James was greatly mocked and derided by both sides as a hypocrite and coward for his behaviour in this crisis.
 
   At his new property Charles meets the family housekeeper, Mrs Timmis, a great gossip, and her brother, a prosperous tenant farmer.  Clifford, agrees to act as his agent at the coming election, and describes what he will need to do as a successful candidate. Charles then meets Sir James Willington, in the hope of winning his support. He finds him extremely old-fashioned, but Louisa is charming and attractive despite her youth (14 years)

In 1761 the election comes. Description of campaign.Charles and Sir James are duly returned unopposed for Brackenridge. Staines indicates that his father would wish him to marry Louisa, in order to inherit the property. Willington has yet to make up his mind, and Staines hardly seems enthusiastic. Charles feels jealous, especially when Willington makes it clear that he does not consider him to be in any way a fit match for Louisa. He starts to modernise his house and estate, but finds it very costly. Mrs Timmis supplies him with local scandal about Willington: how it is rumoured that he is not really the father of Louisa; her true father being one of the Highland rebels who occupied the house in 1745,while he was away. 

1761-2: The war comes to an end, amidst political confusion and acrimony

Lord Staines has been insulted in the troublemaking monthly journal "The North Briton", and challenges the author, John Wilkes, to a duel (Wilkes has accused Staines of a homosexual relationship with Lord George Sackville, the disgraced army commander) Staines asks Charles to act as his second: Wilkes's second is Charles Churchill, the popular poet. The duel is bloodless. Wilkes and Churchill take a liking to Charles.

1762: the great Parliamentary debate on the peace treaty. Charles is offered a government sinecure by Henry Fox, the new political fixer, in return for his support, and being now short of money reluctantly decides to accept it. Willington is bitterly critical.

Crisis: Louisa has disappeared! Willington suspects Charles of having abducted her, and savagely confronts him; but Timmis learns from local people that she has taken the coach to London. Willington, in deep despair, hints to Charles his suspicions about her parentage. Charles promises to find Louisa.

 Charles enlists the help of Wilkes and Churchill. They discover that Louisa had been met off the coach by Mrs Rawlings, who pretends to be a relative, but is actually a notorious procurer of young country girls for her brothels. They raid the brothel and manage to free her.

Lord Staines and his father decide that,under these circumstances, he cannot possible marry Louisa, but Charles has no such qualms. Not long afterwards, the two are married, with Willingham's reluctant blessing. Not long afterwards, Willingham dies; and Charles concludes his narrative of events at this point

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(Questions left unanswered:-
   Was Staines actually gay? Is this why he befriends Charles, his social inferior, and why he was not interested in Louisa? Is it why he was forced out of the army?
   Was Louisa really the daughter of Bonnie Prince Charlie? or did Willington suspect that she was? Does this explain his strange attitude towards her?)

Writing a Story

I joined Izzy and Marie at the table in the cafe. They were nice girls, and we enjoyed chatting, though I'd never managed to get anywhere with either of them. I think they both had long-term boyfriends elsewhere. Izzy was tall, with long blonde hair; Marie was short and lively.
  At a nearby table was a man on his own. He had a book open in front of him, but was gazing intently at something on the far side of the room.
   "That's Professor Quentin", said Marie.
   Now that I'd seen him in the flesh, I immediately recognised the great T.V. pundit. His jaw looked bluer than on the screen; I supposed it had been lightened with makeup. I commented that he looked rather sinister. The girls giggled: I guessed they were in awe of him.
   "You should write a story about him", said Izzy. "Okay", I replied. One of my few distinctions was that I'd actually had a couple of stories published. I began to ponder the possibilities. He would, of course, have to appear under a pseudonym, but still be recognisable....
  Professor Quentin arose and passed our table on his way out. He stopped to exchange a few pleasantries with Izzy and Marie, but acknowledged me only with a nod. The word on the grapevine was that he was inclined to be impatient with students who were less clever than him (i.e. about 95% of us), but always had a weakness for pretty girls. I wondered if this could form the basis of a story. Should he be involved in something criminal, perhaps? No; too melodramatic. What then?
  We all left the cafe. Izzy had a heavy bagful of books, and with old-world chivalry I offered to carry them for her. But really my mind was occupied with how to write a story about Professor Quentin.

Cecil Z. Frampton

Back in the 1960s I wrote a novel with my closest friend, Ted Smith, who sadly died in 2013. It took several years. The project was titled, "The Life and Epic Adventures of Cecil Z. Frampton, gent." Ted's contributions were generally better than mine. There were also contributions from another friend, David Bloomfield, and from others. Naturally, these all reflected what we'd been reading recently: Spike Milligan, Sherlock Holmes, Henry Fielding, Rabelais; plus various TV and radio shows now long since forgotten.
   I don't think we ever finished it. It was all really pretty bad, but we greatly enjoyed writing it. Portions of the manuscript survive, and may be published on this site from time to time. You have been warned!

The Unquiet Grave

The new vicar had organised a working party to bring some order to the long-neglected churchyard, and we began the daunting task of hacking our way through the brambles and the ground-ivy. In one particularly dank and overgrown corner we uncovered some broken chunks of granite, pinkish in colour, that must once have surrounded a grave. But the only one nearby was still mostly bare earth, which the surrounding weeds had only just begun to colonise.
   "Well, isn't that odd!" said Philip, our vicar. He turned to our oldest member, who had lived in the village all her life, and asked, "Do you know anything about this, Polly?"
   Polly considered. "I remember that when I was a little girl my grandmother said I must never go down to this corner of the churchyard", she said. "She didn't tell me why; but I learnt from other people that it had something to do with the lady who used to own the pub, ages ago. Perhaps she was buried here".
   "The pub? You mean the empty place at the edge of the village? Nobody lives there now: it's been vacant for ages".
   "Yes. The Queen's had been plenty of different owners over the years, but none have stayed long. Some have died, and the rest have just moved away, without saying why".
   "But it can't be anything to do with her", someone argued. "Because this grave is clearly very recent. Look at that bare earth."
   "Unless, of course, it's been deliberately disturbed!" someone else contributed, clearly with the intention of introducing a frisson of fear.
   "Well, it's all a mystery", said Philip, "We'd better just continue with our work for now. Then before our next meeting we can ask around and see what we can find out. I'll have a look in the parish records". 

On the way home I asked Polly, "The Queen is a rather odd name for a pub, surely? Shouldn't it be the Queen's Head, or something like that?"
   "Yes, it is odd. Various landlords over the years tried to change the name, but something always went wrong. They put up a new inn sign, and it got blown down: that sort of thing".
   "There's certainly no sign there now!"
   "No. Granny said there was once a sign there, and a very nasty one it was. The face on it looked nothing like any queen she'd ever heard of: really ugly, and quite frightening. Children used to dare each other to throw stones at it, she said; but somehow they never quite had the nerve, and their parents used to warn them not even to think about doing it!"
   "And what became of the lady who ran it?"
   "I never found out. Granny wouldn't tell me. I think there were odd stories going around the village, but I never found anything out". 

I must have been thinking too much about Polly's story, because that night I experienced a frightening dream. I was standing in the churchyard, beside the grave, which however was now covered with its granite.  But something stirred beneath, and suddenly, to my inutterable horror, the stones rose up, cracked and fell away. The earth below was heaving, as if a giant mole was about to throw up its hill. But what emerged was not a mole. I watched, unable to move, as a dark figure clawed itself out from under the soil and rise to its feet. It was stooped, and a little less than human size. I couldn't see its face, but somehow I knew it was a woman, and of a great age. I was terrified that she would turn and see me, but instead she gathered her ragged black clothing around herself and drifted, rather than walked, towards the village. At this point I awoke in a sweat of fear. It was still night-time outside. I did not dare open the curtains even when it was broad daylight, from an irrational terror that she might be there, peering into the room.

At the next meeting of our gardening group, Philip told us, "I've been thinking about that grave. The surrounds are all broken, but I don't see how you could break granite in pieces without a heavy sledgehammer, and these have been snapped as if they were rotten twigs or biscuits. It's very strange. Oh, and I found something unusual in the archives. One of my predecessors was asked to conduct an exorcism! It came from the landlord at the pub. He said a ghost had been peering through his windows and frightening his children".
   "And did he exorcise the ghost?"
   "No: he rather pooh-poohed the idea; he thought it was all silly superstition. Soon afterwards the landlord put the pub up for sale and left the village".
   At this stage I thought I'd tell them about my dream.
  "Aye, that's what would have happened!" said Polly. "Granny said that the lady would come back, to see who'd taken her pub. I don't know if she meant harm, or was just being curious".
  "Oh, and one other thing", said Philip. "I had a dream rather like yours. Then, the next day, looking round the church, I discovered that a small amount of the communiion wine had been left in the chalice. I've no idea how this happened: it's most irregular. I wondered what to do. Then, on an impulse that I can't properly explain, I went and sprinkled it on that grave. Looking back, I know it was very silly; and you must promise you won't tell the archdeacon, please! I wonder what will happen now?"

We all wondered. The answer was, and still is, absolutely nothing. We try to avoid that corner of the churchyard, but the last time I looked, the grave had not been disturbed any further, and weeds had continued to colonise it. Whether Philip's unorthodox behaviour had had this effect, I cannot say. But the pub is still unoccupied and up for sale. I doubt if anyone familiar with the village will be buying it.
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The Maker of Dreams

I happened to be in the back office when the new client was being interviewed, and against all regulations some doors had been left slightly ajar, so I could hear most of what was being said.

   "So, Mr Robson, let's just check through the details of what you wish to feature in your dreams. For a start, would you like us to alter your appearance? Looking like you did thirty years ago, but taller, and, shall we say,more virile? That shouldn't present any problems. And what other party would you like to feature? Maria Angleton, you say: the singer and actress? No problem: we have plenty of digital images of her. And she would be wearing what? I see. No, I can assure you that everything we discuss here is entirely confidential.
   "Now, perhaps you could tell us the setting you would envisage? Most of our customers, if they choose an outdoor setting, would prefer a tropical beach. So you'd like a flowery meadow on a mountainside? A real place, or somewhere imaginary? Let's run through some of the examples we can offer....
   "And the last question, naturally, is what the two of you will be doing. I see. Straightforwardly, or with a few extras? Perhaps I can make some suggestions you might like to consider..."

 This discussion continued for some time, at the end of which the aforesaid Mr Robinson paid the bill. He was then given something, which of course I couldn't see,but which I assumed was some kind of electrode. He was instructed to attach it to his head before he went to sleep, so his chosen dream could be transmitted to him. The final words were to tell him that if he was satisfied with his dream, then it could be leased to him on a monthly basis, with the possibility of further modifiecations.

I naturally assumed that the purpose of the operation was blackmail of the unfortunate but gullible Robinson. I was unable to feel much sympathy for him in his likely future predicament. But I later discovered there was much more to it than that: his chosen dream would include were essentially subliminal adverts,telling him what products to buy and also who to vote for at the next election.

   That's why I think this organisation must be officially investigated as soon as possible. 

Or is it already too late? 

Assurbanipal

(Written after a visit to the Assyrian exhibition at the British Museum)

Behold me: the king!
I am Assur-bani-pal: mighty king, king of the world, king of Assyria.
The king is the representative on earth of the gods. The duty of the king is to restore the earth to perfection, as it was created by the gods at the beginning of time.
Accordingly, I have rebuilt the shrines and temples, with proper reverence.
I have brought together in my libraries the books of the ancient Sumerians and Akkadians; the tales of their storytellers and poets, and the wisdom of their astrologers.
I have crushed those who rebelled against the will of the gods: I have destroyed their kings and nobles, scattered their peoples and laid waste their cities. My soldiers are as numerous as the sands of the desert.
I have slain lions without number, for they symbolise chaos and disorder.
And I have commanded my builders and sculptors to record my deeds in stone, that they may be remembered for ever.
Behold me: the king!

 

The Collector

I didn't know Margaret at all well - she was only the friend of a friend, though after meeting her briefly at a party we'd kept in touch by letter - so I was distinctly surprised when, out of the blue, she invited me to spend a few days with her.
   I found her home to be an apartment in an old building not far from the cathedral, and I had to ring the communication bell to ask her to unlock the front door by remote control. She was on the second floor, and I opted to walk up the stairs rather than use the lift. I wondered, no for the first time, why she wanted to see me again after our very brief acquaintance. It did pass through my mind that it might be sexual, but when she opened the door it was immediately apparent that this could not be the case,since Margaret was clearly in poor health. She was stooped over a zimmer frame, and her face was grey and drawn with pain, which caused her to look much older than I remembered. I muttered some expressions of sympathy, and desire not to put her to any trouble, but she brushed these aside, and her voice was cheerful enough.
   "Oh, don't worry about me! I've done my back in, that's all!"
   "Can I help with anything?"
   "Well, yes; as a matter of fact you can. But we'll deal with that later. Come on in!"
   She led me into the hallway and indicated a door on the right. "You'll be in the spare room there. Dump your stuff while I get us some tea".

The spare room was odd. For a start, there was a strange, faint smell that I couldn't place. There was a door in the corner by the window, which I assumed was a cupboard, but when I tried to open it to hang my coat there, I found it locked. For want of anywhere better, I draped the coat over a chair. One wall was entirely taken up with row upon row of small wooden boxes. In defiance of all the good manners expected of a guest, I attempted to open one or two which also proved to be locked. It was all very puzzling.
   I made my way to the living-room, and soon Margaret appeared pushing a trolley of tea-things. We sat and talked about nothing in particular for a while, until I finally summoned up the courage to make reference to the mysterious boxes.
    "Oh yes", she said, "My collection!"
   She didn't say collection of what.
   "I'm very proud of my collection. There's nothing like it in the world. I guard it with my life. I've never killed for it, yet. Not deliberately, anyway".
   "Not yet?" I couldn't help but ask. "Not deliberately?"
   "Well, it was his fault. He tried to break into one of my boxes. And I wasn't having that. And it was an accident really, but I knew people would think I'd killed him deliberately, so I hid the body in the cupboard. That's how I did my back in. So now I can't move him, so I'm wanting you to help me lug him downstairs and into my car, and then we'll drive out and dump him somewhere. You'll help me, won't you?"
   The woman was clearly raving mad. I felt I had no option but to humour her.
   "Yes, I'll help you", I said. "I'll just go to the loo, and then we'll take a look at him".

But of course I didn't go to the loo: instead I grabbed my things from the spare room and fled the scene. When I'd driven a good distance away, I thought to myself: I wonder if there really was a body in the cupboard? And an even nastier thought: suppose there was, and detectives found my fingerprints all over the room; what then?

That was some time ago. I haven't heard from the police yet, but I still don't sleep easily.