Possession by A.S. Byatt

at the door?”
    “Nothing certain. I think Leonora Stern has made a tentative identification with a young Mr Thomas Hearst of Richmond who liked to come and play the oboe with the ladies. They were both accomplished pianists. There do exist two or three letters from Christabel to Hearst—she even sent him a few poems in one, which he kept, fortunately for us. He married someone else in 1860 and drops out of the picture. Blanche may have made up the prowling. She had a vivid imagination.”
    “And was jealous.”
    “Of course.”
    “And the literary letters she refers to? Is it known who they were from? Or if they were connected to the ‘prowler’?”
    “Not as far as I know. She had abundant letters from people like Coventry Patmore who admired her ‘sweet simplicity’ and ‘nobleresignation.’ Lots of people wrote. It could have been anyone. You think it’s R. H. Ash?”
    “No. I just—I think I’d better show you what I have.”
    He brought out the photocopies of his two letters. Whilst she was unfolding them, he said, “I should explain. I found these. I haven’t shown them to anyone else. No one knows they exist.”
    She was reading. “Why?”
    “I don’t know. I kept them to myself. I don’t know why.”
    She finished reading.
    “Well,” she said, “the dates fit. You could make up a whole story. On no real evidence. It would change all sorts of things. LaMotte scholarship. Even ideas about
Melusina
. That Fairy Topic. It’s
intriguing.”
    “Isn’t it? It would change Ash scholarship, too. His letters are really rather boring, correct and distant really—this is quite different.”
    “Where are the originals?”
    Roland hesitated. He needed help. He needed to speak.
    “I took them,” he said. “I found them in a book and I took them. I didn’t think about it, I just took them.”
    “Why?”
Stern but much more animated. “Why did you?”
    “Because they were alive. They seemed
urgent
—I felt I had to do something. It was an impulse. Quick as a flash. I meant to put them back. I will. Next week. I just haven’t, yet. I don’t think they’re
mine
, or anything. But they aren’t Cropper’s or Blackadder’s or Lord Ash’s, either. They seemed private. I’m not explaining very well.”
    “No. I suppose they might represent a considerable academic scoop. For you.”
    “Well, I wanted to be the one who does the work,” Roland began innocently, and then saw how he had been insulted. “Wait a minute—it wasn’t like
that
at all, not like that. It was something
personal
. You wouldn’t know. I’m an old-fashioned textual critic, not a biographer—I don’t go in for this sort of—it wasn’t
profit—
I’ll put them back next week—I wanted them to be a secret. Private. And to do the work.”
    She blushed. Red blood stained the ivory.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I should be; it was quite a reasonable assumption and I can’t begin to imagine how anyone would
dare
to whip two manuscripts like that out of sight—I’d never have the nerve. But I do see you weren’t thinking in these terms. I do really.”
    “I just wanted to know what happened next.”
    “I can’t let you Xerox Blanche’s diary—the spine won’t stand it—but you can copy it out. And go on hunting through those boxes. Who knows what you’ll find. No one was hunting for Randolph Henry Ash, after all. Can I book you a guest room until tomorrow?”
    Roland thought. A guest room seemed infinitely attractive; a quiet place where he could sleep without Val, and think about Ash, and take himself at his own pace. A guest room would cost money he hadn’t got. Also there was the Day Return.
    “I have a Day Return ticket.”
    “We could change that.”
    “I’d rather not. I am an unemployed postgraduate. I haven’t got the money.”
    Now she was wine-red. “I hadn’t thought. You’d better come back to my place. I’ve got a spare bed. It’s still better than buying another ticket now