22 November, 1801: Been rather down of late, what with the constipation and finding the cat stiff with rigor mortis in the larder, so here for a rest cure in Yorkshire. Met the landlord today. Capital fellow, if gruffly reserved, beetle-browed, and fond of clenching his teeth. Feel sure we’ll hit it off.

23 November: Waded through mist and mud to the Heights. Joseph bawled something through the window. ‘What’s that, my good fellow?’ ‘Go t’divil, ya whey-faced milksop.’ Charming! But nothing to what followed. ‘Missis’ as dour as ‘t’maister’ and who’s the uncouth youth? ‘Sit down!’ I removed a heap of dead rabbits, gazed around, and felt a surge of horror – a litter of puppies was hanging from the back of a chair! Then, after the weirdest exchange with his lordship, I took lodging there to avoid the snowstorm – though only after being savaged by dogs! Scarcely a refuge, then, especially since the place is also haunted! Worst night of my life. Cured the constipation, though.

24 November: Mrs Dean is a homely body, gossipy and a trifle flirtatious. ‘Call me Nelly,’ she purred. I said I was recently bereaved. She took my hand. ‘Your wife?’ ‘No, the cat.’ She’s known generations of Earnshaws and reminisced all night, sewing by the furlong. I listened mutely and threaded needles. The spookiest tale! To be continued …

25 November: Nelly broke off at 1.30 am. I retired stupefied, with aching head and limbs.

22 December: Rest cure? Ha, what a joke! Four weeks of torture, powders and leeches, punctuated by further hair-raising instalments, my ears burnt to cinders. Oh, that scoundrel! That upstart thief!

12 January: Restored to health, thank God. I plan to return to London as soon as possible. Enough gloom! Now for a rollicking comedy at the Haymarket. Must set all this down some day, but who’ll believe it? They’ll call it fiction.

Les Brookes