From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 46)

In my private apartment I have a number of collections, from snuff boxes to incunabula. The majority of these I started while up at college and abandoned some years ago as they seemed of increasingly less importance given the state of Europe. The incunabula being the exception. These frequently document mankind making the same kinds of errors of judgement back then as they do today. I can reread them as much as I like and have my hearty cynicism of humanity confirmed.

I have no fear of Griffin handling any of these. I instruct him on how incunabula must be handled, but short of a little light dusting, I cannot see why he would need to touch them. Unless, of course, he proves to have an interest, which would be no bad thing. The man needs constant occupation to keep his mind steady and here with us in the present. I cannot have him brooding on the past or he will fall into a brown study and be of no use to man or beast. Much as he was when I found him.

No, what presents itself to me as a slightly ticklish problem is my other collection, the one that I am very much still actively collecting. I heard at my club the other night of a new form of chair, which has hidden compartments, ranging from those where one might hide decanters from too strict a wife, to those you can tidy away such games as chess and Chequers. But what intrigued me most was being told that the whole inside panel of this leather wing-backed chair could be removed.

When removed, there is revealed ample storage for a gentleman’s favourite photographs. Certainly, when one is sitting in the chair, one could be safe and fear no discovery, but just how secure is this piece of furniture? I suspect if it is being made en-masse it’s secret will soon be no secret at all.

My collection of erotica began in the later stages of school, and while many of my schoolmates showed little appreciation of the artistic side of the endeavour, I was never interested in the ones that were blatantly sexual. I like to think my taste is subtler, more honed to an appreciation of the female form rather than a greedy appetite for the sort of smut a schoolboy craves.

To further my collection, I began to take pictures myself - of willing subjects, naturally. Indeed, the smiles on the faces of my models are most definitely for me alone. I do not wish this collection to shared, now or ever. I could place them in my bank box, along with other vital papers, and ask for them to be destroyed by my bank if I do not return from a mission. But then, of course, I would not be able to admire them at my leisure.

But the thought that I may not return has, of late, become a more pressing worry. Europe is as ripe as a fly-blown fruit and ready to erupt. My brush with an over exaggerated demise - supposedly at the bottom of the sea - has left me seeing the world in quite a different way. I now wonder about how it will be when I am truly gone.

Fortunately, I returned to life before my lovely executor had fulfilled all my bequests and left me penniless. Nevertheless, it turned out quite fortunate that she had told some people I was dead and had remunerated them accordingly. It allowed me to close certain chapters of my life with an unburdening finality.

But yet there remain possessions I do not wish to outlast my mortal span. Perhaps I would be better to trust Griffin with my secrets and allow him to destroy the evidence of certain indiscretions (on the ladies’ side, not mine). Yet, I feel this too is an intrusion. I suppose a gentleman would destroy such images now. Fortunately, as I am always telling others, I am no gentleman.