‘Well, there’s hardly anything to say, really. I certainly can’t take any credit. Not long after Godfrey’s death, when Tabitha had first been sent away, it seems that Lawrence found the clothes which had been left in her room, and had them put in a trunk and taken up to one of the attics. Then after he’d died, and Mortimer and Rebecca moved into the house, they went through them all and came upon the note – which Mortimer recognized immediately, of course. He could still remember all the fuss there’d been about it at the time. As far as he was concerned, anyway, it was of little more than curiosity value, so when I met him a few years ago and we talked about the book I was writing, he let me have it. Simple as that.’
Findlay sighed with admiration.
‘Remarkable, Michael, remarkable. The economy of your methods astounds me. I can only hope that you don’t consider me, in the light of such glaring disparity, to be an entirely unworthy recipient of your confidences. In other words, perhaps the moment has come, at long last, for you to share with me the contents of this enigmatic memorandum.’
‘But you haven’t finished the story yet. What about later that night, when —’
‘Patience, Michael. A little patience, please. I’ve satisfied your curiosity on a number of points: surely I’m entitled to the same – or equivalent – satisfactions in return?’
I conceded this with a slow nod.
‘Fair enough. It’s in my wallet, in my coat pocket. I’ll just go and get it.’
‘You’re a gentleman, Michael. One of the old school.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s just one thing, before you do.’
‘Yes?’ I paused in the act of getting up.
‘I suppose a quick hand-job’s out of the question?’
‘I’m afraid so. Another cup of tea would be nice, though.’
Findlay retreated, abashed, into the kitchen, and once I had retrieved my wallet I went after him.
‘I don’t know what you’re expecting from this,’ I said, taking out the tiny, tightly folded scrap of paper and smoothing it out on the kitchen table. ‘As I say in the book, it’s only a little message that Lawrence wrote, asking for some supper to be sent up to his room. It doesn’t prove anything at alclass="underline" except that Tabitha’s mad, possibly.’
‘I think I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind,’ said Findlay. He took a pair of bifocals from the pocket of his shirt and stooped down to inspect the crucial piece of evidence which had eluded him for almost thirty years. It shames me to admit that I felt a mean glow of satisfaction as I saw the sudden disappointment cloud his face.
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘I did tell you.’
Lawrence’s note consisted of only three words, scrawled in tiny capitals. They were BISCUIT, CHEESE and CELERY.
The kettle started to whistle. Findlay turned off the gas and filled the teapot, then bent over the table again. He stared at the message for almost a minute: turned it over, turned it upside down, held it to the light, sniffed it, scratched his head and read it a few times more.
‘Is that all there is?’ he said finally.
‘That’s it.’
‘Well then, that settles it. She’s as mad as a hatter.’
He finished making the tea and we trooped back into the sitting room, where we sat for some time in a silence which was on my part expectant, on Findlay’s angry and thoughtful. He got up once to take another look at the note, which was still in the kitchen, and came back carrying it but without saying a word. After a while he laid it on the table beside him with a grunt, and said: ‘Well, you’ll be wanting to hear the rest of it, I suppose.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘There isn’t much to tell. I’d arranged to dine with Farringdon that night. Scarborough was not famed for its cuisine, even then, but there was a small Italian place which I’d been known to use in the past – for the purposes of seduction, Michael, I’ll be perfectly frank with you – and it was there that he and I shared a few bottles of Chianti, even as the Winshaws were sitting down to their wretched family dinner.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘That was to be his last meal. I had no idea, at that stage. Didn’t even know that he and Tabitha had hatched any kind of plot together. Of course, I can see it all, in retrospect. The years of smouldering resentment; abstract hopes of vengeance suddenly made concrete; those long, secret talks in her room which must have driven him to a murderous frenzy. I can only speculate about the bonds formed, the vows taken, the oaths sworn, between those ill-fated partners in crime. He was in a sombre mood, as you can imagine, and not much given to talk – which I, fool that I was, put down to travel fatigue. He’d been down to Birkenhead for a few days, you see, and had only come back up again that afternoon. I couldn’t quite see the purpose of this trip at the time, but towards the end of the evening he was good enough to explain.
‘Just as we were about to leave the restaurant, he drew my attention to a large manila envelope he’d brought along with him. It was to retrieve this, apparently, that he’d made his journey home. “Mr Onyx, I’ve a favour to ask of you,” he said. “I want you to look after this, just for a few hours. And promise me, that if I don’t meet you at your office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, you’ll deliver it into Miss Winshaw’s hands as soon as possible.” This seemed an extraordinary request, and I told him so: but he absolutely refused to divulge the undertaking which was to occupy him at this peculiar hour of the night. “At least tell me what’s in here,” I pleaded, reasonably enough, I think you’ll agree. And after a few moments’ hesitation, he answered: “My life.” Rather dramatic, wouldn’t you say? I tried to lighten the atmosphere somewhat by saying that if the contents of this envelope represented his life, then there didn’t seem to be much of it. He laughed bitterly at that. “Of course there isn’t much of it. This is what I’ve been reduced to, thanks to one man’s treachery: a few documents; some souvenirs of the old RAF days; a single photograph, the only trace of myself I’ve managed to leave behind these last twenty years. I want her to have them, anyway. She isn’t mad, Mr Onyx, I know that for a fact. They’ve got no right to lock her up in that place. But there’s been a terrible injustice done, and whatever happens to me, she’s the person to keep the memory of it alive.”
‘Well, I took the envelope and we said good-night. I knew now that something deadly was afoot, but it was no part of my job to stand in the way of – fate, destiny, call it what you will. I could see that the events to which I had involuntarily become witness had to be played out to their conclusion. And so we went our separate ways: I to bed, and Farringdon, as I afterwards discovered, first of all to steal a motor car from some luckless citizen–not a difficult task, for a man of his experience – and then to drive out to Winshaw Towers, there to gain entry through the library window which Tabitha, I surmise, would have opened for him, and to make his calamitous attempt on Lawrence’s life.’
I brooded on this. ‘From the way you’ve described him, I wouldn’t have thought he’d have much trouble polishing off a weedy little man like Lawrence.’
‘Maybe so. But Lawrence had made many enemies over the years, and had probably found it worth his while to learn how to defend himself against them. Besides, I suspect he was ready for trouble that night: he knew something was up. Farringdon’s best bet would have been to surprise him, if possible, but I’d wager he couldn’t resist having a few words with him first. Those wasted moments might have been critical.’
‘And then I suppose when he failed to show up in your office the next morning, you drove straight out to the house?’
‘You anticipate me superbly, Michael. Your prognostic powers defy belief. I was there shortly after ten. You probably know that although it can be seen from a great distance across the moors, Winshaw Towers is approached by a heavily wooded drive, and it was easy enough to conceal my car at some distance from the house itself and to arrive on foot without attracting any notice. In those days – and who knows, he may be there still – the premises were patrolled by an exceptionally lugubrious and unprepossessing butler by the name of Pyles, and I knew that, even with things being in such an obvious state of confusion, my chances of getting past him were not good at all. So I waited my moment, until I saw him disappear off in the direction of the outhouses on some errand or other, and then had no difficulty bluffing my way past some halfwit of an under-footman. I claimed to be a colleague of Dr Quince’s, I seem to remember.’