‘The family doctor.’
‘That’s right: some quack physician they used to slip a bribe to every three or four years to make sure that Tabitha remained safely under lock and key. I’d passed his car on the road a few miles back, so I knew that he’d already paid a visit. I said that I’d been asked to give a second opinion.
‘How to convey an impression of Tabitha’s state of mind that morning? She told me what had happened, quite calmly, without any apparent shock or agitation: but beneath her composure I caught glimpses of such despondency, such disappointment … Her last hope dashed, her one taste of freedom squandered, forfeited … I am anything but a man of sentiment, Michaeclass="underline" womanly feelings are entirely foreign to me, and yet that morning, absurd though it sounds, my heart almost broke. I handed her Farringdon’s envelope; she put it away in her writing case without opening it; and just then Mortimer knocked at the door, come to say his farewells. I had but a few moments to conceal myself: just time to leap into her dressing room and close the door, while Tabitha picked up her knitting and resumed her habitual air of abstraction. Their conversation was brief. When it was safe for me to emerge, she and I exchanged only a few more words. She had a considerable sum of money in her purse, I remember, and she insisted on paying me in full for my services. Then I took my leave. I slipped out through a back doorway and took a circuitous route to the car; and that was the end of my dealings with Tabitha Winshaw. I have not seen her since.’
Findlay stared into space. A mood of profound melancholy seemed to have come over him, and for the moment I could think of nothing to say.
‘It was a glorious morning,’ he continued suddenly. ‘Bright sunshine. Deep blue skies. The leaves just turning to gold. Do you know that part of the world at all, Michael? I miss it sometimes, even now. Winshaw Towers is on the edge of Spaunton Moor, and since I couldn’t face going back to town, I drove to a quiet spot and walked for several hours, thinking back over the last few curious weeks, wondering what it all meant and where it left me. The seeds of my decision to come down to London were sown that day, I think. It was a Sunday, but there weren’t many walkers: I had the place more or less to myself, and the sun shone kindly on my schemes and resolutions.’
‘You were lucky,’ I said. ‘I remember that Sunday, too, but it poured with rain. At least where I was.’
‘Come come, Michael, you romanticize,’ said Findlay, chuckling incredulously. ‘You were only a young boy at the time. How can your memory possibly distinguish one such day from any other?’
‘I remember it vividly. It was my ninth birthday, and my parents took me to Weston-super-Mare, and it rained in the afternoon so we went to the cinema.’ This information didn’t appear to mean much to Findlay, and since we were now both in danger of sinking into a nostalgic torpor, I decided that a rapid change of tone was called for. ‘Anyway – what do you want to do about this note? Hang on to it?’
He read the message again and then handed it over. ‘No, Michael. This is of no further use to me. I’ve committed it to memory, in any case.’
‘Aren’t you going to perform tests on it, or something? Look for invisible ink?’
‘What colourful ideas you entertain when it comes to the detective’s art,’ said Findlay. ‘My own procedures seem very prosaic in comparison. I must be a disappointment to you.’
His sarcasm was mischievous rather than icy, so I tried to enter into the spirit.
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘I was brought up on a diet of Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes. I even used to write detective stories once, when I was very little. I was rather hoping that you’d give it a cool, expert glance, and then look at me through half-closed lids and say something impressive like, “Singular, Mr Owen. Very singular”.’
He smiled. ‘Well, all is not lost, Michael. We still have work we can do together, avenues to explore, and besides …’ He tailed off suddenly, and a transient gleam seemed to flicker in his eye. ‘… and besides … You know, you may actually have a point there.’
‘I may? What point?’
‘Well it is singular, isn’t it? That’s the strange thing about it.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’
‘The word “biscuit”, Michael. Surely it ought to be in the plural. One biscuit, to be taken with some cheese and a stick of celery? It doesn’t sound very substantial, does it, even for a snack?’
I cast around for an explanation, and said rather lamely: ‘Well, this was during the war. Perhaps with rationing, and so on …’
Findlay shook his head. ‘Something tells me,’ he said, ‘that wartime economies would not have impinged very seriously on the Winshaw ménage. They have never struck me as being among nature’s belt-tighteners. No, this is beginning to look more interesting than I’d supposed. A little further thought may be called for.’
‘And there’s another mystery, too, don’t forget.’
Findlay waited for me to explain.
‘Don’t you remember? All that business about Tabitha thinking that she could hear German voices coming from Lawrence’s bedroom, and how she locked him in there but it turned out that he’d been in the billiard room all along.’
‘Well, of course, there’s a perfectly plausible explanation for that. But we’d have to visit the house itself to put it to the test. In the meantime, I thought we might try approaching the problem from the other end.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that there’s one part of this story, one component, which sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb. One player who sits so uneasily with the others that you wonder whether he hasn’t wandered in from a different drama altogether. My reference, Michael, is to yourself.’
‘Me? What have I got to do with it? I just drifted into this whole business. It could have been anybody.’
‘It could have been anybody, naturally. But it wasn’t. It was you. Now there may even be a reason for this, and it may be possible to find out what it is. Tell me, Michael, don’t you think it’s about time that you met Tabitha Winshaw? She may not be around for much longer, after all.’
‘I know, I’ve been putting it off. Also I’ve always had the sense, somehow, that the publishers have wanted to discourage it.’
‘Ah, yes, your inscrutable publishers. Quite an outfit, I must say. I was most impressed by their offices, or what I could see of them, on my brief and unofficial visit. I even helped myself to one of their brochures, you’ll be shocked to hear.’ Reaching over to his desk, he brandished a glossy, expensively printed catalogue and flicked through its pages. ‘The list is certainly eclectic,’ he murmured. ‘Take this, for instance: Dropping in on Jerry: A Light-Hearted Account of the Dresden Bombings, by Wing Commander “Bullseye” Fortescue, V.C. Sounds hysterical, I must say. This one caught my eye: A Lutheran Approach to the Films of Martin and Lewis. Or, better still, The A-Z of Plinths, by the Reverend J. W. Pottage – “an invaluable reference companion”, it says here, “to his earlier groundbreaking work”. Well, well. Quite a cornucopia, isn’t it?’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ I said. ‘I get sent a parcel of the things for Christmas every year.’
‘Well, that in itself is rather generous, don’t you think? There seems to be no shortage of money in their line of business. This fellow who runs it – McGanny, isn’t it? – must be something of a shrewd operator. I’ve a feeling that it might be worth looking a little more closely into his affairs.’