We had arrived outside a small terraced house in one of Islington’s less fashionable byways. Findlay led me inside, up several flights of uncarpeted stairs until we reached the attic floor, where he threw open the door on to a room which caused me to gasp in sudden astonishment: for it was a perfect replica, as far as I could see, of the apartment described by Conan Doyle in The Sign of Four, when Sherlock Holmes first encounters the mysterious Thaddeus Sholto. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries did indeed drape the walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet, too, was of amber and black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. There were even two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it, increasing the suggestion of Eastern luxury, and a huge hookah standing upon a mat in the corner. To complete the hommage, a lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the room: as it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odour.
‘Welcome to my little nest, Michael,’ said Findlay, shrugging off the raincoat which he had slung across his shoulders. ‘You’ll excuse all this kitsch, this ersatz Orientalism. I was brought up by uncouth parents, in surroundings of meanness and austerity. My life ever since has been an attempt to cast all that aside. But I have never been a wealthy man. What you see here is an expression of my personality. Voluptuousness on a low budget. Spread yourself out on the Ottoman while I go and make us some tea. Does Lapsang suit?’
The Ottoman turned out, on closer inspection, to be an MFI sofa-bed swathed in threadbare pseudo-Turkish blankets, but it was comfortable enough. Findlay’s tiny kitchen led off from the sitting room, so it was easy to continue our conversation as he busied himself with the kettle and the teapot.
‘This is a wonderful flat,’ I said. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘I moved down in the early sixties — almost immediately after my brush with the Winshaws. Partly to escape the attentions of the police, as I said: but there were larger reasons as well. After so many years, the narrowness, the insularity, the petty pride of provincial life had become more than could be borne by a man of my temperament. Oh, but this whole area was different then: it had a bit of style, before the brokers and the management consultants and all the other capitalist lackeys moved in. It used to be Bohemian, vibrant, thrilling. Painters, poets, actors, artists, philosophers, faggots, dykes, dancers; even the odd detective. Orton and Halliwell lived just around the corner, you know. Joe used to come round occasionally, but I can’t say I ever took to the man. It was over before you started with him. There wasn’t a shred of affection in it. Still, it was a terrible end they both came to, you wouldn’t wish that upon anybody. I was able to help the authorities in clearing up one or two small details, as it happens, although my name doesn’t appear in any of the official accounts.’
Interesting though I found these recollections, I was anxious to get back to the matter in hand. ‘You were telling me about Farringdon, the co-pilot,’ I prompted.
‘A dangerous man, Michael. A desperate man.’ Findlay emerged from the kitchen and handed me a cracked bone-china cup filled with steaming tea. ‘Not a vicious man, by any means. Capable of strong feelings and great personal loyalty, I would have said. But a man embittered; destroyed by circumstance. He had never managed to settle; had drifted around the country for years, taking factory jobs, casual jobs, edging closer and closer to the world where private enterprise starts shading into crime. Getting by pretty well on a combination of versatility and personal charm. Because he was indeed charming: and handsome, in a chiselled sort of way. His eyes were like blue velvet, I remember, and he had the longest and most luxuriant of eyelashes: not unlike your own, if you’ll permit me a small compliment.’
I looked away, bashful.
‘I might almost have been tempted to try my luck, but his inclinations lay only too clearly in the opposite direction. A breeder, through and through. He claimed to have conquered a few hearts in his time, and it was easy enough to believe. To sum up, a charismatic rogue: not by any means an uncommon type, in the post-war period, although he had more excuse than most for going to the bad.’
‘And what did you tell him, exactly?’
‘Well, first of all I told him that I was acting on behalf of the family of the late Godfrey Winshaw. That in itself had an extraordinary effect. He immediately became very passionate and animated. It was clear that Godfrey had inspired him with feelings of the most devoted friendship.’
‘As he seems to have done with everybody: Tabitha being the most extreme example.’
‘Quite. So this naturally brought us on to the subject of the plane crash, and raised the tricky question of whether I should tell him about Tabitha and her eccentric theory. As things turned out, it could scarcely be avoided, because Farringdon himself was in no doubt about the matter. He was convinced that the Germans had been tipped off. He said that their plane had been intercepted well before it reached its destination, and well before it could have been picked up by radar, in normal circumstances. Somehow or other, the enemy had been forewarned of their mission.’ Findlay drained his teacup and stared thoughtfully at the leaves, as if they could offer a reading of the past. ‘I could tell at once that there hadn’t been a single day in the last eighteen years of this man’s life when he hadn’t thought about this incident, puzzled over it, agonized and baffled. Wondering who the traitor might have been. Wondering what he would do to the villain if fate ever sent him his way.’ He put the cup down and shook his head. ‘A dangerous man, Michael. A desperate man.’
Findlay stood by the window and drew the heavy, slightly moth-eaten curtains, after taking a final look outside at an evening which had now turned rainy and cold.
‘It’s getting very late,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d care to stay the night, and we could continue this story in the morning. Sadly this is a small flat and there is only the one bed, but—’
‘It’s only twenty to nine,’ I pointed out.
Findlay smiled apologetically and sat down opposite me with a crestfallen air. ‘It’s no use, I know. You see through the wiles of a lonely and pathetic old man. I disgust you, of course. Try not to make it obvious, Michael. That’s all that I ask.’
‘It’s not that at all—’
‘Please, no kind words. You’ve come to carry out a simple business transaction, I realize that. Information is all that you want from me. Once you have it, I can be discarded, like a used rag.’
‘Far from it, I —’
‘To resume.’ He waved me into silence with an imperious hand. ‘I had no intention of letting the odious lawyer share in my glory, and so on my return to Yorkshire I requested an immediate interview with Tabitha in person: which was duly arranged. The asylum could only be reached, I discovered, by means of a long drive over the moors, and my first sight of it filled me with gloom and trepidation. Probably there is only one more bleak and desolate spot in the entire area. I refer, of course, to Winshaw Towers itself.