‘I was shown into Tabitha’s private apartment, which was at the top of one of the highest towers in the building. My impression, I can assure you, was not one of talking to a madwoman. Certainly her room seemed to be in a severe state of disarray. It was scarcely possible to move for all the piles of magazines, all those dreadful titles to do with aviation and bomber jets and military history. But the woman herself seemed to be quite compos mentis. To be brief, I told her of my discovery, and she reacted quite calmly. She said that she needed a little time to digest the information, and asked if I would mind amusing myself for half an hour or so, by walking in the grounds. At the end of this period I came back to her room and she handed me a letter, addressed to Mr Farringdon. That was that. I didn’t inquire after its contents; merely put it in the post when I got back to town.
‘I got to know that journey pretty welclass="underline" I must have done it four or five times after that, because very soon after I had posted the letter, Farringdon himself arrived in Scarborough. This would have been in September. It seemed that Tabitha had asked to see him, and that I had been trusted with the task of escorting him out to the Institute. They had several long interviews over the next few days. Whatever they discussed, it was kept a close secret, even from myself. Each time, I waited on a bench in the gardens, overlooking the moors, and read some pages of Proust — I think I must have got through most of the first two volumes — and every day when we drove home, my passenger would sit in grim and impenetrable silence, or chat idly about some wholly unrelated topic. It wasn’t until our very last visit that I was readmitted into Tabitha’s presence, and for once it was Farringdon who had to suffer this inglorious banishment.
‘ “Mr Onyx,” she said, “you have shown yourself to be a man of integrity. The time has come when I must trust you with some secrets regarding my family which I feel sure you will keep to yourself.” I can’t do the voice, I’m afraid. Mimicry has never been one of my talents. “In a few days’ time, thanks to the good offices of my brother Mortimer, I shall be released from this confinement for the first time in nearly twenty years.” I remember congratulating her in some awkward phrase or other, but she was having none of that. “It will only be temporary, I’m sure. My brother Lawrence persists in the most implacable opposition to any suggestion that I should be set completely at liberty. That is because he is a liar and a murderer.” “Strong words,” I said. “Nothing but the truth,” she answered. “You see, I have written evidence of his perfidy, and it is now my intention to put this evidence into your hands for safe-keeping.” I asked her what form this evidence took, and she told me about the note, whose nature, I believe, is already well known to you. It was her hope that this note was still to be found in the guest room where she had always stayed when visiting Winshaw Towers, in the pocket of a cardigan which she had last seen in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. She proposed to retrieve it as soon as possible and pass it over to me: and to this end we agreed to meet on the afternoon of Mortimer’s birthday party, at the very edge of the grounds, near a spot which was consecrated, believe it or not, for the burial of various dogs which had had the misfortune to live out their miserable lives as part of the Winshaw family.’
‘Of course — and Tabitha met you there, all right, but you were interrupted by Mortimer, and he thought that she was jabbering away to herself in the bushes.’
‘Precisely. Luckily he didn’t notice my presence, although the scent of this cheap but rather exotic perfume to which I’ve always been partial — excessively partial, it has been argued — could hardly fail to escape his attention. In any case, it made no difference, because Tabitha and I had already concluded our business — without any success at all, I’m afraid to say. The note was nowhere to be found in her room, and she hadn’t had the time to look for it anywhere else. Besides, the house is enormous. It might have taken days, even weeks. However’—and here he favoured me with a rather frosty smile—‘it appears that you succeeded where even I, the fabled, the infamous, the redoubtable Findlay Onyx drew the most unequivocal of blanks. I wonder if you’d care to tell me how you managed it.’
‘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.’