‘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.’

‘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, Michael: 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.’