Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [17]
Leaving the route to Banquo Manor behind me, I continued on towards the village. My useless speculations were broken by a strong gust from the previously unnoticed wind. It twisted the mist into odd shapes which closed in upon me until my vision was restricted to a circle of a few feet. I was walking alone and cocooned, and the soft sound of the wind in the leaves surrounded me like a continuous conversation.
Someone whispered my name.
I stopped. I was sure I had heard something croon ‘Ian’ long and low through the darkness. I listened intently, but there was nothing. A spot between my shoulder blades began to prickle and I turned around more quickly than pride would normally have allowed.
Nothing. Just the darkness and the mist.
I turned back and started walking. Almost as if it had been waiting for me to relax, something ahead of me whispered, ‘Ian…’
The wind was blowing cold on my skin as I paused and peered uncertainly ahead. There was something standing there, something twisted and bent waiting for me, half hidden by the mist.
‘Ian…’ it whispered, and as my heart began to pound the wind pushed the tendrils of mist away from its bent limbs.
It was a tree, set prominently where there was a slight bend in the road. I had been confused by the mist and the wind, and my own imagination had provided phantoms to frighten me. My heart was still beating fast and, cursing myself, I increased my speed towards the warmth and life of the village. I began to shiver, but it was only the cold.
* * *
Within a few minutes I passed the first houses on the outskirts of the village. The mist was beginning to disperse now, revealing patches of brightly starred sky. As I looked up a shooting star crossed one of the gaps and vanished within a second, leaving a pale-green afterimage etched across the darkness for a handful of seconds. I hoped I would see more during my stay. My favourite childhood memories concerned staying with my aunt and sneaking out in the dead of night to watch for shooting stars.
It was thus, smiling foolishly at childhood memories, that I entered the village of Three Sisters.
* * *
THE ACCOUNT OF JOHN HOPKINSON (3)
It was perhaps hardly surprising that I could bear to greet Catherine Harries and Miss Seymour about as much as I could bear to stay with the rats. What I wanted was a drink – not, as sometimes now, to choke back the memories that still rush in upon me in unguarded moments, but because the realisation had dried my throat so that even my breath seemed to scrape it. I could hear Harries and his sister in the drawing room, and I was reasonably certain that the carafe in my room was empty, so I made my way through the dining room to the area under the stairs that was Simpson’s domain.
The door was all but concealed within the panelling of the corridor down to the kitchen area, and as usual it was closed. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing it left open. Certainly I had never been inside the butler’s pantry before that day, though I had seen Simpson emerging from its gloomy interior on rare occasions. I tapped on the door, inclining my head towards it in order to hear if Simpson was within. I heard nothing, no response, and pushed open the door.
As I surveyed the dimly lit room within, it did not occur to me that I might be trespassing, that Simpson might resent my unauthorised entry into his world. I just stood there, looking in surprise at the long narrow room that was concealed beneath the main staircase. It was difficult to credit that there was so much space available.
What light there was came from an electric lamp on the sloping wall to the right of the room, the wall that abutted the rising stairs. Beneath this light were two lead sinks with folding covers, and beside them a fireproof safe that, I presumed, held George’s valuable plate between dinners. Along the other wall, where the ceiling was higher and afforded more