Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [25]
‘I should just answer that if I were you, Simpson,’ I said as seriously as I could manage.
‘I shall, sir,’ replied Simpson peering down at me as if I should be ashamed of making such an obvious suggestion. I smiled as faintly as I was able, and went through to the dining room while Simpson made his way to the front door – to open it.
I seemed to be the last to arrive at dinner save for Miss Seymour. Perhaps, I considered, she was still cooling off in the grounds. Cooling off in more senses than one, for I had noted from my bedroom window that the snow was falling lightly again now. A few stray flakes, nothing more. But enough to make me shiver as I watched.
I was saved from either having to admit I knew where Miss Seymour was, or from lying by her arrival. Simpson reappeared in the doorway as I helped myself to a plate from the end of the long table and was reaching for the serving spoon in the first dish. I froze at the sight of Simpson, and behind him Miss Seymour and two people I did not know.
‘Who was at the door, Simpson?’ George asked. From where he sat he could not see the trio of people behind the gaunt figure of the butler.
‘Miss Seymour, sir.’ Simpson stepped aside to allow Miss Seymour into the dining room.
She paused in the doorway, then stepped hesitantly, almost shyly, forward. ‘I was…’ She stopped, looking round as if suddenly unsure of herself – a distinct contrast to her earlier confident demeanour. ‘I was taking the air.’ She blinked several times in rapid succession. Perhaps her eyes were stinging from the cold outside, I thought. ‘And I met…’ Once again she broke off, turning back towards the door, as if unsure whom she had met.
It was Simpson who introduced the two newcomers to us. ‘Dr Friedlander and his assistant,’ he said, an edge almost of contempt audible in his tone, ‘Herr Kreiner.’
With that, Simpson hinted at a deferential bow and withdrew, allowing the gentlemen behind him to step across the threshold and into the light.
‘Friedlander?’ George was on his feet at once, dropping his napkin on to the table. ‘But I just this minute got your telegram. I understood you were unavoidably delayed by the inclement weather.’
‘Really? Well, it was a rather hazardous journey, I’ll admit.’ Friedlander took a step into the room. ‘But here we are, safe and sound. As you can see.’
We could indeed. And I have to admit that Dr Friedlander was not what I had expected. From the silence round the table, I don’t think he was what any of us expected. Judging by the esteem with which Harries had told me he was held in the forensic community, I had expected someone older. I had a mental image of a crusty old man with a lined face and a mane of long, white, straggly hair receding from a lined forehead above a wizened face. I could not have been further from the truth.
I was vaguely aware that, his confusion having passed, George was making the introductions as I looked over the doctor. He seemed somehow to be both overdressed and shabby. He wore a paisley waistcoat beneath a velvet frock coat. A large cravat was fastened askew at his neck by a single gold pin. His trousers were damp from the snow, some of which still clung to his battered shoes. It was as if he had dressed for a formal occasion ten years ago and never bothered to change.
But, while his clothing seemed eccentric, it was his face that held my attention. A mass of brown hair framed his youthful visage. His mouth was set into a half smile, as if he were at once both amused and bemused by what he saw. His face was long, unlined but somehow giving an impression of age nonetheless. And his eyes were deep wells of experience that darted back and forth taking in everything as he spoke.
‘Hello, everyone,’ he said lightly in