Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [26]
As the Doctor seated himself beside Miss Seymour at the table, smiling round at each of us in turn and finishing with a lingering, almost sad, glance at his neighbour, there was a polite cough from the doorway.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the Doctor said without looking. ‘This is my assistant, Herr Kreiner. Say hello, Fitz.’ His hand turned in the air, approximating another wave.
Herr Kreiner sat on the other side of the Doctor. The table was now full and it took me several seconds to realise that this must mean that an extra space had been laid. So far as I was aware, Herr Kreiner had not been expected. And, looking at his sullen expression, I decided that probably he had not wanted to come at all.
Kreiner was at that indeterminate age somewhere between the late twenties and mid-thirties. On the cusp of middle age, when illusions fly from you and reality begins to crowd in just a little too close for comfort. He met my stare without apparent embarrassment or worry and deliberately fixed a monocle into his left eye as he gazed back. The impression of disdain was only slightly mitigated by the fact that, as he raised an eyebrow at me, the monocle slipped from its position and fell back on its string.
There was an edge, a tension in the room. But typically, Elizabeth Wallace dispelled it at once. ‘I trust your journey has been pleasant,’ she enquired as she passed a plate to Dr Friedlander.
The Doctor smiled in reply. ‘Not without its upsets and mishaps, I have to confess,’ he said.
‘Ach,’ said Kreiner, ‘always ye haff mishaps. Again and again. Time after time.’ He had fixed his monocle back in position as he spoke. His Germanic accent was so pronounced that my first inclination was that he was affecting it for some reason. He gave a sharp nod of his head as he accepted a plate from Elizabeth. And his monocle shot out of his eye and clattered on the china. He stared at it for a moment as if in disbelief before blinking furiously and stuffing it into his waistcoat pocket, fingers fumbling in the process.
The conversation progressed as we helped ourselves from the various dishes in the centre of the table. But I heard little of it at first. It had just occurred to me why there was an extra place at table. It was intended for Gordon Seavers. Only I knew that he would not be coming, and a combination of guilt at not sharing my knowledge with George and the sadness that this realisation brought kept me silent and introspective for much of the meal.
‘What news of the Society for the Propagation of the Forensic Sciences?’ George asked Dr Friedlander, cutting in on my reverie at last.
For a moment, Friedlander looked blank. He blinked, and turned to look at Miss Seymour. She met his gaze levelly, and he turned back to George. ‘Oh,’ he said vaguely, ‘you know how it is.’
This struck me as a rather strange response, since if George had known he would not have asked. But I kept my observation to myself.
‘Keeps us very busy, doesn’t it, Doctor?’ Herr Kreiner said. He grinned round with an easy nonchalance, apparently unaware that his accent had evaporated.
‘Careful, Fitz,’ the Doctor said with a smile, ‘your persona is slipping.’
‘What?’
Miss Seymour sighed loudly. ‘Your accent,’ she said. ‘Obviously.’ Her voice was laced with a mixture of sarcasm and boredom which seemed quite out of place and unexpected. Even Harries spared her a worried glance across the table.
Herr Kreiner shrugged. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That.’ His voice sounded more London suburb than continental Europe now. ‘That’s just for, you know, professional purposes,’ he said. ‘But we’re all chums here, aren’t we?’
‘Are we?’ I asked. ‘I thought it was for your professional opinion