Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [31]
‘What’s at the other end of the road?’ I asked Baker, gesturing ahead.
‘Little Applecombe, sir. But that’s about twenty miles away. Nearer than that there’s the other end of the drive. It’s a half-circle, do you see, sir?’
We moved on down the drive, the crunch of snow under our feet an odd echo of the gravel that was probably underneath. The drive was indeed semicircular, and I estimated the radius at about four or five hundred yards. A fairly sizeable clump of trees in the area enclosed by the drive shielded us from direct sight of the house and it was only after we were a third of the way around that I raised my eyes to find Banquo Manor looming above us.
It is odd that I always use the word ‘looming’ in connection with the Manor. It implies bulk, but Banquo was in fact quite small as such houses go. It was an ugly thing – tall and uncompromisingly rectangular, as if built from a child’s building blocks. It had been constructed about a century before from an orange-tinted stone found in the local quarries. Tall narrow windows looked out on to the drive, bordered by the same white stone that formed the mock-Tudor battlements crowning the house. The whole of the area that fronted the hall curved out smoothly from the body of the house, with four pillars flanking the main doors and supporting the domed roof of the portico. The simple dwelling of an upright man.
Yet, as always, I was struck by a note of incongruity about the Manor, almost as if the house I knew was just an intricate mask hiding something much older and much, much stranger behind it. Some of the house fronts near to the house where I lodged were nothing but flat screens, masks hiding the line of the underground train tunnels and the steam from the ventilation shafts. Other residents had protested when they were built, but I had found the concept amusing, and supported it. There the illusion was one of conformity and normality. Here, the frontage had the opposite effect.
For a few seconds as I trudged towards it, the face of the building appeared to be perfectly flat, and the portico curving out to greet us was nothing but clever shading on a two-dimensional backdrop. The impression lasted only a moment, and then Baker and I were walking up the steps of an undeniably real building. With a last glance to see whether I was going to usurp his authority Baker took a step forward and grasped the bell pull. By my watch it was almost a quarter past nine.
Deep within the house there was a booming and within seconds I could hear footsteps approaching. The door swung open, held by a middle-aged man with an expression of contempt etched on to his face. His butler’s uniform was immaculate, but his expression was beginning to fray around the edges and I wondered if our business there might be more serious than I had thought.
‘Ah, Sergeant Baker,’ he said with perfect diction and evident relief. His expression turned to me. ‘And you are… ?’
‘This is Inspector Stratford, Simpson,’ Baker anticipated.
‘Of course,’ said Simpson, as if he had been expecting me all along. ‘I’ll show you into the study, gentlemen.’
‘What’s happened?’ I asked as we were neatly shepherded inside the hall and across to a large door on the left.
‘I’m sure Sir George will explain, sir.’ So saying, Simpson knocked and speedily opened the door.
‘Sergeant Baker and Inspector Stratford have arrived, sir,’ he announced, gesturing for us to enter. Crossing the room to meet us, followed by the worried gaze of the room’s other occupants, came George Wallace. I had never met the man, but from my aunt’s description, it could only be him. He was short and chubby; not a young man any more, but with a childish, insecure face that belied his age despite a flourishing moustache. He gave me a dubious look, my third in five minutes, and turned to Baker.
‘Baker,