Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [32]
‘That’s my job, sir,’ said Baker. ‘May I introduce Inspector Stratford from London?’ Mentally I blessed the man: he could have made things very awkward, but he seemed prepared to play it with a straight bat. Wallace extended a damp palm. I shook it and muttered a greeting.
‘Richard’s sister, Catherine, is asleep upstairs,’ Wallace said in a low voice. ‘I had to sedate her after the accident. Poor girl was in shock.’
I nodded and Wallace led us to the far side of the room, where the other occupants were arranged.
‘This is Susan Seymour,’ he said, introducing me to a tall slim woman in a lacy green dress that made me think of Aphrodite rising from the waves. I took her hand as Wallace continued: ‘Susan is – was – Richard’s fiancée…’
‘Miss Seymour,’ I said quietly, ‘my condolences.’
‘For what?’ she asked simply.
I was nonplussed by her composure. ‘For the… the tragic death of your fiancé,’ I said finally. Perhaps it was the shock of events, but she seemed to me to be completely devoid of any emotional reaction. Or, I suddenly realised, perhaps she too had been sedated.
She nodded. Her hand was cool and confidant in mine, and I reluctantly released it before I crossed over the boundary of good manners.
Wallace dragged us away from Miss Seymour and introduced us to his wife. Elizabeth Wallace was tall and stately, and as fragile as a porcelain figure. She had obviously been a great beauty when Wallace married her, but time had undermined her good looks with a network of fine lines as if a skeletal autumn leaf had been laid against her skin
‘And this’, Wallace said, guiding a large, rather surly young man across the room to us, ‘is one of our visitors: Herr Kreiner. He’s a protégé of Dr Friedlander, who is –’ He glanced around. ‘Where is the Doctor?’ he asked peevishly.
‘Still in the laboratory,’ Herr Kreiner said. One of his eyes had a white pressure mark around it, as if he had been wearing a monocle for the first time and trying too hard to force it into his eye. There was something about him that I distrusted on first sight. I had seen his type before in the Rookeries and Stews of London: stupid, easily led, believing that the world owed them a living and they would take it any way they could. Teuton or not, I resolved to watch him carefully.
‘This is a terrible business,’ he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘Poor Rupert…’
‘Rupert?’ I queried.
His face froze for a moment, but I could see a lurking phantom of panic in his eyes.
‘He means Richard,’ a voice interjected from the doorway. ‘Richard Harries.’
I turned, to see that John Hopkinson had entered the room.
I had completely forgotten about Hopkinson. Thanks to the walk through the snow and the anticipation of trouble, the death of Gordon Seavers and the real purpose of my visit had slipped entirely from my mind. My surprise was so total that all I gained was a confused impression of a tall, thin man with straight brown hair. There seemed to be an old-fashioned air about him, but I couldn’t immediately tell why. Neither could I fathom my immediate identification of the man. I had not met him before, yet recognition was total. He was carrying a decanter of whisky and two glasses, and as he entered the room his eye caught mine. There was a sudden flash of… puzzlement? Uncertainty? Then it was gone and I was left wondering if I had ever seen it. Had he realised that I was a police officer, and did he know why I was there? If so it was perfectly masked when Wallace introduced us, and I decided to wait for a more opportune moment before questioning him about the missing letter. Now was the time to deal with the death of Richard Harries.
‘Where did the accident occur?’ I said decisively, turning to Wallace.
He winced at the recollection.
‘We moved the equipment in here, but the accident took place in the conservatory,’ he said. ‘Richard used it for his experiments. I didn’t mind… Had no use for the blessed place myself.’
I noticed a flicker of expression on the face of Elizabeth Wallace, but whatever crossed her