Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [42]
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I had noticed that Miss Seymour seemed a little detached. I’d put it down to shock. Do you know of any other reasons?’
‘Not entirely,’ Hopkinson answered, trailing his sentence off into introspective silence. He seemed about to continue, then casually extended his long legs and folded his arms. I wondered at the sudden thaw that had occurred when dislike of Richard Harries (and, something muttered in the back of my mind, Susan Seymour) was mentioned.
‘But I gather from Mrs Wallace that the engagement was all but off,’ Hopkinson continued. ‘Why, I don’t know.’ He looked at his feet. ‘I wish I did. In many ways I know less than you, Inspector.’
‘I doubt that, Mr Hopkinson,’ I said, and our eyes met for an instant. I don’t know what passed between us, but it was remarkably like understanding. ‘You can, of course, account for your movements immediately before dinner?’
‘Of course.’ He smiled a self-satisfied smile.
‘Then I won’t ask you to,’ I continued, ‘… yet.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, either simply or sarcastically. I suspected the latter.
‘Thank you, Mr Hopkinson. You have been of some slight help to me. You might ask Simpson to let us know which rooms are ours.’
‘My pleasure, Inspector.’ Hopkinson rose and turned towards the door.
I let him take two paces, then used my one, major piece of ammunition: ‘Why did you not tell Sir George that Gordon Seavers had committed suicide?’
Hopkinson froze. Over his shoulder I could see Baker’s face gaping in stunned amazement. Part of me realised that I had not actually told him about it yet, but my total concentration was focused upon John Hopkinson. He was perfectly still for one frozen instant in time, clenched hard but fragile like glass. Then he turned and was smiling mockingly at me, but I knew that he knew more than he would say. And he knew that I knew, but we were forced to play out the script as written.
‘George has not been well,’ he said. ‘I had hoped to find an appropriate opportunity to break the news to him. No such opportunity has arisen. I’m sure you understand, Inspector Stratford.’
I understood. And for a moment I admired him: I had met few people who could carry through a bluff as coolly as he was doing. ‘I am not sure that I do, Mr Hopkinson,’ I said, calling the bluff. ‘How long have you been here now? A whole day? And no time to break the news of the death – the suicide – of an old and trusted mutual friend? And even allowing for Sir George’s health, not even telling his wife? I find that very odd, Mr Hopkinson.’
‘It’s been a very long and tiring day, Inspector. I should like to go to bed – if you have finished making vague implications. Was there anything else?’
‘Just one thing. Where is the letter that Seavers received just before he died? The one that drove him to kill himself?’
He had known that the question was coming, just as he knew that by facing me down he had me beaten. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Inspector,’ he said, and turned to go.
I lost my temper.
‘Oh yes you do. You know a great deal more than you are saying about a lot of things, Hopkinson. And if you won’t tell me – as it seems you won’t – then I shall still find out. I want to know what was in that letter, and who it was from. I’m pretty certain now, but I intend to find out for sure. Don’t doubt it, Mr Hopkinson. Sleep well.’
He raised his hand in a sarcastic farewell and left. I heard him mutter something from the hall, but I didn’t catch it.
There was an uncomfortable silence in the study for a few moments until Baker said, ‘What do you think, sir?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I sighed. ‘A murder – a technically minded one at that – and a man who doesn’t bother to tell his hosts that one of the guests has done away with himself. It’s a strange business, Baker. What do you think?’
‘Must have been someone who knew what they were doing, sir. That’s a fearsome pile of equipment. I wouldn’t know which bit did what.