Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [45]
The waiting seemed eternal. I remember little else about it except hazily, in unconnected snatches and random order. It seemed that the whole day, from my arrival until now, was simply a prelude to my session with Stratford. With the certainty of one of Harries’s rats I had been steered through the maze of the last week in order to account for myself to the man from Scotland Yard who feigned interest in the timely death of Richard Harries. It could hardly have been better, in fact, which was in itself a bitter irony. I suppose that my nerves had balanced on the knife-point of Banquo Manor for longer than I care to speculate; I felt that everything was unfolding for my sake, whereas now I see that the events had a different inevitability – a whirlpool that sucked me in with Stratford and the rest rather than revolving about me. I have always been a little vain.
Beryl in particular seemed to share my mood as we waited. Silent. She shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as she stood opposite Simpson by the door. The effect it provoked in me was not one of sympathy: her reflection of my suppressed feelings irritated me still further. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, girl, sit down,’ I told her, a little sharply. I softened my tone, sensing that Miss Seymour was watching me: ‘And you too, Simpson. You make me nervous there.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ murmured Beryl as she and Simpson selected a chair each.
The silence broken, it seemed all the more oppressive when it began to reassert itself. ‘You must be tired, Miss Seymour,’ I ventured, since she was still looking at me. ‘I know I am. And you, Elizabeth.’
‘I shall be all right, thank you, John,’ Mrs Wallace replied with the glimmer of a smile. ‘I think you need some sleep though, Susan.’
Miss Seymour was not so sure, however. ‘No thank you – really.’
‘Are you sure?’ Kreiner asked her. ‘I mean you’ve been through a lot, what with –’ He stopped, as if unsure of how to describe things. ‘Everything,’ he decided.
‘I’m fine, Fitz,’ she snapped. I don’t know if I was more surprised at her sudden temper or her use of his Christian name. But Herr Kreiner seemed unperturbed. In fact he took it so much in his stride that I began to wonder if they had perhaps met before, though I could not see how that would be possible.
Even then I did not believe that telepathy was really possible. But as if in response to my thoughts, Susan’s face clouded over and she stared at Kreiner in apparent confusion. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Kreiner,’ she said after a moment, ‘but have we met before?’
Kreiner seemed startled by the question. Startled and troubled. He was about to reply when George Wallace entered.
‘Ah, George. How is Catherine?’ asked Elizabeth immediately.
‘She is still sleeping.’ Wallace lowered himself into an armchair. ‘I think she’ll sleep until the morning.’
‘Good. Sleep must be the best thing,’ I said, hoping to persuade Susan Seymour to take the rest she undoubtedly needed.
Again, Kreiner agreed: ‘He’s right, Susan.’
‘You must rest,’ added Elizabeth, and this seemed to begin to convince Susan.
‘Well, perhaps. In a minute.’
‘I think they are right, Miss Seymour.’ George smiled at her. ‘And Elizabeth, you should get some sleep too, my dear.’
They went eventually. I forget if Baker came in before or after their departure to say that they might. Beryl too was dispatched, having been questioned, and given a bed in the servants’ quarters. I doubted her parents would miss her.
We sat in silence. Simpson was so deep in uncharacteristic reverie that I forgot for a while that he was there – if indeed he was – and George and Kreiner both seemed unconcerned.
By the time Stratford wanted me, I had my nerves under better control. I decided that I had to make the most of my predicament and hope that I was mistaken in my diagnosis of the