Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [59]
Leaving Baker to explore the exterior of the house, and having taken a cup of tea and washed the grime of my search from my face and hands, I took the opportunity to seek out our hostess, Elizabeth Wallace. She had woken from her sleep as we explored the cellarage, and I found her in the kitchen directing the urbane Simpson and the harassed Beryl in the dinner arrangements. She readily agreed to answer a few questions.
‘I’ll just carry on now, ma’am,’ came Simpson’s voice, floating after us from the kitchen.
I spent some time questioning Mrs Wallace about Richard Harries and his relationship with the other members of the household. She could not add anything that I didn’t already know, although she herself didn’t like Harries and she didn’t know anyone who did. I tried to draw out why her husband had allowed Harries to live with them, but she avoided the bait with the dignity and grace befitting the Lady of the Manor. My theories remained unconfirmed, and I changed the subject to the time of the murder.
‘And so, after the aperitifs, where did you go, Mrs Wallace?’
‘I went out to the kitchen to see how Simpson and Beryl were coping with the food. It was all cold of course: Richard had insisted that we send all the servants away, save Simpson and Beryl.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘Quite inconvenient for most of us. Less so for George.’
I filed that away as another prop for my theory. Unfortunately I had quite a few props up on one side, and almost none on the other. I continued: ‘This was because of Professor Harries’s experiment?’
‘Yes’
‘I see. So you were all three in the kitchen the whole time? No one could have slipped out to the study?’
Mrs Wallace cast a regal glance at me. ‘Not at all, Inspector. We all carried things through to the dining room at one time or another. Any one of us could have slipped away for a moment.’
She had seen what I was getting at with no difficulty, and my respect for Mrs Wallace increased. I had seen many people in her position bluster, ‘Surely you can’t suspect me, Inspector?’ but Elizabeth Wallace automatically included herself in the list of suspects. I liked her.
‘I know for a fact that Simpson was outside for a time,’ I said, trying to provoke some reaction from behind her well-bred mask.
‘Quite probably, Inspector. As I said, I wouldn’t have noticed.’
Nothing.
‘And equally well, neither Simpson nor Beryl would have noticed if you had left them.’
‘Of course not.’ But as an afterthought, ‘Though I didn’t.’
‘But if you had?’
‘No, they wouldn’t have noticed.’
The door behind Mrs Wallace opened, and Baker’s considerable bulk squeezed through the gap. He looked as though he had news to impart.
‘Thank you, Mrs Wallace,’ I said smoothly. ‘I don’t think I need detain you any longer.’
‘Thank you for being so courteous at such a difficult time,’ she replied, rising gracefully from her chair.
‘Could you ask Mr Hopkinson to step this way?’
‘Of course.’
She left, shutting the door behind her.
‘I’ve been checking the routes away from the house, sir,’ Baker said with suppressed excitement, ‘and I think I’ve found a fresh set of footsteps belonging to Dr Friedlander. They lead away from the conservatory and veer off towards the station.’
I was cautious. ‘How do you know they belong to the Doctor?’
‘Distinctive footwear, sir. Those boots of his were never made in England, I’ll be bound.’
I could feel Baker’s excitement transmitting itself across the space between us. Warmth spread through my stomach and the embarrassment of the morning