Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [72]
In the mirror on the dressing table I could see the reflection of Wallace’s face. I could not decipher his expression. What had he thought of as he died? Whose death was he mourning, his wife’s or Beryl’s?
Why did I think he was grateful for his own?
There was a rough irregular hole beneath his right ear. Whoever had strangled him had pressed hard enough to rupture the skin.
‘Everyone is accounted for…’ said Hopkinson behind me. ‘Apart from Simpson.’
‘And he was with us when Beryl was killed,’ I said flatly.
‘So either he and Miss Harries did it together,’ I said quietly.
‘Which, at best, is unlikely,’ Kreiner pointed out, not unreasonably.
‘Or it was an outsider.’
‘No!’ Hopkinson exploded. ‘A passing tramp nipped in to steal the silver and kill a few of the gentry? Or a lunatic conveniently escaped from a nearby asylum? Come on, Stratford, it just won’t work.’
‘In that case we’d better get everyone into the drawing room…’
‘And hope they’re not all in it together,’ Hopkinson finished. I turned to look at him. He raised a questioning eyebrow, and I couldn’t help but smile back.
We walked out, leaving the Wallaces together, parted in death.
* * *
THE ACCOUNT OF JOHN HOPKINSON (15)
It was odd walking down the thick-pile stairway towards the others gathered in the drawing room below. It was odd, looking back, that we missed the obvious connection that Mr Kreiner’s forensically trained mind was able to make. It is odd, given what had gone before, that Stratford and I were able to treat each other civilly, let alone on equal terms. It was odd at the time because, while two of my friends lay lifeless above us, I saw their departure from this world as little less than the inevitable consequence of the events in Banquo Manor to date.
In short, I was becoming anaesthetised to death – even the death of my closest friends. Stratford too was finding this – I could tell from his cautious smile as we left the bedroom. The deathroom. To speak to those downstairs who had yet to learn… Odd, I had never envisaged myself as the messenger of death. Had anyone warned me I should play the role I would have expected to deliver my lines badly. I was now being given more than enough rehearsal time – but the lines still sounded as tactless, as unprepared, as gauche, as I had feared they might.
* * *
THE REPORT OF INSPECTOR IAN STRATFORD (15)
I could feel their eyes on us as we descended the stairs. Baker trusting, depending on his superior officer. Susan Seymour – hurt, worried, pained. Catherine Harries – watchful, careful. What could we tell them? That two people, two friends of theirs, had died in unimaginable agony a few feet from where they stood?
We descended the stairs in silence and they watched us from the hallway. As we reached the bottom, Hopkinson stepped off the stairs and crossed to Susan Seymour’s side. I was left on the last tread, alone apart from the unexpectedly supportive presence of Herr Kreiner by my elbow.
‘They’re dead,’ I said. ‘They’ve been killed… murdered…’ My words trailed off inadequately, lost in the force of their accusing stare. I was alone and pierced by their grief, their disbelief, their pain. What else could I have said? But that was where I lost – not their confidence, I still had that. But I lost Susan Seymour at that time and in that place: she turned to John Hopkinson at her side and collapsed on his shoulder, crying.
Baker stared levelly at me.
Catherine Harries winced and looked away.
Simpson entered from the kitchen corridor. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing…’ he began. I had no time for that.
‘Simpson, is there a firearm in the house?’
‘Yes, sir – the master keeps a shotgun in the study.’
‘Then go and get it, man.’
* * *
THE ACCOUNT OF JOHN HOPKINSON (16)
Looking back I can see that Stratford never lost his presence of mind.