Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [9]
‘And Susan,’ Elizabeth added.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Susan Seymour. Richard’s fiancée,’ George told me.
‘His what?’ That was the first time I had ever heard of Susan Seymour. It was also the last until she arrived with Miss Harries later that afternoon; for, although I went to see Harries immediately after luncheon, he never once mentioned her.
* * *
THE REPORT OF INSPECTOR IAN STRATFORD (1)
Humankind cannot bear too much reality. We shy away from it, inventing excuses, reasons, justifications; anything, in fact, that stops us from confronting the truth. I was unaware of this simple fact for many years. Unaware and happy that way. That state of blissful ignorance persisted until the day that I met John Hopkinson and Dr Friedlander, and came face to face with…
But I am getting ahead of myself. Best that this story be told in order. Best that the conventions of proper form be observed.
Looking back on it now I find it strange that I was not involved with Banquo Manor from the start. I came into things at a slant, in such a way that I did not realise the full scope of the affair until it was too late to stop it. Far too late. In fact it was in the winter of 1898 at Mortarhouse College in Oxford that I took the first few steps towards the terrible legacy of Banquo Manor: a legacy that was to lead me through fields of horror before finally allowing me to find hope, and love.
It was winter, and bitterly cold with it. The grass of the front quad covered in snow; only the corners were visible, revealed by the careless footsteps of students in too much of a hurry to stick to the path. I stood at the bottom of some steps leading up to what I had been told was the hall by a passing student whom I had stopped. I had been there for ten minutes or more, staring at the period architecture and slowly freezing to death.
‘Inspector Stratford?’ came a voice from the top. I turned carefully, trying to keep my footing on the ice. ‘One of the students told me you wanted to see me.’
The man was small and dapper, with a beard that clung like fungus to his cheeks, and discoloured teeth that were revealed when he smiled in greeting. ‘Professor Sowerden?’ I asked, my words frosting the air.
He nodded. ‘Indeed I am, Inspector. Pleased to, ah, make your acquaintance.’ The professor descended the steps and extended a polite hand. He was a lot smaller than I was, and rocked back on his heels as he looked up. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I wanted to ask you a few questions about an ex-student of yours.’
The yellow teeth flashed again. ‘In any trouble, is he? How terrible.’
‘You could say that, sir.’ I paused for effect. ‘He’s dead.’
Sowerden instantly looked contrite. ‘Good Lord, who is it – was it, rather?’
‘Gordon Seavers. I do not know if you remember him. It would have been about ten or eleven years ago.’
‘Poor old Seavers,’ muttered Sowerden, rocking back absently on his heels. ‘Yes, I remember him. Quite distinctly.’ He looked up at me. ‘Look, ah, my scout is in my room at the moment. Perhaps we could walk…’
‘Scout?’
‘Oh, ah, cleaner. You know.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I replied with a cold smile. Little in-jokes, private languages, all the things I had noticed in my superiors at the Yard, the Commissioners and such like, this was where it all started. Almost as though they were a race apart.
‘Not an Oxonian by any chance, Inspector?’ said Sowerden, almost as though he had read my mind.
‘No, sir.’
‘Ah. Cambridge.’
‘No, sir,’ I said firmly as we moved off around the square. ‘Perhaps you could tell me something about Gordon Seavers?’
‘Yes, yes of course. Seavers was in my tutorial group for, ah, two years I think.’
‘And you teach?’
‘Oh – natural science. Yes, I’ve been here for donkeys’ years.’
We turned right at the side of the quad, beside an imposing chapel. Two young men ran past in long black robes and mortar boards. One of them was still doing up a white bow tie.
‘Sub fusc,’ said Sowerden cryptically. ‘They’ve all got to wear sub