Denied to all but Ghosts (10 page)

“With, for, it doesn’t matter,” said Beckett
impatiently, Cavendish’s preciseness could be irritating at times,
“I just don’t understand why you should want someone like me
working with you.” Cavendish ignored Beckett and instead led the
conversation.

“I don’t know what you remember from our last
association so I feel it is better that I give you a résumé of whom
and what I am.” Cavendish took Beckett’s silence as his consent to
continue. They turned right to walk under the covered walkway of
the old warehouses that now housed copious eating and drinking
venues. Already music issued from the bars on this Friday evening
and disparate clusters of people walked hurriedly past on their way
to seek inebriation and a good time.

“My name is Marchel Cavendish, which you at
least seem able to remember. I work for a private organisation,
often simply referred to as the firm or any such like local
translation. The firm is principally involved in antiques and rare
artefacts; however, that scarcely covers what we do. The backbone
of the organisation is made up of an eclectic mix of like-minded
individuals who have a passion for the rare, beautiful and obscure.
These people tend to be very private and very rich. The
organisation can trace its roots back to the Holy Roman Empire,
founded in the reign of Charlemagne. I started my career as a
Zusteller, a runner for the agents who represent the collectors. I
then became an Untersucher, which is a Germanic corruption for an
investigator or inquisitor, if one likes to use an historical
context. I am here in my role as Untersucher. Clear so far, are the
memories flooding back?”

“They were already there.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think I feel relieved, relieved that I
never dreamt up the whole thing about secret societies.”

“We are not talking secret societies, Thomas;
there is nothing secret about the firm.”

“Then why isn’t it common knowledge?”

“The firm is not secretive, merely discrete.”
Beckett laughed sarcastically as they approached Perot’s bridge to
their left and turned right heading for Millennium Square, a modern
development reminiscent of a piazza. The paved square was dominated
by the thirty feet diameter golf ball-like planetarium, sheathed in
sheets of highly polished metal.

“I do like this atrium, Thomas. It has a very
European roomy feel to it.”

“Yeah, I like to take a wander around here. I
can remember when it was a disused cattle market.” Beckett watched
a group of young girls dressed in their Friday night ‘pulling gear’
heading towards the bars on the Waterfront. “Nothing much has
changed really...,” laughed Beckett.

As they crossed the flag stone amphitheatre,
the curious partnership approached two young couples sitting on a
stone bench by the statue of Cary Grant at the edge of the square.
Both couples were engaged in a turbulent argument, swearing
vehemently at each other, whilst aimlessly tossing peanuts in the
nearby water feature.

Cavendish halted and scrutinized the arguing
couples. Beckett missed the narrowing of his partner’s eyes and the
visible vascular throbbing at his left temple.

“Best keep moving, Marchel, we’re not looking
for trouble,” advised the Bristolian cautiously.

Cavendish smiled seductively at the prettiest
girl, maintaining his bogus leer until she made eye contact.
Beckett did not believe up until this point that a smile could be
so confrontational.

“What’s up with you, perv!” she shouted at
Cavendish. The girl’s boyfriend looked around, discovered the
provocative smile of the tall stranger, and immediately stood up to
shuffle across as fast as his low-crotched jeans would allow him to
confront the oddball.

“Why don’t you fuck off now while you can
still walk!” screamed the youth, casting a furtive grin back at his
companions.

“I think you had better move along, you are
causing a disturbance,” said the cheery Cavendish to the young man,
emphasising the ‘you’.

The youth, who stood substantially shorter
than the Untersucher, raised the hood of his top as a medieval
knight may have donned a helmet to signify an imminent fight.
Beckett scarcely believed what Cavendish had just said to the
youth.

“Come on Marchel, leave it, he’s not worth
it,” he implored. Any shame at the use of a cliché was displaced by
his fear of being involved in a fracas with two younger men, who
were now being egged on by their respective girlfriends.

Beckett backed away swiftly as the second
youngster swaggered across to Cavendish so that he now faced two
belligerent hooded youths. Beckett found time to be saddened that
his partner should be greeted with two caricatured examples of
atypical British youth.

The German refused to yield his ground as the
two hurled a stream of abuse at him. It never remotely occurred to
Beckett that it was actually Cavendish who had instigated this
whole set-to.

Cavendish’s grin morphed into smile of
contempt as he dismissively folded his arms against the tirade of
threats. Finally, the smaller of the two young men swung a lazy
punch at Cavendish, who caught the incoming fist in his hand and
held it firmly as the youth winced in pain. The Untersucher stepped
forward and hooked the man’s right leg with his own, dumping him
efficiently upon the ground. The second lad charged, only to find
himself somehow spun on the spot and put into a restraining arm
lock.

Beckett heard Cavendish order the
youngster.

“With me!” To the stunned youth lying winded
on his back he shouted, “and you stay there!” The hoody was marched
away some twenty paces towards the spheroid planetarium, where
Cavendish commenced to speak passionately into the ear of the
flinching lad.

For Beckett it was an inexplicable scene. The
detained youth’s friend lay submissively on the paving, seemingly
intent on watching Cavendish. Beckett could see the anger and
defiance slip from the face of the restrained youth as Cavendish
leant forward and continued to whisper in his ear. A fearful
respectful countenance replaced the aggressive guise as the youth
slowly nodded his head, as if agreeing with whatever Cavendish was
saying.

The counselled youth beckoned over his
co-aggressor to join him and Cavendish repeated the aural therapy.
Eventually all three of them shook hands before the two lads called
upon their bewildered girlfriends to join them before walking off
towards the Waterfront.

Beckett watched the group of youngsters
depart, the bemused girls demanding explanations from their
emasculated boyfriends, and then turned quickly to find
Cavendish.

The Untersucher stood coolly scrutinizing
himself in the reflective surface of the planetarium sphere.
Beckett silently observed the German for in excess of one minute
before Cavendish walked calmly back to join him.

“What the hell was that all about? What did
you say to them!” demanded Beckett.

“I just put the fear of God into them.”

“You what?” asked an astounded Beckett.

“I just had a quiet word in their ear,
literally.”

“What?” repeated Beckett.

“Thomas, I am an inquisitor. I could have
them burnt as heretics if I wanted to. Come on; let’s return to the
hotel, we have a busy time ahead of us.”

“Christ, Cavendish,” shouted Beckett as
Cavendish strode off, “an evening out with you is a real barrel of
laughs!” Dutifully, Beckett caught up with the German as they
headed back to the hotel.

“I enjoyed that, Thomas,” said Cavendish
reflectively. Beckett noted a flushed excitement about Cavendish’s
normally pale face.

“What, nearly getting beaten up?” asked
Beckett sourly.

“Oh, they couldn’t have beaten me up, even if
I’m not a man of violence,” said Cavendish nonchalantly, “It was
good to test myself, to see that I still have it.”

“Have what?” demanded a frowning Beckett.

“The power of legislation, the antecedent of
enactment.”

“You what?”

“What I just said.”

“Oh, forget it!” said Beckett despairingly,
“just forget it, you’re bloody mad!”

Cavendish offered his lop-sided smile in a
way so as not emphasise his scar.

“I’m not mad, Thomas. Now let me tell you why
I’m here and I promise you that it has nothing to do with
dogs...”

Late on Monday morning, Beckett found himself
driving Cavendish along the A4 to Bath. The brief respite that the
weekend had offered in the way of sunshine had collapsed, and now
the sky was again heavy with cloud driven by a cooling easterly
breeze.

Cavendish sat imperiously in the passenger
seat looking to his left over the river Avon and to the stone
mansion that sat upon the hill at Kelston. Beckett cast furtive
glances at his companion; even behind the screen of his sunglasses,
he appeared sulky and impatient, perhaps due to having spent the
weekend on his own in a strange city.

“So remind me who we’re visiting today?”
asked Beckett. He thought Cavendish was going to remain
uncommunicative, lost in the private world he often seemed to
frequent, when suddenly he piped up.

“We are visiting Simeon and Miles Goldstein,
old family friends on my mother’s side. They are antique dealers
but our interest in them is their connection with the forth-coming
auction. It is they who are compiling the catalogue and it is they
who alerted the firm that an outside agent had contacted them about
a certain object that is due to be sold.”

“What is so bad about that?” was Beckett’s
next question. Cavendish glanced over to Beckett, his face
expressionless face as revealing as a blank sheet of paper.
Beckett’s return glance only revealed his own reflection in
Cavendish’s sunglasses.

“Outsiders are not welcome, participation is
denied to all but Ghosts,” stated Cavendish respectfully.

“Ghosts?” queried Beckett.

“One of the things that the firm is not is
ostentatious. Its members enjoy privacy and seclusion, hence the
term ‘Ghosts’. That is not to say they do not enjoy displaying
their wares, but they tend to enjoy showing off to each other.”

“So what is the rarest thing that has ever
been auctioned?” asked Beckett encouragingly.

“Oh, that is impossible to say, it depends on
ones tastes. There are naturally authenticated pieces of the True
Cross, the Spear of Destiny and all the old relics that they went
for in the early days of the firm.”

“How can you authenticate a piece of the
cross that Jesus was crucified on?”

“Because it has been validated by the
Library,” replied Cavendish.

“But how can you validate something so old
and obscure?” continued Beckett.

“Because all objects have provenance, the
Library records the provenance of all such articles. And there are
modern methods of testing that lend themselves to validation.”

“Surely not every item?” queried Beckett.
Cavendish cast Beckett a despairing parental look. “Come on March,
not every item. Surely not a piece of the True Cross?” Beckett
paused before continuing, “and what if they actually got it wrong,
that the item was a convincing fake?”

“It would not matter. If the Library said it
is genuine, it’s genuine. That’s all that matters”.

“But...”

“Consider the story of the tin of sardines.
The tin was floated on the stock market and people thought it a
wonderful thing to behold. So, its market value increased
exponentially until its value bore no relation to its contents. One
day someone thought to secretly examine the tin and found that the
tin had been sealed empty.”

“So the tin was valueless?” asked
Beckett.

“The market said not”.

“So the empty tin of sardines was still
highly valued?” said Beckett by way of confirming his
understanding. Cavendish nodded approvingly.

“That is not to say that there aren’t fakes
out there. However, if there are, and they have been authenticated,
then it matters not. Such is the role of the Library and the
brothers.”

“So what is the weirdest thing you have ever
seen?” Beckett was full of questions this morning.

“Well, I can tell you the thing I would most
like to see.” Beckett waited for Cavendish to complete his answer
but Cavendish seemed to have his mind elsewhere.

“Well?” prompted Beckett.

“Well, what?” said Cavendish, jolted back to
the present.

“What would you most like to see?” implored
Beckett.

“Do you know George Mallory and Sandy
Irvine?”

“Not personally, but I know of the Mallory
who wrote about King Arthur, I think, and the Mallory who died on
Everest.”

“Very good, Thomas, I refer to the
latter.”

“What about them?”

“Well it was never known if they reached the
summit or not. When Mallory’s body was discovered his camera was
never found.”

“So?”

“So I would like to see the pictures that
were subsequently developed.”

“You mean the camera was found with his
body?”

“No, I’m not saying that, but at sometime
after his death and before his body was found, the camera was
recovered and the film developed.”

“So did he and the other chap reach the
summit?”

“I don’t know. That is why I would like to
see the pictures.”

“So you are telling me that someone knows the
answer to one of the great mysteries in mountaineering but they’re
not saying?”

“Welcome to the world of the firm,
Thomas.”

They continued in silence as Beckett
negotiated the busy streets of the spa town and climbed away from
the A4 towards the elegant Georgian town houses of Bath. The
Goldsteins lived in an envious three-story Georgian house, with
additional basement and attic rooms, not far from the famous
Circus. Beckett parked in a nearby side street, the much sought
after parking space serendipitously becoming available.