Denied to all but Ghosts (12 page)

“All the items in the sale are special; the
articles possessed by the late member are highly sought after.”
Simeon used the traditional etiquette of not referring to the
recently deceased Ghost by name.

Cavendish’s face visibly hardened; to Beckett
it seemed to become more angular, its softer edges swept away. He
knew that his employer had been walking a tightrope of emotional
control ever since Hugo Victor had entered the room.

“You are lying to me, Simeon,” said Cavendish
equably. Simeon’s face flushed within a matter of seconds, he
pushed himself erect with both hands against the tabletop so that
he half stood as he leant over the table.

“You young schmutz!” shouted Simeon at
Cavendish, “who the hell do you think you are talking to, some
little arse-wipe in the Fatherland! I was holding auctions for the
firm when you were still wetting the bed!” Simeon made the mistake
of casting one glance too many to Victor.

“I’m talking to you, you fat...!” exploded
Cavendish as he gave up all pretence of sangfroid. He clumsily
reached inside his woollen coat, extracted his Python revolver from
its shoulder holster and held the six-inch chrome plated barrel
inches from Simeon’s forehead.

“Now tell me straight or I’ll blow your head
off!” demanded Cavendish as he cocked the hammer of the
revolver.

Beckett leapt back in his chair and looked in
anguish towards his apoplectic colleague, yet all he saw was the
blood vessels in Cavendish temple throb above his scarred eyebrow
as the inquisitor flexed his jaw.

“That’s enough, Marchel!” ordered Victor from
the back of the room. “Simeon pushed you a bit too far, now put the
gun away, or it will be the Siebenbürgen this time!”

A visibly shaken Simeon slowly lowered
himself back into his seat away from the barrel of the gun that
followed him.

“Okay, Marchel. Just calm down you stupid
bastard,” said Simeon calmly. He doubted that Cavendish would pull
the trigger and yet he reminded himself that there were good
reasons why certain sayings stood the test of time. The saying
‘there is no smoke without fire’ rang loudly in his ears. Cavendish
had earned his notorious reputation for one reason or another.

“There are certain items in the sale that are
highly thought of but,” Simeon laid heavy emphasis on the ‘but’,
“they are not Anglo Saxon and Dr Spelman made no reference to them,
so as far as I’m concerned it bears no relevance to this heresy.”
Cavendish continued to point the gun as he considered Simeon’s
reply. Slowly he lowered the gun and returned it to the shoulder
holster.

Cavendish raised himself from the chair as if
it was an act of supreme human effort. Beckett sat shell shocked,
glued to his seat. Like everyone else in the room, he felt
frightened to make any sudden or rash movements for fear of
provoking the Untersucher.

The inquisitor placed the card that Miles had
handed him in his black notebook, secured the leather fastening and
returned the book to his pocket. The atmosphere in the room seemed
to ease with the disappearance of the book and revolver.

“Thank you for your time. Thomas and I will
be leaving now,” proclaimed Cavendish. Beckett noted how strained
his colleague suddenly appeared as he addressed the room almost
apologetically.

Simeon looked relieved to hear Cavendish’s
announcement. He appeared similarly stressed, as if he had just sat
an examination. Miles sat quietly at the table with a simpering,
apologetic smile on his face whilst Hugo Victor sat impassively as
he had been throughout the interview.

“No doubt I will be in touch shortly,
gentlemen. Remember to keep me informed if Dr Spelman should
contact you in the meantime. There is no need to show us out, I’m
sure that Mr Beckett and I can find our own way. Good day to you
all.”

Cavendish made for the parlour door whilst
Beckett looked around the room at the three faces for any glimmer
of acknowledgement but each purposely seemed to avoid establishing
eye contact. Beckett followed Cavendish with a deliberate
casualness that failed to impress anyone.

The Untersucher strode briskly in the wrong
direction as Beckett stood on the worn steps outside the Goldstein
dwelling, his hands resting on his hips. His mind was in turmoil,
he had no idea what he was involved with or with whom he was
involved. Cavendish was rapidly disappearing into the distance as
his long strides carried him unknowingly towards the Circus.
Beckett was not a deep thinker; he worked at an intuitive as
opposed to a rational level. At that moment, he had seemingly two
choices, to return to the car or follow the irascible and
unfathomable German. God help him, but he followed the German.

It was a singular sight that that greeted
Cavendish. He was familiar with the rich architecture of European
capitals, the Baroque and Rococo styles that dominated the romantic
period of imperial expansionism. Yet he had never seen anything
quite like this.

The Georgian architecture was undeniably
classical yet he found a disturbing earthiness about the whole
scene. The trees that dominated the central roundabout were old and
stood ominously stark and organic against the encompassing,
ostensibly synthetic, wall of Bath stone. The decorations that
embellished the architecture conveyed an apparent significance that
he could not decipher save for odd references to Masonic and
esoteric cultures. His attention was drawn to the carved image of a
man’s face wreathed in vines like some reference to Bacchus.

Beckett emerged onto the famous Bath Circus
by way of one of the many roads that terminated at the Georgian
roundabout. He spotted Cavendish staring intently up at the
engravings that adorned the circling houses. He was drawing heavily
on a cigarette. He guessed that Cavendish smoked by the residual
odour that filled the car when he first picked him up in the
morning, yet it was the first time he had seen him indulge. An open
top tourist bus rattled by as Beckett stood beside Cavendish.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get paid,” said
Cavendish without tearing his gaze away from the enigmatic
carvings.

“I thought you wanted to go out to the Mendip
Hills this afternoon?” asked Beckett contritely. Cavendish looked
to his left where Beckett stood at his shoulder.

“Don’t you want to go anymore?” asked
Beckett. Cavendish continued to stare at Beckett as he took a long
draw on his cigarette.

“You are a strange man, Thomas Beckett.”

“Pot, kettle, black, I believe, Herr
Cavendish.”

“I’m sorry?” said an uncomprehending
Cavendish.

“Oh, I suspect you probably are,” quipped
Beckett. Cavendish tossed his cigarette end away.

“And you think I’m the strange one.”

“Oh, you’re strange alright, Cavendish. Do
you want to go to the Mendips or not?”

“Are you not going to ask me what just
happened?” asked Cavendish. Unusually, Beckett thought through his
answer before replying.

“Well, you claim I don’t know you, but I
think I’ve sussed you well enough to know that you will tell me
eventually, so long as I don’t get hospitalised and you don’t
bugger off in a huff. Saying that I haven’t let you do the latter,
then I reckon you will tell me, ‘cos I reckon you are the most
important person in your life and I’m the only tosser around here
who will listen.”

Cavendish gave a rueful shake of his head and
offered an easy smile that few people had ever seen. “Ouch,
incisive, wounding and succinct. We’ll make a German of you yet,
Herr Beckett. Now where the hell did you park your car?”

* * *

Yoxter Manor sat high the Mendip Hills. It
was a non-listed building of medieval origins yet few people knew
of its existence, it lay secluded in its environment, far enough
off the beaten track to avoid the speculative curiosity of visitors
from the nearby city of Bristol, the large town of
Weston-super-Mare or the nearby tourist destination of Cheddar
gorge.

Yoxter Manor was the home of the Montgomery
family. They had lived in the Manor for unbroken generations and
were an offshoot from Roger de Montgomery, a famous Marcher Lord,
supporter and advisor to William the Conqueror. This branch of the
Montgomery family had its own claim to fame, responsible for
holding one of the only two sanctioned auctions in the UK. As
auction holders, they were well placed in the British hierarchy of
the firm.

Whereas Flash Seminary carried out a plethora
of roles on behalf of the firm, Yoxter Manor remained in private
hands and considered itself to be the home of auctions despite its
second rate appearance when compared to Flash.

The nominal head of the family was Ralph
Montgomery whereas the practical head was his wife, Estelle. Both,
now in their fifties, were former Barristers. The Manor was also
home to their two children, namely Jasmine and Edward.

“Who is this man coming to see us, dear?”
asked Ralph directing his question at his wife.

“A man named Cavendish, darling,” replied the
authoritative voice of Estelle, who even now spoke as if addressing
a jury. Both were sitting in comfortable wicker chairs in the
sometimes sun-warmed conservatory at the rear of the Manor. Some
may have said that the conservatory was an inappropriate addition
to such an ancient house; however, no one ever dared mentioned it
to Estelle Montgomery, who was proud of her collection of flowering
plants.

“What does he want?” asked Ralph, a pained
expression overwhelming his prematurely lined face. “I’ve a busy
day ahead; I could do without any distractions.”

“Darling,” said Estelle. “You’ve not had a
busy day in the past fifteen years. The ‘busiest’ I’ve ever seen
you was the time I caught you servicing that young clerk on the
judge’s table.”

“Ooh yes, I’d quite forgotten about her.”
Ralph smiled as he recalled the incident in his mind’s eye. “She
had the loveliest...”

“That’s enough, Ralph. We don’t want any more
or your smut, thank you very much.”

“I’m sorry, my dear. But who is this
Cavendish fellow?” asked Ralph.

Estelle began slowly to explain Cavendish’s
role to her husband.

“Apparently he’s one of those bloody
inquisitors who like to pry into other people’s business. He seems
to have a very mixed reputation, depends of course to whom one
speaks. If you’ve been wayward then it is said he can be rather
nasty, but then what does one expect from an inquisitor. They are
not paid to be liked; they are paid to get results. I’ve been told
he has an excellent clear up rate but has the reputation of being
rather messy; he seems to have accumulated rather a large body
count in a short space of time. I understand he is here to do
penance for a serious misdemeanour in Prague. You really should
take more interest in the goings on of the firm. My only concern is
that he would hardly be coming to see us merely for a social call,
his kind seldom do.”

“You I know I leave all the funny stuff to
you, my darling. So what is he coming here for, have you been
upsetting the Ghosts again?” queried Ralph.

“That was many years ago, darling, and all a
misunderstanding. I was simply looking after the necklace until the
time of the auction.”

“You were damned lucky that the inquisitor on
the case fancied you or else we could both have been for the
chop.”

“One makes one tiny mistake and nobody allows
you to forget it, I don’t know why you keep bringing up the
subject.”

“Because I can, darling, because I can,” said
Ralph dryly.

“You can be an absolute beast at times,
Ralph. Just remember who keeps this house on the straight and
narrow.” Estelle sniffled into her handkerchief.

“I’m sorry, darling, that was very
insensitive of me,” said Ralph apologetically. He raised the
newspaper he was reading to his face in pretence of turning the
page and so hid his gleeful smile.

Thomas Beckett was, as most Bristolians,
quite familiar with the Mendip Hills, it was a natural place of
pilgrimage for the city dweller intent on a little piece of rural
solitude. He drove Cavendish out over Dundry and descended through
the low clouds to the Chew Valley Lake before ascending the
escarpment towards Priddy. Yet as he followed Cavendish’s
directions, he realised that he had no idea where they were heading
and the sight of Yoxter Manor, when it appeared before them, came
as a complete revelation.

It could never be said that the house bore
the image of a National Trust property, the grounds were tended as
opposed to kept and the house had an air of careless abandonment
about it. It had been extended and altered so many times over the
years that it had lost any clear architectural style. Beckett best
summed it up as ‘Nouveau Mongrel’. He steadily negotiated the
twisting gravel drive through the trees that hid the house from the
roadside view, and parked by an ageing blue Volvo estate.

“Before we go in remember what I said,”
announced Cavendish, “that these people are to be treated with due
politeness.”

“Hold on a minute,” replied Beckett, “it’s
you that does all the chit chat, not me. What do you suppose I’m
going to say?”

“Nothing, Thomas, but you did say you that
you wanted to be given the heads up after our meeting with Simeon
and Miles.”

“Yeah, you filled me in as far as who these
people are. I still don’t pretend to understand what they are all
about. I’ll just follow you and look suitably earnest. Just don’t
go playing with that bloody gun!”

“Good plan, Thomas, let’s go.”

Cavendish and Beckett simultaneously vacated
the car but by the time Beckett had managed to lock the door with
the malfunctioning key fob Cavendish was already ringing the bell
at the oak front. Had the world still been a just place the door
would have been attended to by a butler. At least that was Ralph’s
take on things. As it was, an elderly careworn woman wearing an
apron and an expression of indifference opened the door.