Denied to all but Ghosts (13 page)

“They don’t want to change gas supplier nor
electric. They don’t want new windows and they don’t want to set up
a direct debit for a new home for abused ponies.”

“Not even pit ponies?” asked Cavendish.

“Christ,” said the woman “when was pit ponies
last used?”

“The last one retired in 1999 or so I
believe.”

“Really, I thought they disappeared when they
stopped sending kids up chimneys.”

“I’m afraid not. Anyhow, we have not come for
any of your mentioned reasons; we have come to see Mr and Mrs
Montgomery. I believe you’ll find that they are expecting us.”

The woman cast a dubious eye over Cavendish
with his outlandish scar and then Beckett. She shrugged her
shoulders and said, “no skin off my nose, lover, you better come
with me. Make sure you wipe your feet.”

They followed the woman to the rear of the
house, only Beckett checked his shoes as requested. They were shown
into a large, airy conservatory, which was pleasantly warm on this
spring day despite the lack of sunshine, the air heavy with the
scent of cultivated flowers.

“You’ve got guests, Mrs Montgomery,”
announced the woman.

“Thank you, Mrs Lampkin. That will be all,”
announced Estelle as she rose from her seat. Mary Lampkin shook her
head as she left the conservatory to return to her cleaning duties
upstairs. “She really is an angel,” said Estelle, “I don’t know how
we’d manage without her. The two hours a day she spends here are
invaluable. Welcome to Yoxter Manor, gentlemen.”

Beckett decided that Estelle was perhaps best
described as handsome as opposed to attractive. She was tall yet
retained a full, feminine figure and he noted her expensive plain
dress and blonde hair, styled in a fashion made popular by Margaret
Thatcher in the eighties. It was the latter aspect of her
appearance that put the socialist Beckett on his guard.

“Good day, Sir, Ma’am,” Cavendish bowed and
snapped his heels smartly together as he made his introductions.
“My name is Marchel Cavendish, Untersucher medius. May I introduce
my associate, Thomas Beckett.” No handshakes took place, just a
polite nodding of the head from Ralph Montgomery.

“Associate,” queried Estelle, “what sort of
title is that, certainly not one that I have encountered the firm
using?”

“Ma’am, Mr Beckett is assisting me. He is new
to our world but is keen to learn.”

“And has he been thoroughly assessed?”

“Indeed so, Ma’am, indeed he has. I am his
sponsor.” Beckett looked hard at Cavendish as yet another
revelation came to light. Whatever Cavendish had told him, there
seemed to be an awful lot omitted. Estelle caught the puzzled look
that momentarily betrayed itself on Beckett’s face, for she stared
at him as if assessing his worth and potential.

“Are you one of the Canterbury Becketts?”
Estelle asked.

“No, I’m one of the Bedminster Becketts,” he
replied.

“Ah, ‘Bed’ as in corruption of ‘Venerable
Bede’ and ‘minster’ as ‘large church’?”

“I don’t rightly know about that, Mrs
Montgomery. I’d say it was ‘Bed’ as in good line of charity shops
and ‘minster’ as in excellent Polish convenience stores.” Estelle
looked at Beckett trying to take the measure of the man. She
discerned nothing of value beneath his good looks except a sharp
sense of sarcasm, which would not have been amiss at her time at
the Bar.

“I think you have your work cut out with this
one, Herr Cavendish.”

“I’m not German, Ma’am,” replied Cavendish.
Beckett glanced heavenwards, Cavendish clearly could not help
himself, he seemed resolved on confrontation and being contrary in
all his dealings.

“Really? Oh, you never can tell these days,
Common Market and all that.”

“EU, Ma’am, we do not refer to it as the
Common Market.”

“Are you always so pedantic, Mr
Cavendish?”

“Apparently so, Ma’am.”

“What brings you to Yoxter Manor, Cavendish?”
asked Ralph.

“Sir, I am investigating a possible anomaly
in the forth coming auction. An academic named Dr Emily Spelman has
approached Simeon and Miles Goldstein. She wishes to inspect a
valuable Anglo Saxon item. Initial enquiries indicate that that she
believes the object to be of monetary value as well as historical
worth. The lack of specificity leads me to believe that she does
not know of the catalogue, hence any details of the auction itself.
Thus, we can conclude that she stumbled across the auction by
accident or that she has been fed information by a third party. I
favour the latter hypothesis and my investigations are so directed.
I have arranged to meet Dr Spelman on Wednesday. She is travelling
down from Oxford in the afternoon. I wish to inform you personally
of the situation and to assure you that everything possible is
being done to locate the source of the leak and prevent the auction
from being compromised.”

“That is damned decent of you, Cavendish,”
said Ralph.

“But how do you know that we are not the
cause of your problems?” asked Estelle bluntly.

“My dear, what on earth are you saying, Herr
Cavendish cannot possibly suspect us, we are beyond reproach!” said
Ralph indignantly.

“But not so all members of the family, is
that not so, Mr Cavendish?” said Estelle.

“I’m very grateful to you, Ma’am, for making
my task easier. Have you any reason to suspect any members of your
family of trying to sabotage the auction?”

Estelle took the lead in answering
Cavendish’s questions.

“I’m sure you are aware of the stories that
surround our family, some may be true, and others are the result of
spite and envy. As far as I’m concerned, Jasmine is well provided.
She leads a happy, if somewhat shallow life. Now Teddy, I cannot
say with certainty what he is capable of, it is usually the case of
what he’s incapable of.”

“Estelle, how can you say such things!” was
Ralph’s only contribution to the proceedings.

“Ralph, darling, Teddy is feckless, a lazy
good for nothing, who will bring nothing but ruin on this
family.”

“Is Edward here today, Ma’am?” asked
Cavendish.

“He is with Jasmine in the living room; I’ll
show you the way.”

Estelle led Cavendish and Beckett from the
warm conservatory into the gloomy and chilly interior of the manor.
Beckett felt relieved to be away from the stifling pungency of the
conservatory. He was surprised how ordinary the house appeared,
there were no trappings of grand design, no opulent portraits of
ancestors or suits of armour guarding the hallway.

The living room, when revealed, would not
have looked out of place in an IKEA catalogue. Jasmine and Edward
lounged on a modern white leather sofa, Jasmine in one corner with
her legs neatly tucked under her, Edward with his legs stretched
out resting on the glass top coffee table. A large French window
looked out onto a walled garden.

Beckett vaguely recognised the end credits
theme tune to ‘Friends’ issuing from the TV set. His daughter,
Sarah, would have felt very much at home in Yoxter Manor.

Estelle took her leave before Cavendish had
to make the request and he walked slowly over to stand beside the
TV to face the two siblings. Beckett started to walk over to join
him but was aware of the scratching sound that a piece of gravel,
trapped in his trainers, made against the parquet flooring. He self
consciously halted mid stride and awkwardly took up a stance giving
him a sideways view of the interviewees.

He watched as the two youngsters turn their
gaze towards him and sensed, rather than observed, Cavendish glance
in his direction. He felt himself blush as he attempted to give his
face the earnest, alert expression he said he would attempt to
project. He sadly concluded that he was no Marchel Cavendish.

Both of the younger Montgomery children were
older that he had imagined, in their twenties most certainly.
Jasmine was pretty with an almond shaped face framed by straight
shoulder length, auburn hair, an amused smile lit her face, her
slightly over-large eyes made her face appear expressive and
innocent. He thought she possessed the haughty, beguiling beauty of
the old aristocracy that masked the world from seeing the true
person. She seemed absorbed with her text messaging on her mobile
phone.

Edward’s face wore a frown that creased his
forehead, his tousled hair was already starting to thin and recede,
and each facet foretold his future, that with every passing year he
would come to resemble the image that his father currently
portrayed.

“Switch the TV off please,” said Cavendish to
neither Jasmine nor Edward in particular. Their eyes left Beckett
and fixed on Cavendish’s steely countenance. Beckett’s heart sank
as he felt a replay of the earlier meeting with the Goldsteins.

“Actually Marchel, I quite like the TV
playing, it kind o’ lightens the mood a little.” Cavendish fixed
his stare on Beckett. He had never seen Cavendish look at him in
such away and he realised now how unsettling it was, why Simeon had
over reacted with false bravado and anger. The look he gave
disabled ones natural thought processes, replacing them with an
incoherency that invoked irrational responses and over
sensitivity.

The Untersucher looked back towards
Edward.

“Thomas is quite right, the TV will stay on,”
said Cavendish lightly, belying the look he had just shown the
room.

“My name is Cavendish, Untersucher medius; I
am here to ask questions. Miss Montgomery, it is my understanding
that you play no role in the running of this house, is that
correct?”

“No, that is incorrect,” said Jasmine,
pouting her bright red glossed lips, “I look after the stable
block, my two horses, Butch and Sundance.” She pointed a finger at
Cavendish, “I’ve got you pegged as Butch, not so sure about
Sundance though, a handsome stallion, but not much between his
ears.”

Beckett had never been so tastefully insulted
in all his life, even now he could forgive her, accepting the
slander as youthful impetuosity.

“I think you misread us, Miss Montgomery,”
answered Cavendish, “I think you’ll find Mr Beckett is the man with
the brains, I’m the one with the gun.”

“Whatever you say, sweetie,” said Jasmine
carelessly with a dismissive wave of the hand, as she resumed her
texting.

“Miss Montgomery, you may leave the room, I
have no wish to speak with you for the moment,” said Cavendish
sternly.

“I’ll stay here, thank you very much,”
replied Jasmine, not bothering to look at her interviewer. Beckett
detected a quiet determination in the girl.

“As you please,” continued Cavendish. “Mr
Montgomery, I have read your file and there are some disturbing
revelations.”

“You’ve read what file?” asked Edward
angrily, if he had shown fear, it had only acted to fire his
belligerence. Beckett had noted this reaction in Simeon Goldstein,
only at that time he had not realised quite how Cavendish’s
attitude had provoked it.

“Your file cites acts of anti-social
behaviour,” continued Cavendish, ignoring Edward’s reply, “these
misdemeanours could indicate a predilection for acts against the
firm. Surely, you must be aware that your actions would prompt an
inquisition at some point. Is that what you wanted to achieve?”

The silence that followed disturbed Beckett
more that the words that Cavendish had spoken. He concluded that
there really was something sinister about quietude. Suddenly the
theme tune to the comedy DVD filled the air as the next episode the
sprung into life.

“I’ve read about you, Herr Cavendish,”
announced Edward Montgomery, “read about you in a report that Mum
had. It was about one of your cases, in Prague, I think.” If
Cavendish was surprised or taken aback, he did not show it.

“Mr Montgomery,” said Cavendish accusingly,
“have you set out to compromise the forth coming auction?”

“No, I’ve not.” Edwards’s declaration did not
sound as convincing as he had hoped.

“Have you contacted an Oxford academic with
information relating to certain items?”

“Of course I bloody haven’t, why would I want
to do that?”

“Because you are a waster, you have a good
mind yet you choose to waste it. You are a loser.”

“You bastard!” shouted Teddy Montgomery, “you
should try living in a world of bollocks and bullshit!”

“I do live in your world and I am charged to
protect it,” said Cavendish arrogantly.

“What, like you did in Prague?” spat Edward,
“you, Mr German, are at the last chance saloon. You’re the fucking
loser around here!” Beckett noted the further alarming pause
following Edward’s swingeing verbal attack. The inquisitor broke
the standoff.

“Come with me,” ordered Cavendish
assertively. Edward had no intention of moving. “Come with me,”
repeated Cavendish.

With the completion of his words Cavendish
sprang forward with lightening speed, grabbed Edward Montgomery’s
woollen jumper at the shoulder, bunching the green material in his
clenched fist, lifted the stunned youngster bodily from the sofa,
and promptly walked and half dragged him towards the door. Beckett
could just discern Cavendish’s whispered words as he led the
protesting Edward towards the door. “Time you and I had a quiet
chat...”

Jasmine smiled at what she thought was a most
amusing scene played out for her benefit. Beckett was frozen to the
spot, events happening too fast for him to respond to
cognitively.

The door opened before Cavendish reached it.
Estelle, who had obviously been standing behind the door
eavesdropping, stood aside as Cavendish and Edward disappeared
through the door. Estelle bequeathed Edward a scathing look as he
vanished.

“Jasmine, don’t look so pleased with
yourself, darling,” said Estelle. She turned to the bewildered
Becket and said quietly, “do not be concerned, Mr Beckett. Herr
Cavendish has just taken Teddy outside to have a word in his ear. I
sometimes don’t think that boy is one of us at all.”