Denied to all but Ghosts (16 page)

Only fifteen minutes late, Beckett hoped that
Dr Spelman would be later still, for he had no desire to let
Cavendish down. The inquisitor was sitting alone at the corner
table with place settings laid out for three people. As Beckett
traversed the plush carpeted floor, the thought crossed his mind
that the words of ‘Cavendish’ and ‘alone’ seemed to make an apt
pairing.

Cavendish wore his pale blue jacket and white
open necked shirt, his casual elegance provoking Beckett to feel
anachronistically over dressed by way of wearing a suit and tie. On
his approach to the table, Cavendish stood up and offered him his
hand in greeting, adding to Beckett’s discomfort. Meeting
Cavendish, even after a short absence, often felt like meeting him
for the first time.

Cavendish expressed his broadest asymmetrical
smile. Beckett wished he had offered his more modest version for it
was far less likely to upset the appetites of the other diners. He
reflected that Cavendish’s most genuine smile was often his most
visually intimidating.

“Mr Beckett, so glad you could make it!”
Cavendish enthused.

“Hell, Marchel, I had no other plans for the
evening, I just happened to be passing and all.”

“It is a beautiful evening in Bristol, don’t
you think?” said Cavendish warmly. Beckett doubted the sincerity of
his friend’s sudden enthusiasm for his home city but took it as a
good omen for the coming evening as he removed his jacket and
placed it on the back of the heavy chair.

“I ordered the same wine as the other
evening, if that is alright with you? You certainly seemed to enjoy
that grape.” Cavendish continued to smile.

“Are you okay, Marchel, you seem, ah, rather
buoyant shall we say?”

“I’m fine, Thomas, I’m just excited about
meeting Dr Spelman. It is where we cut the Gordian knot.”

“What?”

“It is where we begin to unravel the mystery
of the missing link!”

“I suggest you calm down a bit before Dr
Spelman gets here or else you’ll scare her off. Your eagerness is
certainly scaring me. Oh-oh, don’t look now, but judging by the
picture you showed me earlier, Elvis has just entered the
building.”

Dr Emily Spelman walked into the restaurant
with a practiced confidence and assuredness. Beckett followed her
passage across the floor whilst Cavendish studied Beckett’s
expression; he smiled to himself, amused by Beckett’s lack of
subtlety.

Emily wore a plain white blouse beneath a
blue two-piece suit, the image of a woman on business rather than
pleasure, except perhaps for the extra inches afforded by her
heeled shoes. Her long brown hair shimmered in the soft candle
light of the restaurant. Cavendish whispered in Beckett’s ear.

“Please don’t drool so, Thomas, it makes you
look like an imbecile”.

Cavendish stood and held out his hand in
greeting.

“Doctor Spelman, it is very good to meet you.
My name is Marchel Cavendish, and this is my associate, Thomas
Beckett.” Not for the first time, Beckett empathised with Dr Watson
as he took Emily’s hand.

“A murdered Arch Bishop, how absolutely
fascinating!” An infectious smile lit up her face, a smile as sharp
and as potentially deadly as a rapier. She spoke with a precision
and engaging clarity that her years in Oxford had inured. She noted
the way that Beckett’s eyes slowly scanned appreciatively up and
down her body before returning to her full glossed lips as a facial
focal point.

Both men savoured her intoxicating perfume
but interpreted the scent in different ways. For Cavendish her
scent implied good taste and elicited his sexual yearning,
currently on hold whilst in England. For Beckett it oozed expense,
personifying the unobtainable and provoked intimidation.

“Please sit down, Dr Spelman. May I offer you
a drink, I ordered a Sauvignon Blanc?”

“Thank you, Herr Cavendish” replied Emily
graciously. Cavendish poured a generous measure of the wine into
her waiting glass.

“You are German, I take it?” Cavendish
frowned at her observation.

“No, I’m not German,” he replied brusquely.
Beckett smiled at the familiar denunciation.

“My apologies, Mr Cavendish. Following my
talks with Mr Goldstein I was under the impression that you were.”
Emily emphasised the ‘Mr’. “I must say I was most intrigued by your
summons. Succinct, yet deliberately obscure. Hard for a girl to
resist.” Cavendish replied with his most restrained, charming
smile, which Beckett thought he must have worked hard on in front
of a mirror to perfect.

“Are you staying here in Bristol, Dr Spelman
or do you plan to return to Oxford this evening?” enquired
Cavendish.

“I’m not sure it’s any of your business, Mr
Cavendish, but as you ask, I’m staying at the hotel just off Corn
Street.”

“Excellent! Then we can enjoy a pleasant meal
without you having to rush off,” enthused Cavendish, failing to
observe his partner cringing at the affected bonhomie.

Emily studied Cavendish with what she
considered her most equivocal expression. She was trying
desperately to assess the man and was thus far struggling. He
dressed expensively; she could tell that his jacket and shirt were
of good quality. He looked fit and assured of himself. Despite his
denials, he portrayed the image of the German executive or
academic, which her career had brought her into contact with many
times.

What troubled her was his face. It was
certainly not traditionally handsome, for the face lacked the
equilibrium that handsomeness demanded. Nevertheless, she conceded,
he possessed a fascinating face, not unattractive to certain women.
Was it an honest face? Well, it certainly did not invoke a reaction
to fear for ones well-being but it possessed a certain rigidity and
his very pale blue eyes emoted a cautionary frostiness. Whoever he
was, he was not the man he had fabricated for this moment. The scar
was his most intriguing attribute, perhaps the fact that she
considered it an attribute and not a disfigurement revealed more
about herself than him.

Cavendish passed the menus around. “May I
offer you dinner tonight in way of recompense for the curtness of
my invitation? When Simeon explained to me that you had been in
touch I thought directness was the best way of settling this
matter.”

“I kindly accept your offer, Mr Cavendish,
but please don’t be insulted if I say that I’m not easily bought.”
Cavendish smiled knowingly yet hid the rush of optimism that
assailed him.

“Dr Spelman, please, I meant to make no such
intimation, if I did then I apologise unreservedly.” Cavendish
bowed his head as he made his apology.

“Are you sure you’re not German?” asked Emily
for a second time. Beckett choked on his wine. He had not expected
such a direct and confrontational question to be asked by the Good
Doctor. He found the spontaneous reiteration of the question
amusingly timely and confirmed his early suspicion that the evening
was certainly not going to be uneventful. Unlike the earlier
interviews with the Goldsteins and the Montgomerys, here he felt at
ease in the presence of Cavendish and a beautiful woman whilst
quaffing expensive wine. And it was not even his birthday.

Cavendish did not respond to Emily’s baiting
but carried on as if the remark had not been made.

“You contacted the Goldsteins claiming that
you were aware of a certain item that was going to be sold at a
private auction.”

“You are most correct in your assertion,”
replied Emily. She stopped talking as the waiter walked across to
the table to inquire if they were ready to order. The starter and
main course orders were taken.

“You don’t seem very big on small talk, Mr
Cavendish,” said Emily as the waiter left with their order, “you
have not asked a single question about who I am. I can only assume
that you already know.”

“Again my apologies, Dr Spelman, indeed I do
know of you, professionally speaking.”

“Then I’m flattered. But who are you, Mr
Cavendish, and who are you, Mr Beckett?” Emily looked Beckett
squarely in the eyes and the photographer’s face reddened as she
continued her scrutiny. He looked awkwardly to Cavendish for an
answer and Emily followed suit by turning her attention to the
German.

“It is sufficient to say that we are in the
antiques trade,” replied Cavendish.

“I can see you as being in the antiques
trade, Mr Cavendish, but as for Mr Beckett, I don’t quite see it,”
stated Emily.

“I’m a photographer by profession,” confessed
Beckett, “I just help Marchel out from time to time.”

“And what do you photograph?”

“I’d like to photograph you.” It was a stock
answer that Beckett gave whenever asked the question, however he
realised as soon as he spoke that it was perhaps not the most
suitable reply he could have made given the circumstances.

Emily’s gaze once more lingered on Beckett to
the extent that he again began to feel disconcerted. The stare was
long enough for Emily Spelman to form an opinion of Thomas Beckett.
He was a very handsome man; she guessed he was a good ten years
older than herself. There were hints of grey in his freshly washed
light brown hair. He possessed compassionate blue eyes, edged by
laughter lines, which gave support to her idea that he was a man
who endeavoured to enjoy life, not always successfully. His face
betrayed a refreshing directness that revealed he was unused to
having to conceal his thoughts or emotions.

“Right then,” said Emily leaning forward to
Cavendish as she spoke, “as you seem a very direct person I’ll be
blunt and not apologise for it, it’s the English way.”

Realising it or not, Emily looked about the
room for prying ears before resuming her inclined position. “You
are in possession of a very valuable Anglo Saxon object that is
about to go before a private sale. I may not be an expert on
‘private sales’ but I know that they are usually underhand and deal
in objects that cannot be sold on the open market for various
reasons, usually none of them honest. So let’s say the sword is
genuine, you are about to sell a national treasure to possibly some
overseas buyer who’ll deprive this country of its heritage, let
alone a priceless work of art. I will not let that happen. It is my
obligation as an expert to verify and authenticate the sword and
let the powers that be decide upon its fate.”

With that, Emily sat back in her chair and
drank the contents of her glass down in one, much to Beckett’s
admiration, as Cavendish considered the pretentiousness of her
undoubtedly rehearsed spiel.

“You know of the sword, Dr Spelman. I was
wondering how this was so?” asked Cavendish.

“Come, come, Mr Cavendish, what sort of girl
do you take me for?” Beckett now observed Cavendish’s smile
beginning to wane as if he was struggling to maintain his
conviviality.

“You must appreciate, Doctor that as this
concerns a private sale I must ask how you came to know of its
being.”

“How I came to know of the sale is not
relevant. What is relevant is that you intend to sell a national
treasure.”

“I see,” said Cavendish in considered tones.
He chose his words carefully, “so you believe an ancient sword
should not be sold privately?”

“Mr Cavendish, you may be an amoral shyster
but I cannot condone your attitude. Indeed, a sword purporting to
belong to the last Saxon King of England is certainly of national
importance. In fact, I demand that the sword be made available for
authentication.”

“You demand?”

“I do, I think you’ll find I have the full
weight of British law and officialdom behind me.”

The waiter bought the starters to the table.
“Another bottle of the same, please,” asked Cavendish. The first
bottle had already disappeared, Beckett and Emily holding the
honours equally.

“I do not own the object, Dr Spelman,”
continued Cavendish, “I am merely a representative. My client is a
very private man and is devastated by all the commotion caused by
your involvement in the matter. May I ask you how you came to be
aware of the item’s existence?”

"You keep asking me the same question, Mr
Cavendish. You are starting to sound somewhat repetitive. But to
extend you the courtesy of an answer, no you may not, for it is not
relevant to the matter in hand.”

“But surely, Dr Spelman, you could give me
something to offer my client. He is most concerned about his
privacy and as a result may well withdraw the item from sale.”

“Too late for that!” replied Emily almost too
quickly.

Cavendish noted the way she paused to regain
her composure and the nuance of anger that betrayed itself with her
lapse of discipline.

“My client does not like to think that
undesirables have become aware of his prized possession,” continued
an insistent Cavendish.

“I don’t think I qualify as an ‘undesirable’,
do you Mr Beckett?” countered Emily turning to the attentive
Beckett.

The photographer choked on his cream of
tomato soup, splattering the tablecloth and his shirt with
consummate ease. Cavendish looked at Beckett with an assumed look
of distaste whilst Emily smiled with amusement at having scored a
point.

“I’ll tell you what I think, Dr Spelman,”
said Cavendish shifting his attention away from his associate as he
fumbled to mop up the soup from his shirt and table cloth.

“I’m not a stupid man and I have judged the
situation as it stands, please correct me if I am wrong. You do not
intend to let this sale take place. You wish to authenticate the
object. That, as I see it is the nub of the question, for it
depends on what you conclude as to how the matter will finally be
resolved. Correct?” If Emily was taken aback by the ease at which
she had made her case then she certainly did not betray it.

“Correct,” was her simple reply.

“Then I suggest I convey to my client the
gist of what we have discussed and suggest that the object is made
available for scrutiny. If you’ll both excuse me for a moment
please.”