Denied to all but Ghosts (17 page)

Cavendish dabbed his mouth with his napkin,
stood up and walked away from the table. Beckett had never been
left alone by Cavendish and felt a moments panic. He removed his
stained tie as he smiled sheepishly at Emily, who just returned a
blank stare whilst sipping her wine. Looking deep into her hazel
coloured eyes, he knew that he had to overcome his awe quickly or
become befuddled by his professed intimidation. Beckett spoke
up.

“The new waitress walks over to a guy dining
in the restaurant. She whispers to the man, ‘would sir like
desert?’ The guy says, ‘what flavour ice cream have you got?’ She
whispers hoarsely, ‘chocolate, strawberry and vanilla’. ‘Do you
have laryngitis?’ the guy asks sympathetically. ‘I don’t think so,
we have chocolate, strawberry and vanilla, but I can check with the
manager’.”

Beckett laughed warmly at his own joke and
was pleased to see Emily smiling. It was the second time he had
seen her smile and he realised that he was in mortal peril.

Riding his luck, Beckett fired off another
couple of restaurant jokes before using up his repertoire.

“Mr Beckett, what on earth are you doing with
that man?” asked Emily.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What on earth are you doing with the likes
of Cavendish?”

“Oh, he’s alright really, once you get used
to him, can be a bit odd at times but his heart is in the right
place, trust me.”

“Mr Beckett, I would not trust you if you
were the last man on earth,” smiled Emily.

“You’ve got me all wrong, Doctor...” Before
he could finish Cavendish reappeared at the table. “Shit, Marchel,
where did you appear from?”

“Not disturbing anything am I?” asked
Cavendish. Emily and Beckett simultaneously leant back into their
chairs as if they had been caught doing something illicit.
Cavendish took his seat at the table as the main courses
arrived.

“Dr Spelman, you’ll be glad to know that I
have spoken with my client and he has grudgingly agreed that you
can view the artefact. There is one proviso though.”

Beckett could see Emily trying to rearrange
her thoughts back to the matter in hand. She was irritated with
herself for having been side tracked by Beckett’s good-humoured
aside.

“And what might that be, Cavendish?” asked
Emily. Beckett wondered if the lack of ‘Mr’ was deliberate or just
the effect of the alcohol.

“He wishes that you maintain the
confidentiality that he is used to. He does not want any publicity
what so ever or anyone other than you to see the item. Are you in
agreement?”

Emily looked at her empty wine glass and then
at Beckett. She felt a thrill of triumph in having succeeded in
what she had set out to do.

“I have one condition myself.” Emily
addressed Cavendish alone.

“Yes?” enquired Cavendish.

“Mr Beckett and I would like another bottle
of wine. What do you say?” Emily offered Beckett a victorious grin
that he could not help but reciprocate.

“Mr Beckett,” asked Cavendish cynically,
“would you like a bottle of the same?”

“Sure thing, Marsh.” Both Beckett and Emily
grinned at each other and missed the satisfied smile that Cavendish
allowed himself during their shared mirth.

They ate their main courses whilst Emily
Spelman recounted college stories to her two hosts and Beckett
regaled the ensemble with anecdotes mainly revolving around the
wedding photo shoots he was involved with in his early career. A
casual observer would have noticed that all of the stories were
shared between Beckett and Emily. Cavendish nodded and smiled at
the appropriate moments but was happy to play the bystander.

Any final course was declined in favour of
coffee and brandy. Cavendish was no judge of inebriation but he
knew that his two guests were well oiled; a Beckett euphemism he
had picked up, by the time the meal was completed.

They were the only ones remaining in the
restaurant on this mid week evening. Beckett looked at his watch;
he had to jerk his arm away from his face and squint to focus upon
its face. He was astonished to see that the hour was fast
approaching midnight.

“I must be going, gentlemen,” announced
Emily, “may I thank you for a successful evening.”

“It was our pleasure, Emily,” said Beckett.
Emily stood up and hovered unsteadily for a second. Beckett saw her
wobble, rose from the table and took her right arm. “Are you okay,
Emily?”

“Yes I’m fine thanks, Tom,” Emily slightly
slurred her reply. She admitted to herself that she had drunk far
more than she had intended but also felt the inebriation resulting
from her personal triumph at securing a viewing of the sword.

“Would you like me to order you a taxi, Dr
Spelman?” enquired Cavendish.

“Goodness no, I’m only just across the road,
the walk will do me good.”

“Perhaps I should walk you back, Dr Spelman?
You shouldn’t walk alone at this time of night,” offered
Beckett.

“That would be most gallant of you Mr
Beckett, thank you.”

“You alright settling the bill, Marsh?” asked
Beckett without a hint of irony. Cavendish supported his head with
his right hand, his arm supported by the armrest of the chair. He
smiled benevolently at Beckett before standing up. He took a card
from his jacket pocket and offered it to Emily.

“Dr Spelman, here is my card, please ring me
in the morning to confirm what we have spoken of this evening. I
suggest we meet again to discuss how we proceed with matters.”
Emily nodded and took the card from him and placed it in her jacket
pocket without looking at it.

“Thank you, Mr Cavendish.” She offered her
hand and Cavendish shook it lightly as he bowed.

“Time to take the Good Doctor home, Thomas,”
said Cavendish.

Cavendish waited for only a few seconds after
Beckett and Emily had left the restaurant before following them. To
say that Thomas Beckett did not remember the walk back to Emily’s
hotel would have been an inaccuracy. He remembered it as one
remembers any drunken occasion; the cognitive senses were dulled
yet he felt very much alive. He remembered the firmness of Emily’s
arm as they supported each other. He remembered the touch of her
body against his as her heels caught on the pseudo-cobbles on the
Centre outside the Hippodrome Theatre.

He now found the scent of her perfume
enthralling as it wafted on the cool night air, the way she laughed
easily and politely at his inane comments was sublime. He walked
her into the hotel reception area and delighted in the fleeting
touch of her moist lips on his cheek during their formal exchange
of farewells. His walk back to his own hotel was lost in the
reminiscence of the evening and outward journey.

It therefore came as no surprise that Thomas
Beckett failed to notice Cavendish follow them into Emily's hotel.
The German took up a position in the hotel bar where he observed a
seated man who had eyes only for Beckett and Emily as they parted
in the foyer. What Beckett did not observe as he left the hotel was
the man advance towards Emily.

The stranger wore two days worth of stubble
on his face and his hair appeared to have been unwashed for even
longer. Beckett would have described him as being ruggedly
handsome; Cavendish named him trouble. The man was certainly not
the most discrete of men, he was either very brash or had been
drinking, the Untersucher concluded it was a mixture of both.

“Christ Em, you took your bloody time!”
declared the man.

“I’m sorry, Paul, have you had a tough day?”
The man ignored her question.

“How did it go?” he asked insistently.

“Like a dream!” she purred.

“You seemed pretty close to that one.”

“Who, Tom? Yes, a nice guy.”

“You are a slut, Em,” said the man grabbing
her by the shoulders. Emily flinched but hid her annoyance with a
quick repost.

“I’ve not heard you complaining.” Emily
licked her lips enticingly. He spun her brusquely around and pushed
her towards the lift, landing the flat of his palm against her
retreating left buttock. She lurched towards the lift under the
impact of the blow; the slap effectively snapped her out of the
trance-like state that had accompanied her seemingly easy victory
over Herr Cavendish. She remembered that it was this man, Paul
Slingsby, who had made her aware of the sword’s existence, for this
was his victory as well as hers.

Emily smiled seductively over her shoulder,
yet the man remained rooted to the spot as the lift door opened and
Emily entered. She leaned against the lift doors to prevent them
closing and beckoned the man to join her with her finger.

He remained motionless for several seconds
whilst the finger continued its summons and she bent to raise the
hem of her skirt to reveal a stocking top. Finally, he glided
towards the lift to join her. The last thing Beckett would have
heard had he not been on his way back to his hotel, was Dr Emily
Spelman shrieking. Cavendish gave a nod of satisfaction as he
concluded that it was no cry for help, quite the opposite in
fact.

“How goes it in the land of heretics,
Marchel?”

“That’s not funny, Horst.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be. And how is the
weather, raining no doubt!”

“Actually, it’s quite pleasant, though rain
is forecast.”

Cavendish was lying on the bed in his hotel
room, at almost eight o’clock in the morning following the meal the
previous evening with Dr Spelman. He had already ventured outside
for a morning smoke only to be greeted by the incessant drizzle of
the Bristol morning. He wasn’t in the mood for being lectured by
his superior.

“Never mind, you’re not on holiday,” stated
Steinbeck.

“How are things at home, have you seen my
mother?” asked Cavendish casually.

“My God Marchel, you really must hate it
there to be asking after your mother. Missing her are you?”

“No, Horst, just small talk, it’s something
the English are very big on, it’s part of their evasive persona. I
was just wondering how things were at home.”

“Marchel, I cannot believe you are
homesick!”

“Have you seen her?”

“Yes.”

“Was she alone?”

“No, I saw her recently with Frau Huber.”

“I see.”

“She was out with your sister.”

“Did you speak to them?”

“Of course”

“How were they?”

“Your mother is fine, she was asking after
you.”

“And Tina?”

“Marchel, I haven’t got time for chitchat
concerning your family, no matter how sorry I feel for you. Tell
me, how is your Mr Beckett, is he on board?”

“Yea, he is on board, grateful for the
payday, I suspect. I forgot how amenable he is. He would probably
jump of the local suspension bridge if I asked him to,” enthused
Cavendish, the distain for his colleague solely for Steinbeck’s
benefit.

“Well that is good, as I said, use anyone you
have to. And this Doctor Spelman, what do you make of her?”

“She’s a cracker, gorgeous and no doubt
intelligent. I don’t believe her to be the instigator of the
heresy. I shouldn’t have any problem breaking her.”

“I don't want you breaking anyone. Listen
Marchel, I want you to incorporate the Didier ruse into your
assignment.”

“The Didier ruse?”

“Yes, you know what it is don’t you?”

“Of course I do, any novice Untersucher knows
about the Didier ruse. It was a trick used by Francois Didier in
1845 to reveal the identity of the man behind the theft of the
Bonaparte gem.”

“Very good, Marchel. So tell me how it
works.”

“One allows the victim, usually a third
party, access to an object they desire or are charged with
obtaining, enabling them to steal it and so open the way up to
revealing the instigator of the plot. Why the hell do you want to
use such a complex scam when I can simply get the information
directly from Spelman?”

“Marchel, Marchel, you must remember you are
on probation. You’ve already run into Hugo Victor, so you know the
council is monitoring your progress. We are now in a situation
where it is insufficient to merely succeed, we have to succeed with
style, with a flourish, and we need to demonstrate that you are not
a one trick horse.” The ‘we’ came over loud and clear to
Cavendish.

“Pony, not horse,” corrected Cavendish.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I have it from the pony’s mouth.”

“Well, whatever it is, you’ll have to show
some ingenuity.”

“For God sake, Horst, the Didier ruse has
only worked three times; the last time was in 1945 when Franz
Schickler duped some no-brain National Socialists. Usually the
subterfuge ends in failure with someone getting hurt.”

“Since when did you worry about someone
getting hurt?”

“I’m more concerned with failure. You told me
to just get the job done and come home.”

“Yes, but circumstances change. You didn’t do
yourself any favours by wafting your bloody gun at Simeon
Goldstein. The English don’t like firearms. For goodness sake, keep
it locked away. Oh, and talking of lethal weapons, don’t go making
any advances on this Spelman woman. The last thing you need now is
anymore assignations with the fairer sex.” Cavendish made no reply
to Steinbeck’s unequivocal order.

“Do you hear me, Cavendish? Have I made
myself clear?”

“Yes, I hear you, Herr Steinbeck,” he replied
sullenly, “there is a complication, though. It looks like Spelman
has an accomplice.”

“So what! It doesn’t matter how many people
are involved, in fact the more the merrier, it makes us look so
much smarter!”

As Steinbeck’s laughter resonated in the
earpiece, Cavendish held the phone at arm’s length and mouthed
obscenities in its general direction. The laughter subsided and he
returned the mobile to his ear.