Denied to all but Ghosts (20 page)

“He does have a bit of a bad boy reputation,
you know. He’s a smooth public schoolboy who thinks the world owes
him a living. He certainly has a reputation for the ladies.”

“Dr Spelman certainly seems to be under his
spell,” said Cavendish absently.

“Why do nice girls always go for the bad boy
types?” asked Beckett reflectively.

“Because they are exciting, and women always
think they can change them. And who says she is a ‘nice girl’?”
replied Cavendish, “anyway, the answer to our question is not very
far away.”

“How far?” asked Beckett looking across at
Cavendish.

“You’ll find out, I’m not an Untersucher
medius for nothing, you know. Do you intend to play that music for
the duration of our trip?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“What is it?”

“The Sphagnum Bog, this particular album is
‘The Best of...’.”

“It sounds somewhat dated, I’d hate to hear
the ‘worst of’ album,” suggested Cavendish sarcastically.

“That’s ‘cos it was recorded in seventy
seven, ‘seminal punk’, I like to call it. What were you doing in
seventy seven?” asked Beckett innocently. Cavendish glanced across
to Beckett.

“I was not yet born, are you trying to say I
look older than I am?”

“Sorry, Marsh, you know how it is; you think
everyone’s the same age as yourself.”

“Only old people think that, I certainly
consider myself to be a good deal younger than you.”

“Wow, keep your hair on,” said Beckett, “I
didn’t realise you were so sensitive, you can’t go around bragging
about your ‘Heidelberg duelling scar’ and expect to look like a
member of the latest boy-band!”

“I do not brag about my ‘schmeiss’,
Thomas.”

“Sorry, of course you don’t.”

Lynda Anderson lived above her shop in
Stow-on-the-Wold. The shop blended in well with its Cotswolds
surroundings selling affordable antiques to the passing tourist or
dealer. Whether the shop provided a comfortable living for its
owner was speculative at best, yet no one in the town asked such
questions, such things were not done in the Cotswolds. The journey
to Stow-on the-Wold took almost two hours, so it was past seven
o’clock when Beckett found a vacant parking space in the market
square by St Edwards Hall.

The shop was a brief walk from the car and
displayed a ‘We are closed’ sign hanging from the interior of the
ageing wooden door. Cavendish pushed the door chime and waited with
apparent ease for the minute or so that elapsed with no response
from the interior.

Beckett fidgeted and alternated his glance up
and down the street, even though the place seemed to be in
hibernation. He wondered why everyone in the firm kept people
waiting for so long outside the front door. Maybe it was an
etiquette thing. He was surprised by the person who finally opened
the door and ushered them swiftly inside.

Instead of the anticipated tweed skirt and
octogenarian appearance, there stood a woman in her late thirties
wearing white laboratory trousers and a matching long white coat.
Her long wavy hair was pinned up at the back of her head and she
exhibited the air of a scientist as opposed to a dealer in
antiques. A pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her
slender nose and she looked over the top of them suspiciously to
appraise her two visitors. Lynda Anderson led them through the
display of antiques, or ‘tat’ as Beckett liked to call it, to a
door at the rear of the shop.

A flight of gloomily lit steps led down to a
cellar. Lynda led, Cavendish followed with a casual grace, whilst
Beckett took up his customary position at the rear of the pack, his
footfall echoing without the surety of the others.

“You really must give me more time, Marchel.
I do have a reputation to uphold.” Lynda’s rebuke was delivered in
a soft measured tone that offered no threat.

“I know, but there is never enough time in
this game. How is it looking?”

“Well, the smith did a decent enough job,
perhaps too good really. It looked like the thing had only just
been made, which of course it had.” So far, Beckett had barely
noted the conversation around him, for he was distracted by the
revelations of the room in which he found himself. It was a space
best described as a laboratory.

Lynda led them to a stainless steel table at
the end of the room; upon it laid the object that held Cavendish’s
rapt attention.

“Oh Lynda, it is truly magnificent,” said
Cavendish reverentially.

“Thank you, Marchel,” Lynda almost purred her
thanks.

“It truly is a thing of beauty,” said
Cavendish admiringly.

“The ageing process is just complete, just a
few, um, tweaks and it’s all yours,” confirmed Lynda. She clearly
responded well to flattery, yet the compliment was no more than the
craftsmanship demanded.

Atop the table lay a late-period Anglo Saxon
sword. Beckett’s gaze was drawn to the blade and even to his
unqualified eye; he could see at once that it was a sword of
quality fit for a King.

“Not bad for a sword forged a few days ago,
don’t you think, Thomas?” asked Cavendish.

“That sure is something. May I pick it up?”
Beckett asked.

Lynda nodded but added, “don’t touch the
blade, Mr Beckett, it is not yet inert and I’d hate for your
fingers to drop off.” She smiled, as might a doting mother, as
Beckett wrapped his hand around the hilt and lifted the
well-balanced blade, holding it at arm’s length he peered
approvingly with his right eye along the extent of the blade.

“I feel like a Roman gladiator!” declared an
exuberant Beckett.

“You are a thousand years or so too early, I
fear my dear Didymus,” said Cavendish.

“Didymus?” asked Beckett, not for the first
time frowning at a Cavendish statement.

“Didymus is Greek, an epithet for ‘Doubting
Thomas’, you know, Thomas the Apostle. I believe it means ‘twin’,”
informed Lynda.

“Thank you for your efforts, Lynda, I owe you
one,” said Cavendish smiling.

“You owe me more than one, Herr Cavendish.”
Lynda blushed and she recovered by saying, “I hear you’re to be
married soon, is it true?” Cavendish took no pleasure in the
reminder of his recent engagement and his voice betrayed his true
feelings.

“It is true, Lynda, no date has been set as
yet.” Lynda Anderson laid a hand on Cavendish’s sleeve.

“Then I hope she realises what a lucky girl
she is.”

“Thank you, Lynda,” replied Cavendish
gently.

“Ah hum?” interrupted Beckett, “I’m still
here and my arm is beginning to ache.”

“Och, I’m so sorry!” cried Lynda, betraying
her Highland origins, “please pass the blade here.” Beckett
gratefully relinquished the sword to Lynda, who laid it
circumspectly upon the workbench.

“What would you like me to do with it,
Marchel?” asked Lynda.

“I’d like you to send it the Flash Seminary,
mark it for the attention of Brother Christian Searsby.”

“Okay, anything else?”

“No, I think you have done more than enough,
Lynda,” and with that Cavendish embraced her and offered a soft
kiss to her welcoming lips.

“Um, maybe I should work for you more often,
Marchel,” smiled Lynda as they parted.

“Lynda, you know that I can never repay you
for all you have done for me.” Lynda Anderson blushed again but
smiled gratefully at Cavendish’s generous words.

“Do you have time for a cup of tea before you
leave?” she asked.

“What do you think, Thomas?” asked
Cavendish.

“Fine by me, Marsh, I’ve not had a drink
since leaving home, I’m spitting feathers.” Cavendish threw Beckett
an uncomprehending look.

“Och, come on the pair of you, you must think
me a dreadful hostess.” Lynda led them out of the cellar and up to
the flat above her shop.

The rooms confirmed Beckett’s suspicions that
Lynda was no dowdy spinster. Upstairs was in complete contrast to
the cosy antique world below. The flat was decorated in a
contemporary style, the pastel white walls; the effect-lighting and
minimalist feel offered a fashionable take on interior design.

Lynda left the men for a few minutes before
returning with a tray carrying a teapot and accessories, the old
pot seemed out of place with the rest of the room’s decor. She
noted Beckett curiously studying the ceramic pot.

“I’m all for modern trends, Mr Beckett, but
one has to be practical as well. This pot makes a grand cup of
tea!”

She poured tea into their respective cups and
waited for the men to add milk and sugar as to their taste.

“So how long have you and Marchel known each
other, Lynda?” asked Beckett when he thought the moment was
right.

“Marchel and I first met about eight or nine
years ago,” said Lynda, “I’d just been recruited by the firm and,
as they often did and perhaps still do, they shipped me off to
Germany for what I’d guess you’d call an induction course. Because
Marchel spoke English they used him as my mentor, he was just a
young Zusteller then, very young but very keen,” she smiled fondly
at Cavendish as she told her tale.

“Lynda is a little older than me,” informed
Cavendish returning Lynda’s smile.

“We were both younger, Marchel, you were
twenty-three and I was close to thirty,” clarified Lynda.

“So you two were an item then?” asked
Beckett, even he enjoyed a good romance.

“Lynda was my first love, Thomas, the first
girl I lost my heart to,” said Cavendish. Lynda blushed again, it
was only then that Beckett realised she had changed from her whites
into a pair of figure hugging jeans and a loose fitting white polo
shirt, similar in style to the one that he was wearing. “So why did
you not stay together?” asked Beckett.

“Oh, I had to come home eventually,” said
Lynda, “and my then fiancé was waiting for me. But that never
worked out.”

“Do you live alone here, Lynda, I mean, do
you have a partner, I mean a girl like you...” Beckett dug himself
into a hole with nowhere to go.

“You must forgive Thomas, Lynda. He is very
European in his bluntness sometimes,” interrupted Cavendish.

“That’s alright, Tom,” answered Lynda, “I do
have a partner; he works away a lot which is handy for it means I
can do commissions like this without too many questions being
asked. It’s difficult to have ‘mixed marriages’.” Beckett imagined
the problems of holding onto a relationship with someone who was
outside the firm.

“I heard about Prague, Marchel. I’m sorry,
what on earth happened?” asked Lynda. A shadow fell across
Cavendish’s gaunt face. He suddenly appeared tired and drawn.

“If you’ll excuse us, Thomas, I’d just like
to have a few minutes with Lynda alone,” said Cavendish quietly. At
which point both Cavendish and Lynda stood up and walked quietly
towards what Beckett assumed to be her bedroom. The bedroom door
closed quietly and Beckett was left alone in the minimalist room
for a good ten minutes.

It was dark when Cavendish led the way back
to the Galaxy.

“A nice lady, Marsh,” observed Beckett, he
could sense that Cavendish was about to go off into his own private
world where silence would reign for an interminable length of
time.

“She most certainly is, Thomas.” Beckett was
relieved to have caught Cavendish in time. “Now we must return to
Bristol, on the way I shall contact Dr Spelman. You had better stay
at the hotel tonight; I can’t have you returning home yet, your
family will be most disappointed if you do.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Never mind about that, you set your thoughts
on going to Derbyshire.”

“Derbyshire?”

“Yes, it’s a county in the east midlands,
just south of Yorkshire.”

“I know where Derbyshire is!” Beckett told a
half-truth, he thought he knew where Derbyshire was on the map but
had never been there. “Where abouts in Derbyshire?”

“Chesterfield, do you know it?” enquired
Cavendish.

“Only as one of those perpetual third or
fourth division football towns that you used to hear of on Saturday
afternoons after watching the wrestling on the ‘World of
Sport’.”

“You’ve lost me, Thomas.”

“You know, the football results were always
after the wrestling. Saturday teatime was always cockles in our
house. Cockles in vinegar with a piece of bread and butter.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you are
talking about, Thomas, and judging by your culinary taste it is
probably just as well.”

“Ah, those were the days. What were you
saying?” They had now reached the car and were quickly on their way
back to Bristol.

“I said that we are going to Chesterfield,”
continued Cavendish.

“That’s right, you did. Why?” asked
Beckett.

“Because it is where we must go,” said
Cavendish factually. “We will arrange to meet Dr Spelman there and
let her see the sword.”

“And then?” questioned Beckett.

“We have not yet reached the ‘and then’
stage, Thomas. A lot of things could happen before ‘and then’.”

“May I ask the significance of Chesterfield
without you shooting me down in flames like some moronic
imbecile?”

“I do not shoot you down like an imbecile,”
reacted Cavendish.

“No, you don’t, I said you shoot me down like
a moronic imbecile.”

“You are goading me, Thomas.”

“Indeed I am, Herr Cavendish.”

“Then I shall give you two good reasons for
visiting Chesterfield. They have a very atmospheric Spring Fayre,
which I'm sure you will enjoy, and Flash Seminary is nearby.”

The drive back to Bristol was made sedately
with Becket at the helm. He was not a great fan of driving in the
dark. Cavendish rang Emily Spelman and Beckett struggled to pick up
the nuance of the call as Cavendish spoke in his typically polite
and fulsome manner. How Emily reacted he could not tell, he
strained to hear her voice but could discern nothing above the
sounds generated by the moving vehicle.