Denied to all but Ghosts (23 page)

“Touching up her last masterpiece, no doubt,”
grinned Christian Searsby, whose smile had an unfortunate leering
quality.

“Have you managed to secure the church for
us?” asked Cavendish.

“No probs, the Dean owes me a favour or
three. We have access to the crypt whenever you want it.” He
dangled a set of keys before Cavendish. “So are you going to give
me the heads up on the victim?” asked Searsby.

“Her name is Doctor Emily Spelman. In her
early thirties, single, an Oxford academic who seems desperate to
make an impression in her Oxford circle. Oh, and Mr Beckett tells
me that she is most attractive. Personally speaking, she is not my
type.”

“And what type is she?”

“Ambitious,” denounced Cavendish.

“Surely you are ambitious, Herr
Untersucher?”

“Your man Shakespeare said something like,
‘the very substance of ambition is merely the shadow of a
dream’.”

“You know all that shit about Shakespeare?
You’re a sadder foreign bastard than I thought,” smiled
Searsby.

Cavendish laughed at Searsby’s observation.
Searsby wondered what had become of Cavendish’s ‘bad-ass’ attitude
and arrogance, so evident when at Flash Seminary.

“You here with that Beckett dude?” asked
Searsby.

“I certainly am.”

“You know most people are asking the same
question, what the hell are you doing hanging around with a brick
like him?” Cavendish ignored the question and continued with his
opinion of Emily Spelman.

“She is obviously intelligent yet she is
hampered by a beauty which she has never learnt to exploit
sensibly. I feel she is somewhat naive, her desire to succeed seems
to mean that she is prepared to prostrate herself to achieve her
desires irrespective of consequence. I think she needs protecting
from herself.”

“You like her then,” smiled Searsby.
Cavendish side glanced at Searsby but give no hint of confirmation
or denial.

“We will give her the full works, Christian;
hopefully the sword will be sufficient to beguile her.”

Searsby stroked his bearded chin and lit his
cigarette before asking one last question. “The script you sent me,
it doesn’t mention anything after ‘you hand over the sword’. What
is the end game here?”

“The end game is that you hand the sword over
to me, no one else, clear?” Cavendish took a cigarette from his own
packet and proceeded to light it.

Dr Emily Spelman waited for the two men to
arrive at the green outside St Mary and all Saints church, where
earlier Beckett had listened to the machinations of the Christian
sect, attempting to bring fire and brimstone down on the sinful
town of Chesterfield.

The day had clouded over and there were
auguries of rain in the air. She checked her watch. It was almost
four o’clock, the arranged hour for the meeting. Emily had not been
in Chesterfield long, she and Slingsby had arrived by car, not by
train as she had informed Cavendish. Such modest subterfuges gave a
hint of control, despite the fact that she and Slingsby were very
much in the hands of Cavendish.

They had again argued during the drive north.
He contended that if the sword was accessible, then he should be
present, or at least nearby, so that he could be in a position to
take it. She argued poorly that such a plan was no plan at all, but
a simple mugging. He scorned her weakness and lack of resolve,
which she took as an insult to her intelligence and commitment.

It was now obvious that they came to
Chesterfield with different aspirations, though in reality their
desires had always been poles apart. She wanted fame and kudos, to
reveal to the world a long lost treasure. She thought he had
similar ambitions but his primary motivation seemed to be the
procurement of money, which she had initially assumed was to be
attained by a journalistic scoop. Now she was not so sure. Her life
had changed irrevocably since her first meeting with Paul Slingsby.
How simple it used to be, there were of course complications, but
there was an order and discipline to her routine, which she neither
acknowledged nor appreciated.

They had met when he had asked her out for
dinner to discuss a project that lent itself to her field of
expertise. Such meetings were not uncommon, however, the subject
matter he broached certainly was. She understood now that from the
moment that he set eyes on her, he had begun to demonstrate his
prowess at seduction and he emphatically knew all the right buttons
to press.

He seemed initially oblivious to her
appearance and talked only of her academic record and successes,
his flattery was skilful and erudite. He had claimed that he was
looking for an expert in the Anglo Saxon period and revealed the
story of Harold’s sword, which any person with knowledge of the
period would have considered a grail-like object.

His decision criteria for selecting her as
opposed to one of her estimable colleagues were unclear and
initially irrelevant from her viewpoint but in retrospect, despite
his skilful avoidance, he would have placed her physical attributes
high on the list. She knew little of life outside the world of
academia, she had travelled and met many people but they were all
from her sphere, if the hidebound term ‘living in a bubble’ should
be applied to anyone then she was a contender for that title. Her
life had been channelled according to the rules and expectations of
the Oxbridge elite.

Slingsby’s proposal had seemed a Godsend, a
heaven sent impetus to her stalling career, hence she embraced his
scheme unconditionally and such was his conviction and powers of
persuasion that her life of abstinence had been cast aside that
very first evening. Her unleashed passions were invigorating and
empowering; he made her feel that anything and everything was
possible, totally at odds with her pre-Slingsby state.

And yet this state of euphoria was short
lived as she should have known but chose to ignore. Slowly, she
noted his inconsistencies as he sensed her wavering commitment to
the project, prompted by the reassertion of her conscience. He
countered this by allowing his aggression, for so long held in
abeyance, to seep into his argument. She found this physical side
of his nature intimidating, though only to be expected from his
life in investigative journalism. His ruthlessness disturbed her
and she had threatened to back out of the project several times but
each time their confrontations had concluded with volatile sex.
Against all rational wisdom and her loathing for the man, she
embraced and enjoined his ministrations. She had been utterly
corrupted.

The green was comparatively quiet; a group of
teenagers sat on the grass, glancing nervously at the sky to check
on the likelihood of their having to seek shelter elsewhere.
Finally, she saw the two men approach her from the direction of the
town centre. The long dark coat and sunglasses that Cavendish wore
made his blonde hair appear almost white in the gloom of the
afternoon. Beckett had retrieved his green parka and bore a look of
grim determination, which made her feel even more nervous than she
already was.

Beckett spotted Emily standing on the path
that crossed the green. She wore jeans with knee length brown boots
and a short red woollen coat buttoned against the invading chill of
the late afternoon. He was about to smile at her but thought that
Cavendish might not approve, and so set his jaw to mimic a look of
steely determination that he certainly did not feel.

Cavendish sped up as they closed on Emily and
held out his hand in greeting. Beckett turned his head to watch
Cavendish’s expression and hoped he would not smile. Cavendish did
not let him down; instead, he greeted Emily in a very matter of
fact manner, his face expressionless behind his sunglasses. Emily
remained silent as she shook his hand. She looked at Beckett, who
smiled and she responded likewise in an abrupt fashion as someone
might greet a grieving relative at a funeral.

“You appreciate, I hope, that this is to be a
very swift look at the item,” said Cavendish to Emily. “I have been
instructed by my client to deliver the item to the Goldstein
brothers in Bath as originally intended. You seem to have persuaded
him that maybe the sale would now be a mistake, and he is
considering how best to go about making it available to view whilst
still being in possession of it. He is thinking of involving the
British Museum, perhaps lending it to them.”

“He can’t do that!” exclaimed Emily, “this is
my find!”

“Your ‘find’? I don’t believe we have lost
anything, to find something would be to imply that something was
missing. My client appreciates your academic interest, hence the
opportunity now for you to view it. I think it’s a very generous
opportunity for which you should be grateful.”

Beckett watched Emily quietly fuming but she
wisely said nothing. Cavendish would have countered anything she
said. Her desire to see the blade was intense enough to overcome
her loathing for the scar-faced man and to prevent her from
storming off there and then. She glanced around to the traffic
behind her that curved around the church along the A61 through the
town. When her attention returned to the men she once more looked
composed, almost resolute.

“So where is the sword now?” she asked
Cavendish.

“In the crypt.”

“Where?” she asked incredulously.

“It’s the only public place where we can
obtain any privacy at the moment. I’m sure you did not want to
return to our hotel rooms?” said Cavendish with a playful grin.

“I’d have preferred it to a bloody crypt!”
Beckett laughed at Emily’s reply prompting Cavendish to give him
‘the stare' that reset Beckett’s expression to one of steely
intent. Beckett’s grin returned as he noted Emily’s soft smile that
betrayed itself following the Untersucher’s silent rebuke.

“My client is somewhat theatrical, I
suppose,” said Cavendish returning his attention to Emily. He too
offered a smile, which Emily chose to ignore.

“Let’s get on with it then,” she said, “lead
the way.”

They approached the crypt by way of a side
door in a small-enclosed garden just off the main road. Beckett
self-consciously considered whether their presence would go
unnoticed at this hour of the day. He thought they painted an odd
picture, a tall blonde-haired man in a long overcoat, leading a
shorter slim woman, followed by a greying haired man wearing a
heavy army surplus coat. It all felt very suspicious to him, yet as
Cavendish had frequently told him, people rarely noticed anything
around them unless you wanted them to.

Beckett shook off the embrace of gothic
horror that assailed him as Cavendish led them through an aged
black wooden door down into the forbidding crypt. A paltry offering
of overhead-unshaded light bulbs lit the vault, for which Beckett
was thankful, as he did not have to see what was contained within
the creepy catacomb. He tried to control his over active
imagination, which fed off the atmosphere that pervaded the town on
this festive weekend. He kept his gaze focused on the dank route he
trod, fearing his eyes might project a beam of light upon something
he would rather not see.

“Did you hear about the man who thought
cryptology was the study of tombstones?” offered Beckett.

“This is all rather melodramatic isn’t it?”
commented Emily, provoked by Becketts light hearted aside, with a
nonchalance that hid her creeping fear.

“Well at least we’re away from prying eyes,”
responded Cavendish in an easy manner, “far better than the hotel
bar. I thought you might appreciate our location, make you feel at
home.” Emily was unable to see Cavendish’s face as he led the
group, thus she could not visually assess the seriousness of his
last remark.

Was she being led into a trap? Why had she
let herself be sandwiched between the two men? She reassured
herself that they would be foolish to try anything on. Yet how did
she know that they were not foolish?

Cavendish halted and a hooded figure emerged
with a menacing abruptness from the shadows. Emily jumped back in
fright at the unanticipated appearance and issued a gasp of
foreboding. Beckett, unaware of the hooded figure, walked straight
into the back of the now retreating Emily, who lurched forward
under the impact of his thirteen stone bulk. To his credit, Beckett
reacted in an instant and caught her as she stumbled.

Beckett held Emily tightly by the tops of her
arms but the immediate sensation she experienced was not one of
salvation but one of restraint, especially when he hauled her
upright so that she collided against his chest. Panic seized her
body as she arched her back and twisted her head to look up into
her attacker’s face. Her worst nightmare became manifest as her
over stimulated imagination visualised the imminent assault.

Paralysed by morbid apprehension, her eyes
alighted upon the grinning and embarrassed expression etched into
the shadowy face of Thomas Beckett. Suddenly, the arms clutching
her lost their menace and her panic subsided as quickly as it had
arisen.

“Sorry about that, Dr Spelman. I can be a bit
clumsy at times,” flustered Beckett politely. Emily Spelman found
Thomas Beckett’s smile utterly beguiling. She managed to smile
weakly back at him, embarrassed by her fears induced by their
ridiculous location.

Beckett could not tear his eyes away from
Emily; the hazel hue of her eyes was lost in the dim conditions
leaving rich pools of infinitude leading to the heart of her soul.
For the first time Beckett understood the expression of drowning in
someone’s eyes.

“Thank you, Mr Beckett, but I think you can
safely let me go now,” said Emily reluctantly.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” mumbled Beckett as he
released her from his grasp.