Denied to all but Ghosts (44 page)

“Sure thing, Marchel, we’ll take good care of
him.”

“I’ll just have a few words with Zach alone,”
continued Cavendish as he took Zach to one side, out of earshot of
Searsby.

Cavendish leant over Asimov, placing both his
hands on the young man’s shoulders and talked intently into
Asimov’s face from a close, almost intimate distance. Searsby
watched with intense fascination as Asimov occasionally nodded his
head in response. Finally, he witnessed Cavendish tenderly kiss
Asimov on his left cheek before he led him back to Searsby.

“You okay, you look knackered, man?” enquired
Searsby.

“I need to freshen up, Christian, have you
got a room I could use.” Searsby’s smile confirmed Cavendish’s
desire.

“Zach has agreed that you can take the bag,”
informed Cavendish, “you should find some valuables in there
relating to a forth coming sale, take good care of them.” Searsby
simply nodded and the three of them walked across the coarse grass
towards the seminary.

Flash Seminary had begun its chequered life
in the early nineteenth century, constructed during the period when
Gothic Revival architecture was in vogue. It had once been the home
of a wealthy Georgian industrialist, Sir Peregrine Gray, who spent
his vast fortune on the property. Sir Peregrine became a member of
the firm and formed a diverse collection of rare African artefacts
that filled his grand house for many years.

The Grays were an interesting family, the
sort of family that upheld the great British tradition of stoic
endeavour. Sir Peregrine’s brother was killed at the battle of
Waterloo when he fell from his horse and drowned in a puddle on the
sodden battlefield. This act of national immolation set the trend
for future generations.

The Gray family lost many ‘heirs and spares’
in the Crimea, the Zulu and Boer wars. Perhaps their finest hour
came during the Great War when the loss of three sons and various
cousins effectively plunged the Gray line into certain extinction.
Few families had given so much and been so proud to achieve so
little.

By the nineteen thirties, there were few left
to admire the heroic family efforts and the grand mansion was in a
similar state of terminal decline before the firm stepped in and
purchased the property. It was now the UK headquarters for the
organisation and Flash House took on the name of Flash Seminary. A
retreat, a place of study and anything else that required privacy
and contemplation, Flash facilitated all these things. It boasted
access to perhaps the finest library in the world, namely the
private library of the firm. Flash seminary was the only UK
location granted access rights to the firm’s extensive virtual
‘libraria’.

Cavendish remained on the south facing
terrace as Searsby took Asimov inside. He took a cigarette out of
his pocket and flicked open the Zippo lighter as a shaft of
sunlight burst through a gap in the cloud to his left.

“And who are you?” announced the strident
voice of an elderly woman.

“Oh please, not now,” muttered Cavendish to
himself. He heard the clicking heels of stout walking shoes against
the lichen covered flagstones punctuated by the offbeat metallic
ring of a metal-ended walking stick.

Violet Gray, the last survivor of the Gray
family, slowly tottered towards Cavendish. She was known simply as
‘Lady Gray’, although the title was an affectionate inaccuracy. He
refused to make eye contact; instead, he kept his eyes focused on
the far hills of the Peak District National Park, visible through a
break in the surrounding forest.

“Ah, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I, you
surly brute,” said Lady Gray, “have you been here long?” Cavendish
remained silent. “I’d say by your superior look that you haven’t
been here long enough. Don’t you worry, my lad, we’ll soon beat
that smug look off your face. My Eddy will soon sort you out, you
filthy Hun swine!”

Lady Gray walked slowly around Cavendish.
True to the perverse character of the natural world, what the gods
might have taken from Violet Gray with regard to her mental
faculties, they had compensated for with physical vitality, for at
eighty-five she had the appearance and energy of someone twenty
years younger. His peripheral vision caught sight of her brown
tweed combo as she circled audaciously around him.

“Luftwaffe or Kriegsmarine?” she asked as she
prodded him with her stick, “I’d say you were Luftwaffe, you’d be
jolly uncomfortable in a U-boat, tall boy like you. Still, no more
than you’d deserve, you filthy Nazi.” She stopped her circular
inspection and halted beside Cavendish to share his view of the
distant moorland.

“My Eddy is a flyer you know, just qualified
as a navigator in Bomber Command. He’ll soon teach you Jerries not
to mess with dear old Blighty.” She reached into the pocket of her
tweed jacket and took out a bar of chocolate. Circumspectly
glancing around her, she placed the chocolate bar into Cavendish’s
non-smoking hand.

“Don’t tell anyone I gave you this, they’ll
shoot me!” She looked up at Cavendish and he relented by gazing
down into her kindly face. He smiled and squeezed her hand gently
as she smiled back affectionately. After a moment of intimate
engagement, she snatched her hand away from him and took a step
backwards.

“You filthy Hun swine!” she shouted. “Wait
‘till my Eddy hears about you, he’ll have your guts for garters!”
Lady Gray stormed off with her stick waving defiantly in the air.
Cavendish’s eyes followed her before he meticulously stubbed out
the cigarette on the flagstone beneath his feet and toyed with the
cigarette filter, squeezing it between finger and thumb.

During the Second World War, Flash Seminary
had been a prisoner of war camp for axis troops, housing fliers and
naval personnel before dispersal to other camps in the UK and
Canada. Violet Gray’s husband, Edward, flew his third and final
mission in early 1945. It was his Lancaster bomber’s first trip
over Germany. The crew of young men successfully found their target
and with a sense of pride and achievement flew home. Unfortunately,
Eddy, as navigator, managed to misdirect the plane over the North
Sea and the crew of seven stooged over the lonely water looking for
land until their fuel ran out and met a watery grave in the vast
icy puddle.

It was late afternoon on Wednesday, as Blanch
Nichols was having a heart to heart exchange with Emily Spelman in
Wells, when Cavendish picked up the suitcase and walked
lethargically towards the Gothic pile. He desperately needed to
sleep but first he had to deal with other matters. He carried the
case up to the same room he had used a few weeks ago and set about
analysing its contents and the possessions he had recovered from
the dead man at the Plymouth hotel.

He recognised the American Passport and
examined the name. Robert Patterson, he ignored any other
information that the passport may contain as he concluded,
incorrectly, that the passport probably displayed a false ID. Yet
as he sifted through the man’s wallet, the name of Patterson kept
reoccurring.

Cavendish considered the banality of the
contents of the wallet. The premature death of its owner seemed to
vindicate his own take on the futility of existence. The past few
days had enervated him and he had been without sleep or Beckett’s
calming influence for far too long, his deep-seated insecurities
were beginning to return, so reluctantly, he decided that the
examination of the case could wait.

Cavendish took out his phone. He was unsure
of his motive for checking the tracking app but his heart rate
instantly lurched into overdrive as he disbelievingly comprehended
that the sword was no longer in Wells but was somewhere in
Gloucestershire.

Shock induced panic engulfed him; he leapt to
his feet from the bed, scattering the contents of Patterson’s
pockets over the floor. Instinctively, he grappled for his
cigarettes in his coat pocket, his hands shaking fitfully as he
fumbled with the Zippo as he attempted to light the cigarette. He
almost swallowed the cigarette as he drew desperately on the filter
tip. Pacing nervously about the room his tired mind was assailed by
carnal images of Spelman and Slingsby in a remote Gloucestershire
hotel bedroom. He was seized by a desperate rage as he contemplated
the incompetence that must have taken place during his absence. He
rang Beckett.

“Where is Dr Spelman?” Cavendish demanded
savagely.

“Hi Marchel, where the hell are you?”
answered Beckett, disturbed by the hostility evident in Cavendish’s
question. He was standing in the garden at Wells, smoking another
cigarette.

“Where the hell is she?” demanded Cavendish
vehemently.

“She’s here, Marchel, in the house,” Beckett
answered cautiously and waited for a response from an
unrecognisable sounding Untersucher.

“And Slingsby?” challenged Cavendish.

“He’s dead; apparently shot by some
American.” Beckett felt ashamed at how little emotion his bland
statement evoked.

“Is Emily hurt?” asked the German. Beckett
thought he detected a slight mollification in Cavendish’s
demeanour.

“She’s as well as can be expected after
hearing about the death of Slingsby and having been locked up for
several days.”

“Get Dr Spelman over to me at Flash as soon
as you can,” demanded Cavendish harshly.

“Why your concern?” asked Beckett, taking
umbrage with Cavendish’s manner.

“The sword is in Gloucestershire, wherever
the hell that might be!” informed Cavendish.

“Good, that means it should be safe for us to
go out and get something to eat,” replied Beckett tersely.

It was at that point that Cavendish
terminated the call. He let his left arm that held the mobile fall
limply to his side, suddenly embarrassed by his bullying of Thomas
Beckett.

He justified his actions as a result of being
over tired and having been hit from left field. He was not
concerned with the fate of the fake sword. He wasn’t moved by the
fate of Slingsby.

He was alarmed by Beckett’s revelation of
Emily’s incarceration, for any harm to her would spoil the
long-term plans he had suggested to the firm’s council regarding
her future, which he had made via Steinbeck in a bid to curry
additional favour with them. A less exhausted Cavendish would have
called Beckett and established the answer to the riddle of the
wayward sword. Worst of all, he would now have to apologise to
Beckett, again.

He rang his partner once more, this time the
voice that Beckett heard was recognisably Cavendish.

“Hi, Thomas, sorry about that, it’s been a
hard few days. Well done with Dr Spelman, is she okay about
Slingsby?”

Despite Cavendish’s voice now sounding anally
familiar, Beckett still felt a reticence to open up to his
employer. He spoke with a reserve and a deliberateness that
Cavendish could not fail to discern.

“She’s alright, she had a bit of a rough time
with an American chap but physically she’s fine.” Cavendish finally
took in the American reference.

“Good, now please don’t let anyone go
questioning her,” insisted the Untersucher, “I want her calm and
comfortable by the time she gets to Flash.”

“Well, the sergeant has already taken a
statement of sorts,” replied Beckett.

“Oh Christ, keep Emily away from that
Rottweiler,” implored Cavendish, “I owe Josh a great deal but his
new sergeant won’t necessarily see things our way.”

“And what is ‘our way’?” asked Beckett
icily.

“Tell Josh I’ll speak to him later; I’ll tell
him all about the Romanov connection and that I found the guy who
took the items from Miles. I guess he has some sorting out of his
own to do with regards to Slingsby.” Beckett noticed how Cavendish
sidestepped his own question.

“So you are at Flash and you want me and
Emily with you tomorrow, right?” asked Beckett.

“Yes, Thomas, but don’t rush, hopefully the
hard work is now done and can be finished here.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to get to
Flash, wherever that may be?”

“Oh, come on Thomas, make use of the
facilities. Call Bethan Williams, her number is in your phone, tell
her you want a vehicle and she’ll arrange it,” stated the hectoring
Untersucher.

“You make it sound so simple,” said Beckett
cynically.

“It is, Thomas. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Remember to call Bethan. I’ll let her know you are going to
call.”

“Marchel, where have you been?” The line went
dead leaving the sensitive photographer confused and irritated.

“German prick,” muttered Beckett to the
Norfolk sky.

Cavendish returned the phone to his coat
pocket. He suddenly felt hungry and regretted smoking the
cigarette, for a fug of stale smoke hung assiduously in the high
ceilinged room. The odour combined with his hunger made him feel
nauseous. Food could wait, what he needed was sleep and to let the
events of the past few days be integrated and analysed by his
subconscious. He was struggling to see the big picture and the link
between disparate events. Only after a few hours sleep could he
think clearly and confidently plan his next move.

Struggling out of his overloaded woollen
coat, he mused upon the death of Slingsby and sought out his
emotional response. He gave a dismissive shrug when no sentiment
was forthcoming and phoned Bethan, extolling his appreciation for
her help and informing her of Beckett’s future phone call. Josh
could wait until the morning.

Clumsily, he removed the shoulder holster and
tossed it carelessly to join his coat, where it landed with a
muffled yet reassuring thud. He began to unbutton his shirt but it
all became too much effort. Instead, he walked over to the window
overlooking the west lawn where the helicopter remained, and tugged
the heavy velvet curtains closed.

Vaguely checking his watch and registering
that the small hand pointed past the fifth numeral on the dial, he
found himself suddenly standing by his bed, where he let himself
fall, and crawled to find a comfortable position on the welcoming
duvet and surrendered himself to the care of Morpheus.