Denied to all but Ghosts (48 page)

“Come on, Thomas, I’m the bad-assed
Untersucher who bites the heads off babies, who feeds on the blood
of virgins, well I do in my fantasies.” Beckett laughed at
Cavendish’s joke. "Who the hell am I to moralise about you? You
strike me as the sort who is quite capable of beating himself up.
My lack of an English upbringing does give me the benefit of not
being as sexually repressed as you natives. Maybe I should be
grateful for my German education. All I ever wanted to do was
invade Poland.”

Beckett reflected that Cavendish was working
very hard to repair their relationship, two attempted jokes in as
many minutes was a supreme effort.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was Emily who
looked after me on Sunday night, why did you let me think it was
you?”

“I never said it was me, Thomas. I never
thought it important to tell you,” lied the Untersucher. “Does it
make any difference to how you feel about her?”

“No I guess not,” replied Beckett. “I feel
guilty, Marsh. I shouldn’t feel the way I do about her.”

“As I said, I am inured to your British
sexual vexations.”

“Marsh?”

“Yes, Thomas?”

“Is there a bar in this place?”

“Of course there is.”

“Then lead on McDuff, I need a stiff whisky,
but don’t let me have more than two.”

“I won’t, we have a special dinner tonight. I
don’t want you, how do you say, ‘rat-arsed’.”

“Very good, Mr Cavendish, I see the time you
have spent with me has not been entirely wasted.”

Cavendish stood up from the bench.

“I haven’t said how smart you look, Thomas, a
very fine suit,” he offered his hand to Beckett and helped him up
off the bench, “I guess the time you have spent with the Good
Doctor has not been entirely wasted either.” Cavendish put his arm
around Beckett’s shoulder and walked with him back to the
Seminary.

“If you were me, Thomas, what would you do
next? I’m not sure what our next move should be. I’ve recovered the
Romanov items, had I lost them then I’d be packing my bags now. As
far as I can tell, there appears to be no more leaks, but I can’t
be sure.”

“Wasn’t it the Goldsteins who revealed the
leak?” proposed Beckett as they entered the house.

“Indeed it was, Thomas.”

“Well, isn’t it usual to revisit the scene of
the crime, we weren’t exactly in Bath very long, were we?”

“It certainly wouldn’t do any harm to speak
to the Goldsteins again. I think I’ll give them a call, no time
like the present.”

Cavendish stood in the hall, dialled Simeon’s
mobile phone number, and stared up at the clerestory window, which
cast a silky light upon the worn wooden flooring.

“What do you want, Untersucher?” said Simeon
gruffly.

“Good day, Simeon. I was wondering if it
would be possible to have another chat with you and Miles?”

“When?” asked an exasperated Simeon.

“As soon as possible, this weekend
perhaps?”

“I’d say that is out of the question. Unlike
you, Herr Untersucher, my brother and I have decided to have the
weekend off; Miles needs to rest after the all the trouble you’ve
caused.”

“And where might you be going?” asked
Cavendish pleasantly, he was glad Simeon was back to his abrasive
self.

“That’s none of your bloody business!” said
Simeon angrily.

“Simeon, everything is my business.”

“Fascist! We’re going to stay at Yoxter
Manor, It is playing host to the Cheddar and District Fete and a
friend of ours is exhibiting his floral displays there.”

“And very good I’m sure it will be. I might
even come down and see it for myself.”

“I don’t believe a word you say,
Untersucher.”

“Neither do I, Simeon. Goodbye.”

“You must keep still,” implored
Cavendish.

He stood behind the photographer in front of
a full-length mirror in Beckett’s bedroom attempting to fasten a
black bowtie around the elusive neck of the fidgeting
Bristolian.

“It’s all very well for you, but these
trousers are too tight,” grizzled Beckett.

“Stop moaning, no one will notice when you’re
wearing your jacket. Nobody is going to be looking that closely
anyway.”

“I don’t see why I can’t wear my new
suit.”

“Well it’s hardly nineteen thirties is it?”
corrected Cavendish. “There, it’s done. Put your jacket on and take
a look.”

Cavendish helped Beckett into the black
dinner jacket and sidestepped to his right allowing Beckett’s
reflection to fill the frame of the mirror. Beckett’s face took on
a look of deep concentration as he flexed his shoulders and
scrutinised his image.

“What do you think, Thomas?”

“I think I look like an extra in a crap
Agatha Christie film,” answered Beckett dismissively.

“Well, I think you look very smart,”
encouraged Cavendish, and as an incentive added, “I’m sure Emily
will agree with me.”

“Do you think so?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, I suppose it does look pretty cool, in
a nobby sort of way,” conceded Beckett grudgingly. He glanced at
Cavendish’s refection in the mirror and wondered how he managed to
look so effortlessly stylish in the white dinner jacket he had
chosen to wear for the themed dinner party at Flash Seminary.

Beckett felt a great deal more relaxed
following his drink with Cavendish earlier that day. Already Flash
Seminary had ensured that the tensions associated with Emily’s
arrival now appeared like a distant escapade. Kate Watercombe,
desperate for a social event, had organised the evening for the
five recent arrivals and for a surprise guest. The other residents,
including Asimov, would dine in the refectory, whereas Kate’s party
would be served in the splendour of the dining room.

Promptly at seven o’clock, Cavendish and
Beckett descended the ornate staircase lined with portraits of the
Gray family. Beckett habitually ran his fingers between his neck
and shirt collar in a futile bid to loosen its restrictive hold.
His antics ceased as he discerned the mellifluous sound of a piano,
the melody clearer as they reached the hallway. As the men entered
the stately drawing room via the anteroom, Beckett's allegory of
finding himself in an Agatha Christie movie manifested itself, for
he was regaled by a most surreal scene.

Kate Watercombe lounged expressively in one
of the plump armchairs sipping a sherry dressed in an evening gown
of a soft flowing lilac fabric, her blonde hair arranged
exquisitely atop her head. She stood up and walked vampishly over
to the men with the perpetual glass still in her hand.

“My, my, how handsome we look,” she purred as
she posed before them. She kissed Beckett on his cheek and then
turned to Cavendish.

“And may I say how much smarter and sweeter
smelling you appear, Herr Cavendish,” said Kate as she offered a
lingering kiss to his scarred cheek, “so much more constrained and
flaccid than you appeared this morning,” she added mischievously
before walking over to the sideboard to recharge her glass.

Beckett gave Cavendish a questioning look to
which the inquisitor replied with a suggestive, puzzled shrug of
the shoulders.

In the corner of the room stood Christian
Searsby, immaculately dressed in the uniform of a butler, looking
suitably mournful and obsequious.

“I would imagine he rather enjoys the role,”
whispered Cavendish after noting the baffled look on Beckett's
face, “I’d guess the subservience thing gives him a big kick,
especially with Kate.”

Yet for Beckett, the most astonishing scene
of all was the sight and fabulous sound of Josh Houghton sat at the
piano playing a rendition of ‘Love is the sweetest thing’.

“Close your mouth, you look like you’re
catching flies,” suggested Cavendish as he escorted the reluctant
Beckett across the red piled carpet to the piano. Josh winked at
Beckett as Searsby the butler approached.

“Would Sir like a drink?” he asked Cavendish
in almost reverential tones.

“Whisky and soda please, Searsby,” answered
Cavendish.

“And for Sir,” the butler asked Beckett.

“Eh, the same thank you.” Searsby bowed
respectfully before collecting the drinks, balancing a tray and two
tumblers.

Beckett felt awkward, as if someone had not
handed him the script, yet his discomfort was forgotten as he
detected the excited sounds of female voices nosily descending the
staircase. Even Houghton played a few bum notes as he craned his
neck as if he had been granted the gift of sight through solid
walls.

Blanch and Emily entered the room together,
both looking a little sheepish but it was clear that Blanch was
looking forward to the anticipated reaction she knew they would
earn, judging by her incessant chatter and her reassurances to
Emily whilst negotiating the staircase.

Blanch appeared the more confident of the two
and wore a vibrant blue twenties style flapper dress with matching
headband. Emily wore a similar style dress but in a softer, pastel
peach which suited her fuller figure.

It was Blanch who spoke, her Brummie accent
more pronounced due to her voluble excitement.

“We know the dresses are a bit out of period,
but we couldn’t resist them!” she declared animatedly. Houghton had
never seen her look happier. Kate Watercombe stepped up to greet
the girls and gave them both an affectionate hug with kisses.

“You both look great, you could have told me,
I could have dressed the same, on second thoughts maybe not, I
don’t quite cut it these days.” Kate beamed ecstatically,
delighting in her role of the hostess.

Houghton abandoned the piano and greeted his
sergeant before moving on to Emily, who was plainly overwhelmed by
her welcome and inadvertently backed off from Houghton before
leaning forward to accept the kiss on her cheek.

“Sorry,” she said uncomfortably, “This feels
all so strange.”

“No worries, Emily, just enjoy the evening,”
replied Houghton generously giving her the full broadside of his
white-enamelled smile. Cavendish stood before Emily and he took the
safer option of taking her hand and leant forward to kiss it
lightly whilst bringing his heels smartly together.

“Very Prussian, I know,” he whispered, “but
very effective.”

Emily smiled up at the tall blonde with
uncertainty before looking for Beckett’s reassuring presence. She
gave him a ‘what do you think?’ smile with a sideways slant of her
head. Beckett smiled feebly back; he was totally out of his comfort
zone in such a grand and formal setting. He really was living the
dream. Emily joined Beckett at the piano.

“You look stunning,” said Beckett.

“And so do you, the DJ really suits you,”
replied Emily before whispering, “stay close please, Tom.”

“Are you alright, Em?” asked Beckett,
protectively seeking her hand.

“Yes, I’m fine,” smiled Emily, “I don’t think
I need Blanch’s favours tonight. I feel safer with you nearby,
that’s all.”

Before Beckett could ask what Emily meant by
‘favours’ a voice boomed from beyond the double doorway of the
drawing room.

“Where is she? Where’s my lovely Katie!”
Everyone turned to see the resplendently dressed man who stood in
the doorway with his arms outstretched as if in mock crucifixion.
Beckett guessed him to be of a similar height to himself and of a
similar build, and placed him in his early fifties. Perhaps his
most distinctive feature was the widow’s peak, which shaped his
short dark hair whilst his face was lit by a huge infectious smile,
flaunting his fine dental work.

“Come here my Katie!” he demanded loudly.
Beckett was unaware of Kate’s swift advance towards the
demonstrative man; his eyes were riveted to the enthrallingly
dapper newcomer. Without warning Kate jumped into his arms, and
Beckett watched captivated as she was spun around on the spot, her
gown billowing as she whirled round and round the drawing room.

“Fletcher! Watch the bloody hair-do for
Christ sake!” she screamed in fright and delight as they continued
to revolve around the room.

The carousel came to a stuttering end as Kate
was dumped heavily on the once luxurious carpet. At length, both
Kate and the visitor staggered drunkenly arm in arm over to the
assembled guests who had gathered around the piano to watch the
unfolding spectacle.

“Ladies and Gentleman,” announced Kate
unsteadily as she adjusted her glasses, “may I introduce Sir
Fletcher Dobson.”

Only Houghton was familiar with Sir Fletcher
and stepped forward first to greet his superior. Blanch appeared
somewhat overawed as she was introduced. Emily handled the
introduction with practised ease, Sir Fletcher appraising her for a
second or two longer that he had intended. Beckett simply went
through the motions as his turn arrived. Finally, Kate led Sir
Fletcher to Cavendish, the infectious smile had not left the Civil
Servant’s face and Cavendish was the only person in the room who
resisted the impulse to reciprocate the smile.

“Marchel Cavendish, at last! You know you are
the first Untersucher that I have ever met in this country, about
bloody time too. Still that might all soon change, eh?” Sir
Fletcher cast a furtive glance towards Emily before offering
Cavendish an exaggerated conspiratorial wink as they shook
hands.

“Perhaps, Sir. One lives in hope,” replied
Cavendish soberly.

“Indeed we do, dear boy, indeed we do!” He
delivered a powerful slap to Cavendish’s back by way of
acknowledgment before searching out his Katie.

For Beckett the suspension of reality
continued at dinner. They entered the dining room through the
ornately carved stone doorway from the main hall. Three arched
windows looked out over the forecourt and above the long table, the
intricately carved wooden panelled ceiling blended seamlessly into
the wooden surround above the marble fireplace. The original,
heavily embossed wallpaper had darkened over the years and bestowed
the room with a deep, luxurious tone that complimented the
intricately patterned deep pile carpet. Candles shimmered in the
gilded mirror that rested above the mantelpiece as the roaring log
fire imparted the room with an orange radiance that flickered in
the overhead chandelier.