Denied to all but Ghosts (49 page)

Kate joyfully hosted the meal and recounted
many stories relating to the house and its previous occupants, each
story becoming ever more lurid as her wine consumption increased.
Cavendish saw Kate in a new light. He watched her performing before
an audience, playing the hostess and performing the role with
consummate style and ease.

Kate smiled inwardly as she furtively
scrutinized her guests and watched as the seminary exerted its
singular magic upon them. Each visibly loosened up, none more so
than the pretty academic, who initially viewed each of the dinner
guests with barely concealed distrust, spiritually clinging to the
photographer.

Now Dr Spelman manifestly thawed before her
eyes, radiating a newfound confidence that was scarcely conceivable
only an hour before. Perhaps the enigmatic Cavendish appeared the
least seduced by the harmonious house, yet who knew what was going
on in the head of the anomalous German.

After the meal, they retired to the drawing
room where the conversation returned to the present, initiated by
Sir Fletcher.

“I have an observation, Dr Spelman, you don’t
seem very phased by your surroundings and you haven’t asked a
single question regarding your future?” Emily sat down next to
Beckett on the long settee.

“At the moment, I don’t rightly care about my
future,” she looked up at Beckett before continuing, “my future is
now, I’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.” Sir Fletcher looked
long and intensely at Emily before continuing.

“Very profound I’m sure but not very
practical. Kate and I, along with Marchel if he is in agreement,
would like a word with you in the morning. We have a proposition
concerning your future that you may wish to consider.”

Emily looked suspiciously around the room,
but all she noted were nods and smiles of reassurance. Blanch gave
her an encouraging thumbs up whilst Houghton regarded his sergeant
from the other side of the room. He thought how quickly the new
blood of the organisation accepted the weirdness of their new world
with total ease. Was he the same all those years ago? Almost
certainly, and the painful days were tolerated when evenings such
as this were put on for their benefit. Would Emily Spelman be
similarly bewitched?

Kate noticed Cavendish reach inside his
pocket and extract his packet of cigarettes.

“Herr Cavendish,” declared Kate before Sir
Fletcher could steer the conversation elsewhere, “I’m fed up of
your smoking in this house, you’re only a guest and should act
accordingly.”

“Actually I’d rather like a cigar later,”
said Sir Fletcher, offering Kate a broad smile. Kate responded
quickly.

“You have earned the right, Fletcher. Herr
Cavendish has not.”

“Here, here!” added Houghton, slapping the
arm rests of his chair as his usual reserve was subdued by the
contents of the extensive wine cellars at Flash Seminary.

“Thank you for your support, Josh,” said Kate
graciously, “and as a forfeit for being so boorish, Herr Cavendish,
you may give us some entertainment. A song I think.”

All eyes focused on Cavendish to see how he
would respond to Kate’s provocation. Cavendish leant back in his
seat.

“I will sing if you let me smoke,” challenged
Cavendish, offering a conciliatory grin.

“Are you typical of your country?” asked
Kate. “Do you always expect to get your own way, oh don’t answer
that. You sing us a song and I’ll consider it.”

Beckett watched the competitive exchange
between Cavendish and Kate with amusement. He wondered what
Cavendish would do to avoid performing his forfeit. He could not
imagine for one moment that Cavendish would actually sing.

Cavendish slowly stood up, and walked with a
calculated casual gait towards the piano, where he sat down on the
stool.

“I must ask for your patience, it’s been a
while since I played.” Cavendish exaggeratedly adjusted the
position of the stool whilst he spoke. “This is a German folksong
about the river Rhine. It was a tune written in 1837 by Friedrich
Silcher from a poem by Heinrich Heine. And before you ask Thomas,
it is a song I learnt at school and it’s in German. It’s called
‘Die Lorelei” and tells the tale of the famous Siren, who lured
boatmen to their untimely deaths.” He smiled and winked at Kate and
was pleased to note her involuntary blush.

The occupants of the room exchanged curious
glances and Blanch giggled nervously as Cavendish performed a few
theatrical gestures with his fingers before starting his
performance. He sang, a lilting beautiful ballad, sung in a soft
melodic voice that not a single person in the room had anticipated.
There was a stunned open-mouthed silence as Cavendish bowed and
retreated from the piano.

“That was beautiful, Marchel,” declared Kate
in a slightly slurred voice that clearly emoted her poignant mood,
“I don’t know what the bloody hell it was all about, but it was
really lovely, thank you. You may smoke if you wish.” So Marchel
Cavendish was clearly not immune to the potency of Flash Seminary
after all.

Cavendish strode across to the sideboard to
pick up an ashtray and on the way granted Beckett a celebratory
grin. Beckett shook his head in disbelief; he should have
remembered that Cavendish sang at university in Heidelberg.

“I suggest we play a game,” announced Sir
Fletcher as Cavendish leant against the piano and offered a light
to his musical reward. “It is called word association. I say a word
and you all have to come up with an associated word. We’ll go
clockwise around the room, starting with you Blanch. The word
is...head.”

“Oh I don’t know!” shouted Blanch hesitantly,
“hair!”

“Too slow!” boomed Sir Fletcher, “next!”

It was Kate’s turn. “Hat!” she shouted
excitedly. Next was Beckett, who raised his eyebrows despairingly
towards the ceiling.

“Coat,” said the photographer with
indifference. Parlour games were not his thing and very uncommon in
south Bristol. Emily slapped his hand.

“What was that for?” he cried grouchily.

“For being so boorish!” she chided.

“Christ, I’ve spent a lifetime on this planet
without hearing anyone use the word ‘boorish’, and I hear it twice
in one bloody night!” Emily playfully slapped him again before
adding her own contribution.

“Vest!” she declared earnestly.

All eyes turned to the slouched Houghton.

“Knickers,” broadcast Houghton in his deepest
voice. The room erupted with easy, alcohol-induced laugher, no one
more fervently than Blanch, who apparently found it hilarious to
hear her chief mention underwear.

“That was very good,” said Sir Fletcher
gravely, “but painfully slow. On the next round, I want it
snappier. The next word is...”

The game continued and grew more riotous as
everyone waited with keen anticipation for the round’s conclusion
with the inebriated Houghton who managed to finish with an earthy
contribution, delivered by his fine bass voice. He was ably aided
and abetted by Emily who seemingly always managed to set him up
with an appropriate connecting word, ‘bats’ being a suitable link
word for a delicate part of the male anatomy.

With the completion of yet another round and
with the laughter echoing in his ears, Houghton held up a drowsy
hand.

“You’ll have to excuse me for the next round;
I need to pay a visit.” He laboured out of his seat, dizzy with the
sudden movement, the result of too much booze and sitting around,
he concluded wearily. He walked slowly towards the door in an
attempt to hide his inebriation. Sir Fletcher took advantage of the
break and extricated a cigar from his dinner jacket pocket.
Cavendish walked across to Sir Fletcher and offered him a light
whilst he spoke discretely into the ear of the senior civil
servant, who nodded silently, acquiescing to the Untersucher’s
request.

“Reverse order this time,” ordered Sir
Fletcher quickly, “your word Emily is...” By now Emily was fully
into the game, the alcohol had liberated her mind and she sat
forward with mock eagerness to hear the word. “Frisia!” shouted Sir
Fletcher with gusto.

Houghton stopped in his tracks just outside
the drawing room as he heard his superior utter the word. Emily
waved her hands in the air as she pondered.

“Oh...oh... Lupins!” A rather drunk and
apathetic Beckett lamely offered ‘pansies’, and the round
floundered in a low-key fashion with Blanch’s forgotten answer.

By then Cavendish was no longer listening, he
caught Houghton gazing at him from around the open doors at the end
of the drawing room and lip-read Houghton’s words.

“You sly old bastard!”

Cavendish waved his hand foppishly at
Houghton; it would take more than Houghton’s insinuation to wipe
the smile from his face. He abruptly marched out of the dining room
to join Houghton with whom he conferred before summoning Blanch,
who rose unsteadily to her feet and tottered shakily out of the
room.

The three of them walked to the library,
Cavendish already had the phone to his ear.

“Simeon, it’s Marchel.”

“It’s late, Marchel, don’t you sausage-eaters
ever sleep?” said a typically scratchy Simeon Goldstein at home in
Bath.

“Sorry, Simeon, it is important. When I
suggested re-interviewing Miles, you informed me that it was not
possible because you were going to a country fete, who is the
friend who is exhibiting?”

“Why, have you suddenly taken an interest in
gardening?”

“I was just wondering who would possibly want
to be friends with you?” teased Cavendish, savouring the
anticipation of the moment.

“What an impertinent boy you are. If you must
know it’s Hugo Victor, he is exhibiting his beautiful
displays.”

“Don’t tell me, he grows Freesias.”

“If you already know, why are you
asking?”

“Thank you, goodnight, Simeon. Pass on my
regards to Miles.”

Standing in the Library, Thomas Beckett
peered out through the arched gothic windows at the distant group
of four people standing amid the walled flowerbeds, Cavendish,
Kate, Sir Fletcher and Emily.

Cavendish towered over the two women, a
familiar figure in his long woollen coat. How he managed to feel
comfortable in such a coat Beckett could not understand, for it was
a lovely mild morning in late April, even though it was only ten
o’clock in the morning. The understated formal gardens at Flash
were just starting to show promise with the arrival of the spring
sunshine.

Beckett had a feeling that events were
drawing to a conclusion. He had read crime fiction, his wife was an
ardent fan of the genre, and he often perused the odd copy to while
away a vacant hour and felt that there were not many chapters left
in this particular novel.

He had not spoken with Cavendish since the
previous evening but knew that Cavendish had been talking with
Houghton and Blanch in this very room late into the night whilst he
had fallen asleep on the settee in the drawing room.

Something that Emily had said the previous
evening had obviously triggered the discussion and Beckett felt
anxious to find out what it was. He had an inkling of what was now
being discussed out on the lawn, he guessed it was to do with
Emily’s future and the vibe of the previous evening certainly
vindicated the assumption. He felt a guilty pleasure of voyeuristic
curiosity as the informal meeting progressed and had no intention
of abandoning his surreptitious surveillance.

He did not hear Josh Houghton enter the room
but became aware of his imposing presence as he stood beside
him.

“I’m sure you are intrigued to know what they
are talking about,” asked Houghton as he toyed with his goatee.

“No, not in particular,” replied Beckett.

“You’re a lousy liar; your face takes on a
sulky look when you lie.”

“So what are they talking about?”

“They are offering her a position in the
firm, perhaps something to do with her academic skills; she is an
Anglo-Saxon specialist, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, something like that,” answered
Beckett. He realised how little he knew of her Oxford life, it was
as if they were living in a bubble, life went on around them but
they were not part of it. He wondered if the others felt the
same.

When Beckett failed to pursue the topic, it
fell to Houghton to expand his point further.

“You know, I get the feeling that they might
be suggesting she trains to become an inquisitor.” This time he
received Beckett’s full attention.

“What Emily? I thought they were all
men?”

“They are. It would be a clever ploy on
Marchel’s part. There are no British inquisitors, so that would be
a first. And that she happens to be a woman is a double
whammy.”

“Would they accept her?” asked Beckett, his
concern escalating.

“Well in any large group there are the
conservative traditionalists and the rampant reformers. I believe
Marchel is trying to appeal to the latter. I like to think of it as
his way of hitting back at his detractors.” Beckett did not want to
contemplate the serious implications of Houghton’s startling
announcement.

“What was the powwow about last night?” asked
Beckett, moving the topic away from Emily.

“I think we’ll leave that for Marchel to
announce, he’s calling a meeting for eleven o’clock,” replied
Houghton earnestly.

By eleven o'clock they sat in the drawing
room; everyone adopting the same seats as the previous evening
except for the absent Kate Watercombe and Sir Fletcher Dobson,
whose armchair was now occupied by Cavendish. However, the
atmosphere could not have been more different, the fancy dress was
missing, so too the mood of bonhomie, the ambience was now far more
business-like.