Denied to all but Ghosts (50 page)

“First of all an announcement,” said
Cavendish, “Dr Spelman has been offered a position with the firm
which she is considering. Obviously she knows little about the
organisation, like most of us when we joined, so it’s only fair we
give her time to think it over.” Cavendish smiled but he was the
only one to do so. He watched Emily look pensively towards Beckett
and wondered how their story was going to work out.

“Let me tell you a tale,” began Cavendish.
“An Untersucher received an assignment in the UK concerning a forth
coming sale. Feel free to translate as we go along for the Good
Doctor, Thomas. Now such sales are rare and attract a great deal of
interest from the top players, the Samlers or Ghosts as you prefer
to call them. On the death of a Ghost, any artefact that has been
acquired from the firm has to be returned. The role of many a
novice Untersucher is to explain to a bereaved spouse that a
certain object has to be returned. It is not the easiest of jobs,
usually a compromise is struck and we create replicas for them to
exhibit along with the appropriate recompense. The secret jewel in
the crown of this sale was to be a selection of letters from the
Romanovs, one in particular from the Tsarina to a certain Russian
monk who was apparently immortalised in song during to
seventies.”

“Boney M, a great song about Rasputin,”
chipped in Beckett. A collective smile went around the room, an
opportunity to relax briefly from Cavendish’s terse delivery.

“A Ghost would pay good money for such rare
items with a proven provenance. Therefore, when it was revealed
that the sale might have been compromised, my brief was to
investigate. Hardly an arduous undertaking for a medius such as
myself. Simeon and Miles Goldstein were responsible for compiling
the auction catalogue due to take place shortly at Yoxter. And it
was to Simeon that an approach was made by Dr Spelman, revealing
that she knew a certain Anglo-Saxon object was in the market
place.” Emily visibly sank into the sofa.

“But the important thing to remember here is
that I knew nothing of the Romanov letters and there were no great
Anglo Saxon treasures on offer, just a piece of old stick that
stuck in your King Harold’s eye, priceless but frankly worthless
outside the organisation where it’s provenance would be
questioned.” Cavendish barely paused for breath.

“So why did Emily believe the sword existed?
Because Slingsby had contacted her. How did Slingsby know? It is
inconceivable that he should have stumbled across the object during
an investigation because the reputed sword of Harold did not exist,
ergo; he too had been fed the information. Now the simplest thing
would have been to approach Slingsby and Dr Spelman and compel them
to reveal their source. However, my boss had other ideas, remember
I was here on probation to prove myself to the firm. Hence Horst
insisted I use the unwieldy ‘Didier ruse’.”

“Who is Didier Ruse?” asked Blanch, keen to
be seen taking an interest. Cavendish could have replied with a
little more tact but in his current mood had little thought for
personal sensitivities.

“Ruse as in trick, not ruse as in name. The
Didier ruse, fabled in firm folklore, is effectively the game we
played with Emily. Unfortunately it seldom works, which is why I
was so suspicious when the ruse played out successfully. The end
game, however, was somewhat different.”

“Whilst you three were in the process of
liberating Emily,” Cavendish chose his verb with care, “I was
called away by Simeon who informed me that the Romanov letters had
been stolen. Now the only thing that makes sense is that the whole
sword plot was a McGuffin, a device to distract me from the real
crime, the stealing of the letters. Suddenly my early suspicions or
paranoia were justified, for if the top items of the auction
disappeared, despite my already keen attention, then my reputation
and career would certainly have been damaged. My only concern is
why the letters were stolen when they were, for the timing was
awful. Even so, had it not been for Simeon’s diligence then they
would have been snatched clean away. My guess is that it relates to
the killing of Slingsby and Robert Patterson in Plymouth, both I
presume by whom I have ascertained as being Patterson’s son, Brad.
Why, I don’t know. Asimov provided the only clue, ‘Frisia’. Josh
and I, having no particular interest in flowers, immediately
thought of the Netherlands and the Heligoland Bight, an indication
of our thought processes if ever you needed one. In our defence we
did decide to brainstorm the matter this morning but during last
night’s meal I hit upon the idea of introducing the clue into
Dobson’s parlour game, which everyone, save for Mr Beckett, seemed
to enjoy.” Beckett sneered mockingly at Cavendish’s lighthearted
jibe.

“It was Emily who identified the word
‘Freesia’ to be referring to a plant genus or species, whatever
classification it might be. Asimov said he had heard Paterson
saying to someone on the phone ‘fuck Frisia’, when what he perhaps
heard was ‘fucking freesias’ or ‘fuck your Freesias’, I’m sure you
get the idea. The Goldsteins told me they were going to a fete this
weekend, so stalling any planned visit to re-interview Miles. The
fete features a flower show and they are the guests of a specialist
freesia grower by the name of Hugo Victor.

“I bloody knew it was him all along!” cried
Beckett.

“Why did he do it?” asked Emily, she was
looking out of the window remembering her days of terror in the
Georgian house.

“Emily,” said Cavendish softly, “I finished
my studies at Heidelberg reading psychology. It left me with a firm
denial of the question ‘why’, why does anybody do anything? I have
ceased to question the ‘why’; I am only interested in the
‘how’.”

Cavendish had not been entirely honest with
Emily, he had spent too many hours questioning the reasons and
factors that had affected his life and which had made him the
person he was. It had made him ill and still troubled him. He found
‘why’ to be a wearisome and distressing word.

“I have no idea why he has gone to the
lengths he has, perhaps we’ll find out tomorrow.”

“I know twenty-five letters of the alphabet
really well,” interjected Beckett. “But I don’t know ‘Y’.” Houghton
smiled and Blanch giggled nervously at the joke.

“Will you arrest him tomorrow?” asked
Emily?

“I don’t perform arrests, Emily. That is what
the chief inspector and the sergeant do for a living; I’m here only
to ensure the integrity of the auction. If there is a civil case to
answer then I suspect Josh will arrest him, a link to the murder of
Patterson will be necessary for that, and so too Slingsby.”

“Where is this flower show?” asked
Beckett.

“It’s at Yoxter Manor, our grandees are
playing host to the local peasants,” answered Cavendish
disdainfully.

“Not those bloody tosspots again,” sighed
Beckett.

“Oh, I think you’ll be fine. I know how you
and Emily love these ‘folky festivals’,” said Cavendish offering
Beckett a polite smile. “How long does it take to get to Yoxter
Manor from here, Josh?” asked Cavendish.

“I’ll have to check, but I reckon three to
four hours.”

“Then it looks like an early start in the
morning, I’ll firm up on details concerning the fete and we’ll
reconvene at four to finalise our plans for tomorrow. In the
meantime, I suggest you all take some time out, and enjoy the
seminary. Hopefully, the end of our journey is in sight. Any
questions?”

“Just one,” voiced Beckett.

“Yes, Thomas?” enquired Cavendish
earnestly.

“Yea, the next time you deliver a monologue
could you use more kitten feet.”

“Kitten feet?” queried the inquisitor.

“Yea,” responded Beckett, “more pawses.”

It was a beautiful evening in Derbyshire and
with the coming of dusk, the plantation surrounding Flash Seminary
appeared to form a solid, comforting wall of seclusion. To Beckett
it felt as though he and Cavendish stood in a vast room beneath a
painted starry sky. The warmth of the day had given way to a chilly
but calm evening; the air was filled with the scent of pine oil and
the effervescence of spring. It was difficult to differentiate
between the cigarette smoke and his warm breath as it condensed in
the chill night air.

“Our last night at Flash then, Marsh,”
commented Beckett reflectively.

“Yes. Do you like it here, Thomas? You
certainly seem to have taken many photos,” answered Cavendish
quietly, as if talking loudly would shatter the fragile calm of the
evening.

“Yeah, the old place does have a certain
something,” replied Beckett pensively. He was in a reflective mood,
for tomorrow could see the end of the enquiry. He did not really
know how a Cavendish case ended as he was unconscious and in
hospital when the last one concluded.

“I’d like to thank you for the help you’ve
given me”, said Cavendish.

“Thanks, though you know I haven’t really
done much,” replied Beckett modestly.

“Are you always so self effacing? You’d make
a lousy Untersucher with all that humility swilling around inside
of you.” Beckett laughed at Cavendish’s estimation.

“You make it sound as if the end is nigh,”
remarked Beckett.

“We are nearly there, Thomas. I’ll warn you
now; I’m not very good at the end of an assignment. Josh usually
tidies up, does all the boring bits, undoing all the damage I have
caused.” Cavendish smiled conceitedly. “What I mean to say is that
there is no wrap-party, no big get together for self
congratulations, we all just disappear into the ether and go our
separate ways.”

Cavendish’s words upset Beckett; he was
saddened by the content and by Cavendish’s forthright delivery.

“Be sure you have put things in order
tonight, Thomas. It’s the last evening that we are all certainly
going to be together. If Emily is accepted by the firm then she
could be whisked off at any time for induction.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“She will be, trust me.”

Silence reigned for several minutes; both men
lost in their own private thoughts. Cavendish took an envelope out
of his inner coat pocket and handed it to Beckett. Without his
reading glasses, the photographer had little chance of reading the
contents but he could make out his name written in a distinctive
Germanic script.

“What is it?” Beckett asked as he went to
open the envelope.

“Don’t open it now,” said Cavendish softly,
“it contains a debit card to go with the credit card you already
have and details of the off-shore account. It’s all very tedious
stuff. Put it somewhere safe. Oh, and be aware that if you spend
any of the money then you’re honour bound to be faithful to the
firm.”

“Do you mean I’m part of the organisation?”
asked Beckett excitedly.

“Not directly, you are not strictly on the
books, you’re being paid in recognition of services rendered.”

Beckett was stunned; he had forgotten of late
his primary motive of securing money for his daughter’s education.
More recently, he had been distracted by the ensuing events and by
a certain person in particular.

“How much?” enquired Beckett
reverentially.

“Thomas, you can be so crass sometimes, I
don’t know,” lied the Untersucher, “a few hundred I expect.”

“Thank you, Marchel,” said Beckett with
genuine warmth, “a couple of hundred quid will be really
useful.”

Cavendish corrected Beckett, “I think you
misunderstand me, I apologise for my vagueness. I meant a few
hundred thousand pounds, or Euros, much the same really.”

Beckett took a step backwards and felt uneasy
on his feet, Cavendish smiled to himself, he could not resist
playing his little games. Despite being a comparatively wealthy man
in his own right and having little sense of value where money was
concerned, he knew that the two hundred thousand Euros would mean a
great deal to his friend.

Beckett's head whirled in such a way that
only a lottery winner could possibly empathise, a myriad of
thoughts and fantasies came into and vacated his head in an
instant.

“What time is it, Marchel? I left my watch in
my room.”

“It is five to eleven,” answered Cavendish,
reading the time off his aviators watch.

“Do you think Emily will be asleep?” asked
Beckett casually.

“How on earth should I know, you’re her best
buddy, aren’t you? There’s only one way I know to find out, but
please don’t go knocking on Blanch’s door by mistake.”

Beckett had barely listened to anything
Cavendish had just said.

“I think I’ll turn in then, goodnight
Marchel.” With that, Beckett hurried off towards the house. As
Beckett was swallowed up by the darkness, Cavendish shouted after
him.

“Goodnight, Thomas. Good luck and sweet
dreams...”

A light buffet-style breakfast was laid out
in the former servant’s hall, now the refectory and general hub for
the occupants of the seminary. At just after six in the morning
Cavendish was the first of the team to be seated. He drank coffee
and nibbled indifferently at a bread roll with his boiled egg.

Houghton and Blanch ventured into the room
together. Houghton gruffly made his solicitations to Cavendish
whilst inspecting the breakfast selection. Blanch merely sat
herself down heavily at the rustic wooden table next to Cavendish
and supported her chin with her hands. Houghton passed Blanch a mug
of coffee and sat down opposite her.

“Any sign of Romeo and Juliet?” asked
Houghton.

“Not yet, Thomas is not known for his
punctuality, anyway I hope he had a busy night,” answered
Cavendish.