Denied to all but Ghosts (6 page)

“Herr Cavendish, my name is Searsby, if
you’ll come with me I’ll inform Ms Watercombe that you’re here.”
Christian Searsby extended his arm, inviting the German into the
grand house.

The door led into the cloister, a glorified
entrance corridor. The floor was covered with a mosaic of fine
encaustic tiles and a vaulted plaster ceiling arched overhead. At
the end of the cloister, on the left, stood a door leading directly
into the library, but Searsby led Cavendish through a large archway
to enter the main hall.

It was a substantial and impressive space
decorated with light green wallpaper. The stone staircase, guarded
by intricate ironwork, rose along three of the walls leading to the
first floor gallery, which was supported by columns of green
Connemara marble.

The staircase was lined with portraits
depicting members of the Gray dynasty and was subtly illuminated by
the light that filtered through the oak framed clerestory windows,
standing some thirty feet above the hall floor. Searsby took his
leave of Cavendish, backtracking towards the library door.

Cavendish sniffed the air, detecting the
strong odour of wooden floor polish, and gazed curiously at the
repetitive wall carvings that circled the hall. The effigies
depicted a man’s face encircled and entwined in vine leaves. He was
surprised when a soft female voice spoke from behind him.

“They’re quite something aren’t they? I
believe they depict the Green Man or Bacchus. I find them a bit
creepy. Should make you feel quite at home, what with all your
witches and cuckoo clocks in Bavaria.”

“I believe cuckoo clocks are associated with
the Black Forest region,” corrected Cavendish austerely as he
turned to face the voice.

“Whatever." said the woman glibly. "Good
evening, Herr Cavendish. Welcome to Flash Seminary, I don’t believe
we have had the pleasure?” was the greeting of Kate Watercombe, the
administrator at Flash Seminary.

Kate was as tall as Searsby with dyed blonde
hair tied up in a ponytail. Cavendish considered she had pretty
features and he suspected that her heavily made up face had filled
out in recent years, as had the rest of her body. Heavy-rimmed
designer glasses framed her dark blue eyes and she wore a tailored
grey business jacket and skirt for the occasion.

“Please, Mrs Watercombe, call me Marchel. And
it’s ‘Mister’ by the way, not ‘Herr’, I’m not actually German, and
no, you are most correct, I have never visited the seminary
before.”

“My apologies, Marchel, and whilst we are on
the subject of correcting titles, it’s ‘Ms’ not ‘Missus’,” informed
Kate by way of clarification as opposed to criticism.

Cavendish bowed and brought his heels
precisely together as he went to shake her hand. Kate smiled
suggestively at his most un-English act of courtesy, which
blatantly contradicted his statement concerning his
nationality.

“Did you just click your heels together, Mr
Cavendish or was I mistaken?” said Kate mischievously. Cavendish
was taken aback by her informal bluntness yet retained his
much-practiced inscrutable mien.

“Ms Watercombe, the firm expects we
Untersuchers to behave as Prussian military clerics, so it is
somewhat instilled upon us to present ourselves correctly.”

“I think it's time we stopped apologising,
Marchel or we could be here all night. Do you fancy a night cap?”
Kate’s impish smile persisted as she unashamedly scrutinised her
visitor.

“Thank you,” replied Cavendish, who just
managed to suppress the intended bow that was to accompany his
gratitude.

“Then come with me...” Kate grabbed hold of
his left coat lapel and led him towards the library.

The room exhibited all the expected traits of
a library, but in reality the room had been used for many years as
a family sitting room, hence the thick piled floral carpet of reds,
yellows and blues. Comfortable, if somewhat worn, sofas and
armchairs were arranged around the generous stone fireplace. A
vaulted oak beamed ceiling dominated the room, its aging timber
imbuing the room with an organic soothing ambience.

“I have you down as a hardened vodka drinker,
Marchel.”

“I’d prefer a whisky if you have one, Ms
Watercombe.”

“Kate if you please, Marchel, we don’t stand
on ceremony at the seminary-ony,” Kate paused and waved her hand
dismissively as she corrected the mangled noun, “...here.” She
poured Cavendish a generous measure of single malt.

“Water?” she asked.

“No I will take it neat,” replied Cavendish
in a stilted manner as he loitered by the fireplace.

Kate exaggeratedly swayed her hips and he
stared admiringly at her legs and the careful placement of her feet
as she drew near. He hastily raised his gaze as she stood vampishly
before him. He noted her self-satisfied smile, confirming that he
been caught out, as she held out the tumbler of whisky before him.
He resented being made to feel like a naughty schoolboy by this
audacious woman.

“Tell me, Marchel. How on earth did you get
such a scar on your otherwise handsome face? It must have been an
off day for the doctor who treated it, not pretty at all.”

“It is a Heidelberg duelling scar,” corrected
Cavendish, failing to hide the hint of pride that crept into his
voice.

“Really?” said Kate with distaste, “do you
Germans still fight over young ladies with swords?”

“It was an honour match.”

“How positively gothic. Talking to you is
like reading Brecht!”

“Are you always so rude to your guests?”
asked Cavendish irritably, ill at ease with this attractive and
loquacious woman. Kate sat in one of the armchairs and slowly
crossed her legs as she took a sip from her own glass.

“I’m sorry, Marchel, please sit down. We’ve
had few guests lately, certainly no one as exotic as you. I tend to
get a little over excited, being upfront and forthright, it’s what
I did in my former life, sorry if I’ve made you feel
uncomfortable.” Cavendish took the armchair opposite Kate.

“And what did you do?” asked Cavendish,
relieved to be on familiar ground, asking the questions.

“I was an event’s organiser for big spenders,
bloody good at it too. Then I met that prick of a husband, a city
banker, substitute the ‘b’ with a ‘w’, swept me off my feet, a kid
before I knew it, separated as he shagged any slut that would open
her legs, divorced, and got well and truly shagged when he got
custody of my boy.” Kate fought back the tears as she finished her
relentless monologue. “Lost it for a while, was rescued by dear old
Fletcher Dobson who offered me a position here, that was four years
ago.”

“I see,” said Cavendish, who actually did not
‘see’, he comprehended little of her utterance. He was certainly
going to need a few days to acclimatise to the language.

“I need you to find me a man,” Cavendish said
quickly. Kate looked disappointed.

“A man?” she replied, “you won’t find many of
those sorts in these parts, honey.”

Cavendish looked perplexed until he realised
her implication. “No, no, you misunderstand me; I need information
about a certain man.”

“Oh, that’s alright then. You’re in luck; we
have a lady staying with us for a few days who specialises in
people. She’s our genealogy specialist, Blythe Campbell. There’s
nothing she doesn’t know about anyone if she turns her mind to
it.”

“So she could help me regarding the man’s
status?”

“Honey, she could tell you the last time he
took a ... Well I think you get the gist”

A bemused and hung-over Cavendish sat in his
bulky woollen coat yet did not feel uncomfortable, it was only then
that he realised how chilly the room felt. He glanced across to the
large ornate fireplace and noted that it had been laid out ready to
be lit.

Kate read his thoughts accurately. “Not worth
lighting the fire for so few of us.”

“How many people live here?” asked
Cavendish.

“Well, if you count me, four of us full time.
There’s a handyman who keeps the place running, and his wife who
does virtually everything else, housekeeping, cooking. At any one
time we have a team of four or five who stay her for a few months
and keep the place together. They’re generally ex-employees of the
firm who earn their pensions by doing a bit in return, gardening
and such like. Actually, they treat it as a bit of a holiday. Then
of course, there are the brothers who stay here doing research and
whatever else the clerical side of the organisation does, there are
generally a half dozen or so at any one time. Brother Christian
Searsby looks after all the hogwash side of things, you just met
him.”

“I thought he was the butler,” answered
Cavendish.

“God no, we don’t have such luxuries here,
Marchel. We in the UK are the poor relations when it comes to the
firm’s expenses. It’s quiet at the moment, we’re in between terms
due to Easter, so for breakfast there will be Christian, Blythe,
you and me. I’ll show you the breakfast room later. So where do you
fit into the organisation, are you on the side of the lay or the
clerics?”

Cavendish could feel the whisky dulling his
hangover and the tensions of his journey and arrival.

“As an Untersucher I am technically on the
clerical side, but most of our dealings are with the business side
of the firm.” Kate fidgeted in the chair, giving him the impression
that she was not listening to a word he said.

“I’ve a confession to make, Marchel,” said
Kate demurely, running her tongue over her top lip as she emptied
her tumbler. She stood up, walked over to Cavendish, and extended
her hand towards his glass. She nodded towards his tumbler and he
confirmed his desire for a top up by handing it over to her.

“I had Blythe check you out when I knew you’d
be staying. I’m not sure if I was intrigued or frightened by what I
read.”

“Why so?” asked Cavendish, fascinated as
anyone would be to hear what a stranger had to say about him. She
handed him his refilled tumbler and retook her seat.

“Born and raised in Germany, son a British
Army Officer in Military Intelligence, his mother the French
daughter to a wealthy industrialist who happened to be a war hero,
didn’t know they had any of those!” she laughed out loud at her own
joke and Cavendish wondered how much alcohol she had consumed
before he had arrived.

“You’ll be a wealthy young man in your own
right when you get married thanks to your Frenchy grandfather.
You’re quite a catch, hence your engagement to the young Bavarian
totty, sorry, didn’t mean that, a bit bitter and twisted you see.
Where was I, oh yes, you are an Untersucher medius, which to us
Brits translates as a middle ranking inquisitor. You must be good
to be ranked medius but you do have a reputation...”

She paused and looked at him keenly over the
cut glass rim of the crystal tumbler. She raised the glass in front
of her eyes and saw a whisky-coloured kaleidoscope image of
Cavendish sitting opposite her. She twisted the glass and the
images of Cavendish rotated before her making her feel giddy and
slightly nauseous.

“For what?” encouraged Cavendish. Kate
lowered her glass, leant forward, and whispered.

“For being dangerous!”

“What me, dangerous?” asked Cavendish with as
little emotion as he could convey.

“Yes you, little Marchel,” said Kate, now
pointing a wobbling, accusing finger at him, “you, my German
friend, are dangerous!” Cavendish could detect the excitement in
Kate’s voice.

“I’m not German,” said Cavendish
distractingly.

“Hah, and the Pope is not Jewish, I
suppose!”

“No, he is German.” Kate looked confused by
Cavendish’s answer. “So why am I dangerous, isn’t that what
inquisitors are supposed to be?” he asked.

“Oh, people are frightened of them, you’re
the bogeyman,” said Kate, “but no one these days seems to
accumulate the body count that you manage.”

“The body count thing is exaggerated,” said
Cavendish defensively.

“What, seven bodies in five cases, I’d hardly
call that exaggerated. You ought to come with a bloody government
health warning!” Kate giggled again at her wisecrack whilst
Cavendish sat with an enigmatic stillness.

“You don’t have much of a sense of humour,
definitely German,” teased Kate, again wiggling her finger.

“Three of those were in my last case, in
Prague. And one of those was a dog. During my case in England, last
year, no one got hurt, except the man I would like you to research
for me, and he was only knocked unconscious.”

“I read you're only English case involved a
missing bloody dog. You seem to have a thing about dogs!”

“That is correct, I like dogs. I was asked to
find a missing German shepherd. A new member of the firm decided he
had been kidnapped, the dog that is. As it happens, he had fallen
in love with a Jack Russell and eloped to Mildenhall.” Kate spilt
her drink as she convulsed with laughter in response to Cavendish’s
deadpan summary of the investigation.

Cavendish was beginning to have serious
doubts about Kate, for there was nothing remotely amusing about his
story. His head throbbed and he wanted to sleep. What he wanted
most of all was to talk to Tina. Kate’s laughter subsided, as did
the contents of her glass as she finished off another slug of
whisky. Cavendish declined a top up.

“That was how I met Thomas Beckett,” he
quickly added for the purpose of clarification, “the man I wish you
to find out about.”

“Not a problem,” slurred Kate as she stood
and walked unsteadily towards the whisky decanter, “not a frikin’
problem, honey.”

The door at the far end of the library opened
and Christian Searsby walked in and carefully approached Kate who
was filling her glass.

“That’s enough, Kate,” said Searsby sternly,
“you’ve had a long day.”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve bloody well had
enough!” shouted Kate truculently. Searsby ignored her outburst and
took the glass from her hand.