Denied to all but Ghosts (7 page)

“I would like another soddin’ drink,” said
Kate slowly and deliberately, speaking exclusively to Searsby. It
seemed to Cavendish as if he had been temporarily forgotten.

“No, Kate, you’ve had enough, come on.”
Searsby gently took Kate’s hand and led her towards the door he had
just entered. “If you’ll excuse us, Herr Cavendish, I’ll be back in
ten minutes or so.”

Cavendish was standing in front of the
sizeable gothic arched window, looking out over the lawn he had
landed on not long ago, when Searsby returned and stood beside
him.

“Sorry about that, Herr Cavendish. She’s had
a tough day, her kid was with her over the weekend and left
today.”

“Could the child not live here with her?”
asked a disinterested Cavendish.

“Oh, I dare say that Sir Fletcher could pull
a few strings, he does have a soft spot for her, but her life is
here and she wants to get her life in order before she goes cap in
hand to Dobson. She’s actually very good at her job; you didn’t see
her in her best light today.”

“Evidently not,” said Cavendish dismissively.
Searsby frowned, the German appeared arrogant and rude but he
decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for he was keen not to
upset an Untersucher.

“Come on,” said Searsby, “I’ll show you to
your room and then give you the full tour.”

It came as a disturbing revelation to
Cavendish how well he had slept during his first night at Flash. He
had been prepared for a restless night following the previous
wearisome day, especially after he had failed to speak to Tina,
despite leaving three voice mail messages requesting her to contact
him.

The fact that sleep claimed him so quickly
and deeply worried him far more than had he not slept at all. He
did not like surprises and that morning he failed to appreciate the
seminary’s benevolent and seductive character.

He ventured resentfully down the main
staircase into the hall at almost eight o’clock that Wednesday
morning. Continuing along the corridor that ran past the formal
dining room, he approached the kitchen, where the smell of grilled
bacon filled the air with its unique homely aroma. To his left he
glimpsed the inner courtyard and ahead of him stood the door to the
old servants’ hall, which now served as the refectory and general
meeting area for all the residents.

Cavendish strode arrogantly into the room and
was disappointed to find it already occupied. A long pine table
dominated the centre of the room and storage units lined the walls,
except on the north side where the unlit central hearth stood.

The heels of Cavendish’s shoes clicked
smartly on the flagstone floor as he walked towards an empty chair.
At the head of the table, toying with a bowl of fruit salad, sat
Kate Watercombe. To her right, on the long side of the table
reposed Christian Searsby, seemingly engrossed by his fried
breakfast. Opposite Searsby sat a woman who Cavendish failed to
recognise yet who he assumed to be Blythe Campbell, the
genealogist.

He could not discern Blythe’s height, yet
like most of the people he met in the organisation, her appearance
belied the image he had conjured up in his mind. He had pictured a
mousy librarian-type, yet Blythe was anything but that.

In her late thirties, she possessed the
blackest hair that he had ever seen; to call it jet-black seemed
inadequate. Her hair was long and worn almost down to her waist.
Her pale skin vividly contrasted the deep red lipstick and her
blouse mirrored her dyed hair. Cavendish thought she looked like a
moderated Goth and that her appearance fitted in well with the
character of the house.

“Good morning, Marchel. Help yourself to some
breakfast. I half expected to come down and see your towel draped
over the back of one of the chairs,” said Kate playfully, waving a
hand at the sideboard behind Blythe, bedecked with a selection of
food.

Cavendish sullenly ignored Kate’s greeting,
although she would have been irritated to know that it was not
because of her joke concerning the towel, for that passed him by
completely. He took a couple of bread rolls with cold meats along
with a mug a coffee and finally nodded his greetings to the room as
he sat down beside Blythe.

“So you are the famous Untersucher who is
staying with us, are you?” asked Blythe, her voice much softer that
her appearance would have suggested. Cavendish glanced with
ill-concealed sarcasm over both his shoulders to determine if
anyone else had entered the room.

“I suppose I must be,” replied Cavendish
bluntly. He chided himself and vowed to endeavour to suppress his
bellicose disposition when next he spoke. Blythe waited for
embellishment but Cavendish proved to be a disappointment.

“And why are you here?” continued Blythe,
“has there been a murder most foul?”

“I am here concerning events relating to the
forthcoming auction,” answered Cavendish civilly, aware it was an
obvious question, which Kate had failed to ask him the previous
evening. Kate watched him keenly; her eyes showing an intelligence
and alertness that was absent during their first meeting.

“And where is that to be held? I know it is
not here,” enquired Blythe.

“No,” said Cavendish, “it is to be held at
Yoxter Manor in Somerset by the Montgomery family. Simeon and Miles
Goldstein have been preparing the catalogue.” The firm had two
British locations for its auctions. Of the two, Flash Seminary was
by far the grander venue, being the firm’s UK headquarters.

“I don’t see why it couldn’t be held here,”
said Kate tetchily.

“You know the last one was held here, Kate,”
offered Searsby, “and you know very well the venue has to be
alternated.”

“All the same, I do enjoy it when the auction
is here, it’s so exciting,” enthused Kate, displaying no ill
effects from the previous evening’s drinking.

“I understand that it is a post mortem sale
of the affects of one of your eldest members,” informed
Cavendish.

He mused gloomily that somewhere in Europe
the artefacts of Otto Klum had been similarly recycled. The image
of a blue bra and its naked occupier lying in his bed agreeably
preoccupied his thoughts.

“That’s right,” added Searsby, “word has it
there are a few special items up for grabs.” Searsby laid
particular emphasis on the ‘special’, which drew Cavendish's
attention.

The Untersucher had no idea that anything of
special interest was in the sale. His brief had made no such
mention.

“All the more reason the auction should be
held here,” insisted Kate righteously.

“Kate tells me you would like some
information regarding a certain gentleman?” Blythe asked Cavendish,
attempting to break the chilly silence that had fallen upon the
dining room.

For a moment, Cavendish seemed distracted,
having returned to the libidinous memories of the widow. Finally,
Cavendish refocused his attention on the genealogist and
answered.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Then come to the drawing room after
breakfast and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Tell you what,” suggested Searsby to the
reticent German, “I’m going to Chesterfield after lunch, why don’t
you come along, you can see how the preparations for the Spring
Fayre are progressing, it might cheer you up a bit.”

Cavendish ambivalently shrugged his
shoulders, grudgingly nodding his acceptance of the offer.

Later that morning, Cavendish sat on the
south terrace of Flash Seminary, basking in the gentle April
sunshine, which made occasional appearances through the white
clouds that flitted across the sky. Flash was built high on an
escarpment where the air seemed restless and in a constant state of
flux.

He had made various phone calls and made
notes in his leather bound notebook and was now gathering his nerve
to phone Thomas Beckett. He thought of Tina’s advice suggesting he
trod a less arrogant path during his investigation.

Why did he have such a persecution complex?
He scoffed at his weakness, knowing that the events surrounding
Prague exemplified his belief. However, he would endeavour to make
an effort, especially with Beckett.

He suddenly recalled his dream of the
previous night concerning the Bristolian. He felt unusually nervous
at the prospect of speaking to the man. Normally he didn't give a
damn what people thought of him. After a few last glances at the
sky, Cavendish committed himself to calling the number on his
mobile.

“Shazer, what setting does the washing
machine need to be on?” shouted Thomas Beckett.

“What’s in it?” demanded a distant female
voice. Beckett strained to hear her reply above the incessant noise
of automatic gunfire.

“I don’t know; the usual stuff!” bellowed
Beckett.

“What, undies and stuff?”

“Yea, all that kind of stuff!” The air was
suddenly rendered by the sound of a distant explosion emanating
from the living room.

“Well if you’re not sure stick it on five at
forty degrees!” explained the lone female voice.

“I can’t hear you, love. Hold on!” Beckett
strode menacingly from his position at the foot of the stairs into
the lounge where his two younger children, Daniel and Antony, were
playing a first person shooter console game.

“Can you boys turn that flippin’ noise down a
bit, I can’t hear myself think!” Antony, who was seven and the
younger of the two boys, was the only one to acknowledge his
father’s presence.

“Sorry Dad, it’s Dan, he’s killing
Germans!”

“Well kill ‘em more quietly will you!”
Beckett trudged wearily back into the hallway and resumed his
station at the foot of the stairs.

“Shazer, will you come here a minute,
please!” Beckett shouted up the stairs, hoping to illicit a
response. Despite the continuing carnage in the front room, he just
managed to discern a grunt of compliant concession from the small
front bedroom and the begrudging footsteps of his fifteen-year-old
daughter. Sarah Beckett stomped downstairs, her face set in a frown
of resignation. Even in his harassed state of mind Beckett could
not fail to notice the dominance of her mother’s features on her
adolescent face, especially so when she was grumpy.

“I told you, Dad. Use setting five!” Beckett
hated seeing his daughter appearing to be so stressed out and was
immediately assailed with guilt at the summons.

“How’s the revision going, Shazer?” he asked
caringly.

Sarah hovered a few steps up from the bottom
of the staircase and looked down at her father’s beleaguered face.
She always thought her dad was a handsome man yet of late, he was
starting to show signs that he was nearer fifty than he was forty.
She loved her father to bits and could never stay angry with him
for long.

“Not bad, just struggling with the accusative
case.”

“The what?” shrugged Beckett.

“Never mind. Fancy a coffee, old man?”
Beckett smiled in response and Sarah was amazed by the
transformation, his tiredness seemed to be expunged and he looked
ten years younger. Well, perhaps five.

The garden in south Bristol was bathed in
sunlight, Beckett raised his face to the sun and enjoyed the
invigorating warmth as he and Sarah sat at the patio table with
their mugs of coffee.

“Are you and mum alright?” she asked
abruptly.

“'Course we’re alright, why do ask?”

“'Cos I heard you arguing again last night,
about money this time.”

“No, we were just talking,” he lied.

“Well, you seem to be ‘talking’ a lot
lately.” Beckett glanced across at Sarah.

“Sorry, love. I sometimes forget how old you
are, I still think of you as my ‘little Shazer’.” He often
overlooked the fact that she would soon be sixteen.

“Dad, I’ll always be your ‘little Shazer’.”
Beckett looked quickly up to the sky to resume soaking up the sun’s
rays, hoping that she would not notice the tears that moistened his
deep blue eyes.

“I dreamt about you last night,” she said
casually.

“Oh yea, what was I, a gallant knight on his
white steed, rescuing you from some wicked dragon?” He quickly
dismissed the image of his wife.

“As if!” exclaimed Sarah.

“What then?”

“You’ll laugh, I know you!”

“Won’t, promise,” he smiled
self-deprecatingly in admission that he probably would.

“You were a tree.”

Beckett laughed.

“I told you you’d laugh!” shouted Sarah
spiritedly.

“Go on,” he encouraged, suppressing his smile
with difficulty.

“Well, you weren’t exactly a tree, bit
difficult to explain. Your face was growing out of a tree, but I
know it was you.”

“You been reading Tolkien again?”

“Maybe,” she laughed sharply before her face
took on an earnest expression. “You looked very happy being a tree
man, swathed in green leaves and stuff. Trouble was, someone had a
big axe and was trying to cut you down.”

“Who, an evil troll?”

“No, Mum.”

The smile vanished from Beckett’s face.

“Look, Sarah. Me and your mother are
fine.”

“No you’re not!” Sarah began to cry. Beckett
had not seen his daughter cry for many years and it wrenched at his
heart to see her so distressed. He quickly stood up and squatted
before her.

“Hey, none of that, come here!” He extended
his arms and Sarah accepted the invitation of his embrace. “Hey,
look, me and your mum are fine; all grownups go through difficult
times. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“But what about uni?” she cried
pitifully.

“Hey, uni is not in doubt, there is no way
you’re not going, if that’s what you want. I promised you that I’ll
help pay your way, I told you not to worry about student debt, no
other kids seem to worry about it, I don’t know why you do.”