Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  DENIED TO ALL BUT GHOSTS.

  By

  Pete Heathmoor.

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by

  Pete Heathmoor on Smashwords

  Copyright © 2012 by Pete Heathmoor

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Author's Note.

  The cities, towns and villages in this story are genuine; however, several buildings are works of fiction. Should you travel to Flash in Derbyshire then you may be disappointed not to discover a seminary built in the Gothic Revival style.

  Similarly, should you visit Yoxter in Somerset you will not find a manor house of medieval design as I have described. If someone since the time of writing and publication has managed to build either building then please let me know, for I would enjoy visiting both estates and would certainly benefit from a stay at Flash Seminary.

  The Crooked Spire in Chesterfield perhaps should be a work of fiction but is entirely authentic and really is worth taking a look at.

  Oberammergau, the beguiling Bavarian village, is very beautiful and very much real, as is Bristol. Well at least I hope Bristol is because that's where I live.

  With German nouns, I have retained the German convention of spelling them with a capital letter. The use of German is purely for artistic embellishment and I apologies to any German readers who may take umbrage with any inaccuracies or misuse.

  I know of no clandestine organisation referred to as the firm though I believe the London Metropolitan Police Service does exist. Any links between the service and the nebulous firm are purely fictional.

  Pete Heathmoor

  Bristol, England. October 2012

  Table of Contents.

  Prologue - The Grievous Widow.

  Chapter 1 - A Laber of Love.

  Chapter 2 - Glossing over the Negligence.

  Chapter 3 - A Blimp on the Landscape.

  Chapter 4 - Heavenly Homes in the High Peak.

  Chapter 5 - A Flash of Benevolence.

  Chapter 6 - A lame Recluse.

  Chapter 7- A meeting of Kinds.

  Chapter 8 - A Word in your Hell-like Ear.

  Chapter 9 - Provenance, the Englishman and the Python.

  Chapter 10 - Butch and Sundance

  Chapter 11- A One Trick Horse in Prague.

  Chapter 12- The Lure of Academia and the Family.

  Chapter 13 - An Odour of Primacy.

  Chapter 14 - A Ruse by any other Name.

  Chapter 15 - To succeed with success as opposed to failure.

  Chapter 16 - A much better Day than Yesterday.

  Chapter 17 - Artistry remembered in the Cotswolds.

  Chapter 18 - Spires, Desires and Family Favourites.

  Chapter 19 - The Shadow of a Dream.

  Chapter 20 - Provocation in the Crypt.

  Chapter 21- ‘Twere well it were done quickly.

  Chapter 22 - Satan and the cuddly Bear.

  Chapter 23 - Out of the Frying Pan and into the Slaughter.

  Chapter 24 - Swords and the Doors of Prescription.

  Chapter 25 - A surfeit of sour-Kraut.

  Chapter 26 - A visit from the Constabulary.

  Chapter 27 - A Fool and his Ego are easily parted.

  Chapter 28- A journey into darkness.

  Chapter 29 - Vicars and Hearts.

  Chapter 30 - Different to all the rest.

  Chapter 31 - Another Language is to possess a second Soul.

  Chapter 32 - The Lion, the Witch and the Freezer.

  Chapter 33 - The Student and the Poodle.

  Chapter 34 - Welcome to my World of compromise.

  Chapter 35 - Pigeons and the exploitation of Oranges.

  Chapter 36 - The lady and the Vamp.

  Chapter 37 - Sex, Lies and ambition in the Digital age.

  Chapter 38 - He only ordered a Pizza.

  Chapter 39 - The suspension of Reality.

  Chapter 40 - The best laid plans of Malice and Men.

  Chapter 41 - And the Sinner is...

  Chapter 42 - A Case of mistaken Calamity.

  Chapter 43 - A Sledgehammer to crack a Slut.

  Chapter 44 - Cometh the Hour...

  Chapter 45 - Words of Healing.

  Chapter 46 - The Geometry of the Soul.

  PROLOGUE- THE GRIEVOUS WIDOW.

  It was not the city he remembered. His mind’s eye recalled the vibrant capital, the elegant buildings bathed in the dappled sunlight of a spring day. Milling tourists, frenziedly imbibing upon the obligatory offerings before their short-stay breaks concluded and they hastened home to edit their digitally acquired memories.

  Now on a jaded January day, snow was falling and settling persistently upon the frigid ground. What had commenced as a gentle flurry of feathery white snow had ripened into a whiteout of brawny flakes that clung tenaciously to their dark woollen overcoats.

  The two tall men laboured up the cobbled streets towards the castle and the only benevolence offered by the dissolute winter’s day was the absence of any wind.

  “Remind me in the future to avoid Prague in winter, Holger,” muttered Marchel Cavendish almost inaudibly to his younger colleague walking to his left, finally abandoning his state of wordless introspection.

  Holger Ehlers glanced right and blinked to dislodge the snowflakes that impaired his view of his mentor. He noted, despite the gloomy tone of Cavendish’s voice, that his mentor’s blanched lips were forcing a rueful smile. Ehlers concluded that Cavendish was one of those few people whose countenance did not improve when smiling, for it emphasised the ragged scar on his left cheek and gave his accustomed melancholic mien a sardonic unsettling skew.

  Cavendish cursed volubly when they reached the zenith of their climb. Any shelter afforded by the steep slope was immediately revoked and they were assailed by an obdurate easterly wind that inexorably sapped their bodies of warmth and drove the falling snow in an almost horizontal trajectory.

  “Any idea where we are supposed to go, Holger?” Cavendish asked the apprentice. He knew in his own mind the general direction in which they were heading but had entrusted Ehlers with the responsibility of guiding them to the widow’s lair.

  Ehlers pedantically extracted his mobile from the deep pocket of his overcoat and flicked open the leather cover, fighting the wind’s voracious malevolence as he prodded the screen, summoning the GPS map that was piloting them.

  “Not far now, Marchel,” answered Ehlers brightly, who seemed to be enjoying the winter assignment in Prague unlike his pensive superior. It was only Ehler's third venture with Cavendish and he was aware that he had yet to gain his superior's full confidence.

  The rutted cobbled street rapidly filled with snow whilst the wind whisked the polished stone tops clean as they abandoned the main thoroughfare with its snaking tramlines. The side streets were deserted and the city suburb exuded an aura of eerie claustrophobic introspection, mirroring Cavendish’s disposition as he turned up the collar of his long woollen coat and brushed the cloying snow from his short blonde hair. Cavendish had earlier scoffed at Ehlers’ fur-covered Cossack hat but now felt resentful of its tendered solace.

  “We’re here,” stated Ehlers. They
stood before an elegant town house, built during the halcyon Hapsburg epoch. Cavendish, no fan of the ostentatious period design, desperately hoped that the house was adequately heated, for he felt chilled to the bone.

  The feeling was not altogether physiological, for he took little pleasure in what he was about to do, it was perhaps the most onerous of the duties that he had to carry out. Hence, it was with growing reluctance that he led Ehlers to the ornate front door and rang the doorbell. As they waited for the door to open, Cavendish formally addressed Ehlers.

  “Remember, Holger, speak only when spoken to. If I want you to chip in, I’ll ask.” Ehlers was well versed in what was expected of him and he nodded dutifully. Several minutes elapsed and the black painted door remained disparagingly closed. Cavendish stood unflinchingly in the biting cold of the afternoon, his temper rapidly fraying, and was about to kick the door when it slowly gaped before them.

  A stooped elderly woman, wearing what Ehlers interpreted to be a black evening gown, studied them with barely concealed contempt, it took Ehlers several seconds to realise that she was wearing a mourning dress.

  “Good afternoon, Cavendish and Ehlers. I believe we are expected,” announced Cavendish solemnly. The woman made no reply but stepped back and opened the door to its full extent.

  Cavendish hurried inside followed by Ehlers and they found themselves standing in a large echoing entrance hall. Ehlers nervously stamped his feet on the marbled floor to rid his shoes of accumulated snow.

  At first glance, the room appeared elaborately and tastefully decorated with ornaments that befitted an eighteenth century house belonging to the well heeled. Yet it quickly became apparent that many years had elapsed since the room had received attention and was on the cusp of becoming run-down. Ehlers watched Cavendish brush the snow from his shoulders and emulated his mentor’s actions whilst removing the Cossack hat from his head.

  The woman circumspectly appraised the visitors. The man who had spoken was the taller of the two and stood well in excess of six feet. His blonde hair was side parted on the left and framed a thin, almost gaunt face; he possessed the palest of blue eyes that scrutinized his surroundings in a cold surreptitious manner. His most striking feature was a scar that seemed to bisect his left eyebrow and scour his prominent left cheek.

  The taller man’s subservient colleague’s blonde hair was of a richer hue and had been spiked with gel, leaving it flattened against his scalp by the hat, which he now meekly clutched in both hands in front of him. His eyes were a deeper blue and possessed an innate honesty whilst his square dimpled jaw complimented his handsome kindly face. Both men wore identical clothing, leather lace-up shoes, slate grey turn-up trousers and long woollen coats. For two men to possess outwardly identical clothing yet invoke such a contrary reaction said much for the subtleties of discernment.

  “If you would like to follow me, gentlemen,” said the woman. She turned and limped in obvious discomfort towards the staircase, Ehlers guessed her to be in her eighties and certainly to be arthritic on her left side.

  Cavendish led the way, following her slowly up the elaborate marble steps to the first floor where she ushered them into a room off the landing. Ehlers’ assessment of the hallway was equally applicable to this room, which he took to be the old study. Both men were drawn towards the roaring log fire that crackled in the patterned hearth. Sitting around the fireplace on two threadbare couches were, presumed Ehlers, the remaining members of the Klum family.

  Cavendish and Ehlers stood centrally before the couches on a worn rug that revealed the absence of a dog, judging by the surfeit of animal hair upon which they stood. As the elderly woman sat down a younger woman rose from the couch nearest the fire to pose belligerently opposite the two men, her youthful beauty contradicting her jaded surroundings.

  Her brown hair was worn short and showed signs of having recently been expensively styled, whilst her exquisite makeup complimented rather than enhanced her silky features. The black dress, unlike the older woman’s, gave no hint of mourning, instead its cut and length accentuated the sexuality of her slim yet fulsome figure. Ehlers placed her, along with Cavendish, as being somewhere in her thirties, some ten years older than himself.

  “Frau Klum, my name is Marchel Cavendish; this is my colleague, Holger Ehlers.” Cavendish stiffly nodded his introduction to the woman before continuing. “May we offer you our condolences. Herr Klum was a much admired and respected member of the firm and will be greatly missed by all who knew him.”

  Dagmar Klum nodded her acknowledgment of Cavendish’s formal commiseration yet her expression remained indifferent to the insincerity of his words.

  “Thank you, Herr Cavendish. I hope your journey has not greatly inconvenienced you.” Dagmar Klum offered her hand and a dazzling smile. Cavendish stepped forward and, accepting her hand, bowed and brought his heels smartly together. Dagmar confidently took his hand before repeating the process with the younger visitor. Ehlers felt his face blush as he held her manicured hand and noted her amused reaction to his discomfort in her deep brown eyes.

  “May I introduce my family,” Dagmar Klum extended her arm to point to the group sitting on the left hand couch. “My late husband’s mother, you have already met. My stepdaughter, Alicia and her husband, Kurt Meyer.”

  Dagmar’s stepdaughter, in her late twenties, was sitting between her infirmed grandmother and her vulpine husband. Ehlers observed how she attempted to sit impassively but betrayed her nervousness by the fluttering of her eyelids and her gauche inability to hold his gaze. Meyer sat impassively, patently more accustomed to such tense formal occasions.

  To his honourable shame, Ehlers concluded that it was clear that Alicia Meyer was the product of a wholly disparate gene pool than the present Frau Klum, such was her distinct plainness, prompting him to speculate upon her relationship with her late father’s trophy wife.

  “And this gentlemen, is my son, Hans.” Dagmar made no attempt to conceal the pride in her voice as she pointed out the pre-teen boy who had been sitting by her side on the other couch. Ehlers easily discerned from whom the boy had inherited his attentive brown eyes.

  An awkward silence followed the introductions, punctuated only by the crackling of burning logs. Ehlers looked at his superior, he noted that Cavendish had adopted his inscrutable visage that seemed to come so easily to him and made him almost impossible to read.

  “Frau Klum,” said Cavendish, taking the room by surprise with the abruptness of his pronouncement.

  “Dagmar, Herr Cavendish, please call me Dagmar,” her lips remained resolutely set in a stubborn smile.

  “Frau Klum,” continued Cavendish, ignoring her request. “You know why we are here; I assume you have received the formal letters.”

  “If you are referring to the last letter sent before Christmas outlining your employer’s position, then yes.” Ehlers thought Dagmar’s smile had receded by the faintest jot.

  “Then you know the items that your husband procured have to be returned,” stated Cavendish. Her smile vanished; a slight tremble animated her bottom lip.

  “And to what items might you be referring?” she asked mulishly.

  “Frau Klum, we have not travelled all this way to be played games with. If you did not know what items I am referring to, which I find highly unlikely, then the letter reiterated them, so there is no room for confusion.”

  Cavendish’s blatant antipathy was clear to everyone in the room. Ehlers thought it unnecessary to be so aggressive with the recent widow and glanced towards Alicia, who was finding it hard to suppress a grin, taking vindictive pleasure in her stepmother’s blatant discomfort.

  With the banishment of her engaging smile, the smouldering intensity of Dagmar’s eyes remained her most expressive attribute.

  “It will come as no surprise to you,” stated Dagmar confidently, “that I have taken legal advice with regard to my husband’s possessions.” Cavendish rolled his eyes upwards in a display of feigned exasperation.
<
br />   “Frau Klum, do you know how many times I have stood before a grieving widow, explaining what must happen? You will return the items as per the contract that your husband entered into. Upon his death, the lease expires and they are returned to the firm. You have the option of having items replicated, as per the contract. There is no get out clause; there is no room for negotiation. One of my colleagues has visited you already on several occasions, I’m sure he explained everything to you. You have twenty days of the original ninety in which to comply.”

  “And if I don’t?” interjected Dagmar with what Ehlers considered was admirable defiance in the face of his superior’s restrained yet resolute onslaught. Cavendish now looked at Ehlers and again rolled his eyes, the theatricality of his gesture compelling Ehlers to smile impulsively.

  “Oh, you find this amusing do you, young man!” spat Dagmar with contrived indigence.

  “I’m sorry,” stuttered Ehlers, stung especially by the ‘young man’ taunt, “I didn’t mean to cause...”

  Ehlers perceived Cavendish’s icy glare before he glimpsed into the cold pale blue eyes. He knew instantly that he should not have spoken. His attention was drawn away from Cavendish towards Dagmar, who had sunk her face into her hands and begun to weep. The cry morphed into sobs of anguish, which he fully appreciated, put Cavendish’s eye rolling antics in the shade.

  “Well done, Holger,” whispered Cavendish acerbically. He scanned Ehler’s crestfallen face. “Don’t worry, Holger. Been here before,” added Cavendish in a reassuringly mellow tone.

  “What do we do, Marchel?” whispered Ehlers anxiously.

  “Wait for her to get bored, shouldn’t take too long.” Cavendish led Ehlers over to the window that looked out onto the street. The room was noticeably chillier here away from the fire and Ehlers followed Cavendish’s lead of turning his back on the room to study the snow that continued to fall with little sign of abating.