A few minutes elapsed and the sobbing ceased. Cavendish pretentiously faced the pretty widow and watched Dagmar staring back at him audaciously.
“Is there somewhere we could talk in private, Dagmar?” Cavendish coolly enquired. His sudden use of her first name momentarily threw her off guard.
“Where would you suggest?” she asked, her face losing some of its defiance.
“Somewhere a little more civil,” replied Cavendish whilst glancing at the Klum clan behind her.
“My room upstairs, perhaps?” she suggested warily, Ehlers thought he noted an allusion of grudging capitulation in her voice and body language. Cavendish raised his blonde eyebrows and smiled knowingly at Ehlers, from which the youngster took encouragement.
She led him up to the second floor and her bedroom, which Cavendish discovered was quite out of context with the rest of the house. It was contemporary in taste and style and there appeared to be little to allude to the existence of the late Herr Klum.
Dagmar perched timidly on the edge of the expansive bed. Cavendish strolled slowly over to the window to resume his scrutiny of the winter landscape, as if in search of something he had mislaid.
“So what do you expect from me, Herr Cavendish?” There was now a hint of resignation in Dagmar’s voice.
“What do you mean, ‘what do I expect’?” asked Cavendish, continuing his vigil at the window, thus failing to notice her submissive deportment.
“How much do you want?” she asked. She was unable to see Cavendish’s open mouth snap shut as he stifled his reply, or the way he closed his eyes as he processed the inferences of her enquiry.
“I don't want your money, Dagmar. What I require is something far more pertinent,” replied Cavendish, referring to the late Herr Klum's possessions.
Equally, he failed to observe neither Dagmar’s compliant shrug nor the way her shoulders drooped in abject surrender as she unzipped her black dress with trembling hands. Dagmar realised that she had clearly been deceived regarding Cavendish’s sexual orientation.
“I see you are in the same mould as Herr Klauss, your colleague. I somehow thought, or hoped you might be different,” stammered Dagmar as her bravado finally failed her.
It was the wretched tenor of her voice that compelled him to face her. By the time he had turned, the top half of her dress was around her waist and she was endeavouring to draw the tight fitting fabric over her broad hips. Cavendish frowned as he gazed with unintentional veneration upon the vulnerable woman before him.
“Dagmar, please stop!” he demanded. She looked up at him, confusion evident in her expression as the tears edged slowly down her cheeks.
“Please, I’m sorry if I have misled you, there is no need for this,” said Cavendish softly but unequivocally. For the first time she detected a suppleness and air of compassion in his voice.
“I don’t know what my colleague expected of you, but I make no such demands. Please...” Cavendish did not avert his eyes as he watched Dagmar turn away from him and clumsily rearrange her dress.
“Christ, what have they done to you...” he muttered to himself. He felt consumed with anger, a rage against the obscenities of his gender yet equally, with a selfish prejudice, at his lack of briefing or insight relating to the history of the assignment. He also felt highly aroused but banished the sentiment as ill timed.
“What’s going on, Dagmar,” he asked quietly as he walked across the room and placed his long fingers lightly on her shoulder, “why have you not returned the items as instructed?”
Dagmar chewed her lower lip and stared hard up at Cavendish, evaluating whether he was a man to be trusted. The scarred face gave him a superficially intimidating appearance, which she realised he used to good effect, yet now she noted his pale blue eyes conveying an empathetic warmth and curiosity that had earlier been lacking. She spoke quickly, her words running into a remorseless torrent, accented with relief at being able at last to confide in someone.
“I don’t have them. Herr Klauss and Kurt Meyer took them. Herr Klauss explained he would sort things out...” She looked down at the floor in shame as she recalled the price expected for his help.
“And he obviously exacted his payment?” enquired Cavendish gently, the answer already blatantly apparent. Dagmar gazed absently at the window but remained ominously silent.
Cavendish knew that it was acute appendicitis that had prevented his colleague, Dieter Klauss, from completing this assignment. Cavendish and Ehlers were simply stand-ins.
“I think I get the picture,” said Cavendish sensitively whilst tracing the line of his scar with his left index finger.
“Don’t worry, despite what you may have been told, this is very easy to resolve, you have my word that this is about to end.” He smiled at her and despite his baleful appearance; she warmed to his gesture and returned his smile.
She felt the burden, shame and humiliation of the past weeks easing with the knowledge that this man was on her side. They left the bedroom to rejoin the others in the study where Death waited with indifference.
CHAPTER 1. A LABER OF LOVE.
The Laber mountain summit station rapidly approached and the cable car gondola slowed at the end of its ascent. An apathetic attendant opened the door and Cavendish strode apprehensively into the white walled lobby.
Ignoring the cafeteria to his left, he made for the familiar exit doors to access the outdoor viewing area. A stunning vista of pine covered slopes opened up before him, framed by the distant snow-capped peaks of the Alps. From the west, a cooling breeze, absent in the village below, gave purpose to his steps as he zipped up his old brown leather jacket and adjusted his thick-rimmed sunglasses before heading towards the elderly man already sitting at a patio table.
The man, in his early sixties, fixed his gaze on the distant Alpine range above Garmisch. The snow still lingered in the month of April on the Hausberg of Oberammergau, which lay in the green valley far below them. The mountaintop appeared to inhabit a different season from the village where spring was clearly on its way. It felt akin to travelling back several months in time.
“Grüß Gott, Marchel, good to see you,” said the deep toned Bavarian accent of Horst Steinbeck.
“You too, Herr Steinbeck,” replied Cavendish as impassively as he could. Steinbeck resumed his casual survey of the surrounding peaks, his eyes coming to rest on the distant Zugspitze, the highest German mountain in the Alps.
A group of schoolchildren, who had hiked their way up the mountain, disdainfully passed them by, rendering the alpine tranquillity with a cacophony of disparate shouts and competing conversations, en route to the cafeteria.
Cavendish had not seen Steinbeck since late January. Steinbeck had been away, preparing and fighting Cavendish’s case at the tribunal convened in Vienna to hear and pass judgement upon the events that had unfolded in Prague.
“Please sit down, Marchel. You’re making my old neck ache,” insisted Steinbeck. Cavendish obliged, twisting his long legs through the wooden framework of the picnic table.
“How long have you been suspended now?” asked Steinbeck absently.
“Since January,” scowled Cavendish irritably, knowing that his boss knew full well how long he had been idle.
Steinbeck picked upon Cavendish’s rancour and smiled.
“Yes, my business has never been so well attended yet so badly served.” Steinbeck was referring to Cavendish’s enforced sojourn at his antique shop in Schongau where he had begrudgingly endured his months of suspension.
Despite his outward bravado, Cavendish was tense with trepidation. The reason this meeting had been convened was for Steinbeck to reveal the outcome of the final sitting of the committee deliberating upon Cavendish’s fate following the shooting in Prague.
Thus far, Cavendish had not been able to pick up any inferences from Steinbeck’s demeanour. During the recent months, Cavendish had played out every conceivable scenario of possible outcomes. As the months rolled by, the picture became i
ncreasingly pessimistic. In the world of the firm, no news was certainly not good news.
“Tell me, how is your mother? I haven’t seen her for a good while,” continued Steinbeck. Cavendish could feel his shoulders tightening as the tension increased. The last thing he needed was to talk about his mother.
“She’s keeping busy. She has recently acquired a new daughter, as I’m sure you are well aware,” answered Cavendish with forced conviviality.
If Horst Steinbeck was intrigued by the notion of a woman in her early sixties having ‘acquired a daughter’ then he betrayed nothing to Cavendish. It was the younger man who continued to speak, his words fuelled by the irrational hope that Steinbeck’s enquiry regarding his domestic life heralded good news.
“Yes, she appeared on the scene a few months ago, she is my father’s handiwork by some woman in Munich.” Steinbeck frowned at Cavendish’s inappropriate choice of words.
“Your new sister appears to have made an impression on you, Marchel,” commented Steinbeck dryly.
“Half-sister,” corrected Cavendish stiffly. “She means nothing to me but she has certainly made a big impression on Mum, they are virtually inseparable.”
“Very interesting, do you think she should be investigated? Odd that your father's love child should suddenly appear on the scene out of the blue? Anyway, Fräulein Kretschmer can wait until you have finished the job you are about to do for us.”
Cavendish found his legs convulsing in response to the adrenalin rush as he interpreted Steinbeck’s last statement. He found himself standing, looking down on Steinbeck’s unnaturally thick grey hair, grinning with relief and unbound joy.
“Sit down, Marchel, your excitement over the reprieve is understandable but I’m sure no one else wants to share in your moment, you’re scaring the school kids.” Cavendish sat down but the grin refused to be vanquished despite his best efforts.
“There is a job for you in England,” said Steinbeck as he followed the flight of a crow-like Alpine Chough before it alighted upon the railings to his left. The smile instantly evaporated from Cavendish’s face.
“England!” cried Cavendish derisively, “bloody England! Oh, come on Horst, that’s not on, I did a stint there last year. You know the place is a dead end!”
“It’s better than the Siebenbürgen,” answered Steinbeck calmly, referring to the region in the Carpathian Mountains effectively administrated by the firm.
“I don’t know about that,” snapped Cavendish angrily, “at least they have some respect for us there!”
Steinbeck's blue eyes burnt fiercely and Cavendish read his superiors annoyance and visibly calmed his temper.
“It was a close run thing, Marchel. Many of the committee wanted to hang you out to dry, make an example of you. Klauss had many friends on the committee and his honour and reputation carried a lot more weight than the allegations of a beautiful young widow.”
“Bloody misogynists!” interjected Cavendish sharply.
“Maybe,” continued Steinbeck serenely, “but they are the ones who judged your case. Fortunately, I could garner enough support to prevent your excommunication.”
Cavendish physically baulked at the word that he had only contemplated during his most depressed period.
“Have I kept my rank?” asked Cavendish meekly.
“Yes,” Steinbeck seemed reluctant to expand upon the topic, “the outcome was the best we could have hoped for in light of what you were up against. Consider yourself on probation; consider England to be your penance and a chance of redemption. Just go to England, get the job done and come home. You keep telling people you’re English, for goodness sake.”
“That’s only for fun,” said Cavendish defensively.
“Well, your father is English; you’ve got a bloody English surname!”
“And my mother is French and I’ve got a French forename. That doesn’t make me French. I’m German, Horst!”
“Well, the jury is out on that one, Marchel,” smiled Steinbeck, sensibly trying to make the best of a bad deal. “Look Marchel, why don’t you take your lovely fiancée with you? Treat it as a holiday.” Cavendish broke eye contact with Steinbeck.
“I can’t,” said Cavendish lamely.
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t know what I do,” replied Cavendish timidly. Steinbeck performed a double take before laughing.
“What do you mean?” asked Steinbeck disbelievingly.
“Look, Horst, my parents only announced the engagement in February, I was hardly going to tell her about my job whilst I was suspended with the possibility of excommunication, was I?”
“Well it doesn’t seem to have stopped you sleeping with Dagmar Klum, the Grieving Widow.”
Cavendish’s blood froze.
“Steady Marchel, if your jaw drops any lower you’ll be eating off the floor. Don’t worry, your mother doesn’t know, but you can’t expect to keep such secrets from us. A word from the wise, cease your carnal activities with the lady, if word gets out to certain people that you’re sleeping with the bloody widow then it will be you who is metaphorically shagged. Enjoy the innocent delights of your fiancée.”
Cavendish felt as if he was in a prizefight, that he was being physically bludgeoned by the emotional tumult of each revelation.
“Marchel, look me in the eye and promise me,” insisted Steinbeck.
“Okay, Horst, okay.”
Steinbeck noted Cavendish’s lack of assurance but let it go. He realised that his subordinate had been through hell for the past few months. Cavendish may be odd, but he liked him, and despite the events in Prague, he knew he was a loyal and dedicated subordinate.
Steinbeck moved his hand to his grey-waxed moustache and smoothed it with deliberate precision, an habitual action when considering his next words carefully.
“I’ll send details of the assignment to your apartment tomorrow, along with a report of the tribunal findings. Listen, my boy. I know the assignment isn’t ideal, I know there’s no kudos to be gained from an assignment in England. Just do whatever you have to do to make it work. You’re not in a position to fail; it would ruin us both. Do whatever it takes. I know you’ll not let me down, that is why you are my favourite Untersucher.” Steinbeck was relieved to see Cavendish smile as he replied.
“I’m your only Untersucher, Horst. But I’m not bloody driving over there, their roads are shit and they drive like idiots!”
“Then find yourself a driver. Like I said, just do whatever it takes. Use, abuse anyone you like, just don’t fail!”
Steinbeck slowly raised his bulky frame from the picnic table and delivered Cavendish a final piece of advice.
“Be careful, Marchel. You’re lucky this English case came up. Being in England, it’s an obvious one for you. Don’t screw this one up.”
With that, Steinbeck turned and walked with surprising speed towards the cable car station without further comment, vanishing from view amid the schoolchildren and other visitors to the mountaintop on a glorious Alpine day, leaving Marchel Cavendish to speculate upon the nature of the assignment that he would shortly receive.
CHAPTER 2. GLOSSING OVER THE NEGLIGENCE.
The apartment doorbell rang just as Cavendish was finishing his first mug of coffee of the day. He bounded down the flight of wooden stairs that led down to his apartment door, paused to check the spy hole, then unlocked and opened the door to the waiting courier.
“Good morning, Herr Cavendish,” the helmeted courier handed over a large manila envelope.
“Thank you, Kurt. Is Herr Steinbeck expecting any reply?” The courier exaggeratedly turned his head from side to side before returning to his waiting motorbike.
Cavendish carried the envelope up to his first floor apartment lounge, whose panoramic window offered a fine view of Kofel, the spectacular rock formation that dominated the Bavarian village of Oberammergau. It would be a busy year in the village and Cavendish had to admit that the prospect of being away during the Passion P
lay season did have its merits.
He sat down at his desk, positioned to afford a view out of the expansive window and superficially inspected the package. A plain white adhesive label bore the single word ‘CAVENDISH’. The sound of a tourist coach destined for the nearby theatre car park caught his ear as he slid a pen beneath the envelope flap. His pulse quickened as he anticipated the contents of the package.
It took fifteen minutes for Cavendish to read the contents of the envelope once, pour another cup of coffee, and read his missive for a second time. He held the expensive A4 sheet up the light to check the watermark. The unmistakeable ram-like head was visible beneath the unique typeface. He had no reason to doubt the validity of the documents and was unaware that he was following a self-imposed protocol that he adhered to on receipt of any written communication from the firm.
Cavendish frowned; three deep furrows appeared on his normally smooth brow as he picked up the document relating to his tribunal and read it for a third time. He tried to read it as a stranger might.
Marchel Luc Cavendish. Thirty-one years old. Current rank of Untersucher medius. Born in Osnabrück, son of David Cavendish, a British army officer and Juliet Delacroix, daughter of a French industrialist. Schooled in Germany before attending Heidelberg University where he studied medicine until changing modules to study history and sociology. Recruited by the firm at the age of twenty-two, proposed and sponsored by Matthias Graf von Manstein.
Indicted for gross negligence.
Cavendish refused to re-read the notes summarising the hearing, it made him angry and anger made him incautious and irrational. Yet he could not tear his eyes away from the last paragraph, which read, ‘cleared by eight votes to five’. A caveat to the verdict, seemingly required by the narrow margin, stated that he would have to spend an indefinite period of probation until the council deemed otherwise. Cavendish felt the blood rush to his head.
“Bastards!”
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