Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Thank you, Tina,” he said quietly, slurring his words.

  “For what?” she asked, stirring from her private musings.

  “For this, you didn’t have to come.”

  “And leave my big brother all alone on his last night?”

  Cavendish unhurriedly turned to face her, tilted her head with his right hand, and looked down at her dimly lit features as he leant forward. Tina anticipated his intention but remained motionless as he gently kissed her for a few exquisite, tantalising seconds before she pulled herself away.

  His palpable passion disturbed her yet was undeniably exciting. Somehow, she skilfully concealed her astonishment from Cavendish’s imploring eyes. She rationalised that he had been drinking for the first time in many months and that explained his inappropriate ardour.

  “I think I’ll turn in, Marchel,” she said as impassively as her inflamed emotions would allow, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and guilt.

  Cavendish continued to gaze at Tina with unblinking eyes and whispered tenderly.

  “I’ll be gone before you get up in the morning; I’d just like to say...”

  She raised her finger and pressed it gently to his lips to stifle any further utterance. She lovingly traced the line of the ragged scar on his cheek before becoming aware of the intimacy of her gesture. Blushing, she clumsily handed him back his jacket and dashed quickly back into the hotel.

  * * *

  Cavendish checked out of the hotel just before six o’clock the following morning. He forwent breakfast, he had no appetite and his head ached from the effects of the alcohol.

  A taxi collected him, headed out of Friedrichshafen, and drove for a few kilometres before turning left towards the village of Oberdorf. As the car passed through the steep-roofed houses, a cluster of buildings appeared before him, dominated by the structure that he took to be the airship hanger. He was surprised by the perfunctory appearance of the facilities on offer at the airfield. Cavendish guessed that when a half scale replica of the famous LZ-129 Hindenburg floated in the imposing hanger one did not have to try too hard to make an impression.

  The driver dropped him off on a grassy strip next to a dozen or so other cars; Cavendish clenched his holdall tightly and walked purposefully towards the hanger. It was only from the proximity of fifty or so metres that he could appreciate the full magnitude of the structure. His approach to the hanger was evidently observed for a figure emerged from the entrance to his right and walked briskly towards him.

  He instantly recognised the erect figure of Matthias Graf von Manstein, an old friend and his sponsor when he joined the firm. Von Manstein was now in his sixties, his grey hair backcombed above his suntanned chiselled features. If anyone had cared to study the two men then the shared feature of facial scarring would have immediately struck them, von Manstein’s however was far less intrusive than Cavendish’s duelling wound.

  “Welcome, Marchel. Welcome to the home of the Luftschiff Adenauer!” Cavendish felt genuinely thrilled at Manstein’s generous greeting for it was a rare occurrence. He grinned broadly as he shook hands with von Manstein, his hangover temporally forgotten.

  “Come on, take a look,” enthused von Manstein, taking Cavendish by the arm and hurrying him along to the hanger doors. He adored this moment; he loved to watch the reaction of visitors when they first set eyes upon his creation in her protective cocoon.

  The airship was over one hundred and twenty metres long, half the length of the ill-fated Hindenburg. She was impressive in her own right when floating several hundred metres in the sky, yet somehow the hanger had the effect of framing the ship, making her appear even larger and more imperious. Cavendish did not disappoint, he stood wide mouthed, bowled over by the intimidating dimensions of the mighty grey airship tethered before him like a captive whale.

  Today’s voyage would be the first shakedown flight of the season and it was to entail a tour of the major cities of the UK. By six thirty, the mighty ship was out of the hanger and awaiting the two non-crewmembers, Cavendish and von Manstein. Gone were the days when the ship had to be held down by scores of ground crew. In their second year of operation, the crew had faith in the computerised mechanical ground control system that held the great ship stable at its mooring.

  A small flight of steps accessed the vast belly of the leviathan. Cavendish nervously climbed the steps expecting to be overwhelmed by vast air bags and polycarbonate girders that comprised the internal form of the ship; instead, he was greeted by the disappointment a sterile white-walled corridor leading to the internal staircase that ran up to the passenger accommodation.

  The Adenauer was an airborne ocean liner and, as a steward escorted Cavendish to the promenade deck, the ship silently slipped her moorings. He experienced no sensation of movement as the ship made its graceful ascent and he gazed out in wonder through the long viewing windows as the ground fell unhurriedly away.

  Typically, Cavendish soon bored of the tedious flight and after eight uneventful hours, the Adenauer glided over the white cliffs of the Kent coastline. He peered curiously at the country about which he knew so little, save for the few holidays as a child and his previous assignment. The airship drew the attention of people on the ground, from an altitude of two hundred metres, it was easy to see them pointing skyward as they cruised majestically overhead.

  Two further wearisome hours elapsed before it was time for Cavendish’s dramatic departure and he apprehensively made his way to the hanger deck. Here was housed a small single-seat silver-skinned biplane, which possessed a small windowless compartment behind the pilot’s seat for cargo or, as in this instance, a passenger.

  The investigator was gratefully oblivious to the preparations that went on around him as he squeezed into the tiny compartment. It was perhaps just as well that the cosseted investigator was unaware of the hanger floor beneath the plane sliding open. The aircraft swung erratically, suspended only by a clamp on its upper fuselage to the tenuous arm of a crane.

  The biplane was carefully lowered out through the Adenauer's hull into the cloudy English sky. Cavendish sat in wide-eyed terror despite his visual deprivation as the plane shimmied disconcertingly in the airflow of the airship. He flinched as the plane’s engine coughed into life and revved with deafening surety until the anonymous pilot was satisfied with its performance.

  Upon receiving the expected tap on his left knee, Cavendish silently counted down from five as briefed. At zero, he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as the plane plummeted away from its supporting gantry. One of the crew had suggested that the experience would be like riding a rollercoaster. The jocular analogy was wasted on Cavendish for he had never ridden a roller coaster and if this gut wrenching experience was anything to go by he was never likely to.

  CHAPTER 4. HEAVENLY HOMES IN THE HIGH PEAK.

  As flights went, Cavendish considered the forty minutes or more endured in the cramped and noisy confines of the biplane the worst he had ever experienced. He knew roughly how long it would take to reach his Derbyshire destination but had not been prepared for the aggressive manoeuvring expertly executed by the pilot in his attempts to land at Flash Seminary.

  He swore volubly as the plane bounced heavily along the spongy lawn of the private estate and swallowed hard to suppress his paltry lunch’s attempt to leave his stomach. He embraced the motionless bliss whilst waiting for the small door to his left opened and gratefully accepted the pilot’s helping hand as he gingerly climbed out of the biplane and placed an appreciative foot upon terra firma. The young pilot took out Cavendish’s holdall before securing the aircraft door.

  “Good luck, Herr Untersucher!” shouted the pilot above the spluttering staccato beat of the engine as he saluted before re-boarding his plane. He grinned and gestured to Cavendish to step away. Cavendish ducked as the sound from the engine swelled and the plane taxied in preparation for its return trip to the Adenauer.

  The Untersucher squatted alone on the broad expanse of mossy grass and abse
ntly watched the biplane take to the air. It circled the house once, dipped its wings as a final gesture of farewell and departed for its rendezvous. Only the ringing tinnitus in his ears banished the crushing silence that fell upon him as the plane vanished beyond the tree line into the increasingly overcast grey sky.

  A raucous crow circled above his head, mocking his arrival. Taking a calming breath, he followed the flight of the carrion and for the first time gazed upon the splendour that was Flash Seminary, the former home of Sir Peregrine Gray and his family.

  The house, built in the Gothic Revival style in the nineteenth century, sat well in the high hills of Derbyshire between Matlock and Chesterfield on the edge of the dramatic Peak District National Park. Cavendish detected no sign of life and walked disconsolately, bag in hand, towards the great house, wondering what he was doing in such a God forsaken place.

  He lit a cigarette in the hope of quelling his rebellious stomach as he stood before the south side of the house. Terraced walls of weathered limestone defined the bare borders, still waiting for the summer planting scheme. He guessed the house entrance would be on the east side and cut diagonally across the lawn to his right. The yielding lawn petered out as a large gravel area formed the forecourt of the mansion.

  He strode past a large section of building with a separate apex roof and a large stone gothic-arched window, this he later discovered was the library. Immediately abutting the library hung an engraved stone entrance porch over a sturdy weathered wooden door. The entire house was asymmetrical in design and built predominantly of yellow sandstone, or more precisely, the local millstone grit, with facings of what had once been white limestone that had now dulled with age and exposure. The house epitomised his opinion of careworn England.

  Still no one came to greet him. He hovered impatiently beneath the entrance porch and carefully placed his holdall on the weathered flag stone floor before pushing the old door chime button, which he gloomily speculated was probably defunct.

  Turning his back on the oak door, he peered eastwards down the long gravel drive and saw the small stooped figure of an old woman walking with the aid of a stick. She appeared to be heading towards the house and Cavendish was considering the idea of confronting the old woman when he heard the oak door behind him grind slowly open.

  Cavendish was greeted by a man who stood some six inches shorter than himself; he was stockily built and wore a thick dark beard, which together with his grey eyes, gave him a monotone washed-out appearance.

  “Good evening, my name is Cavendish. I hope you are expecting me.” The bearded man accepted Cavendish's proffered hand and gave two vigorous shakes.

  “Welcome to Flash, Herr Cavendish. I’d leave Lady Gray alone if I were you, you’ll only go upsetting her if she finds out you’re German. This used to be a prisoner of war camp during the last war; she was very fond of her German lads. She’s a bit gaga now,” The bearded man made a circular motion with a finger pointed towards his temple.

  “I’m English, not German,” said Cavendish brusquely. He articulated his words slowly and precisely as he spoke in English for the first time in almost twelve months. The bearded man gaped at Cavendish and smiled as he shook his head disbelievingly.

  “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.