Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “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.

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 5. A FLASH OF BENEVOLENCE.

  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.

  CHAPTER 6. A LAME RECLUSE.

  “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.