“Yes, the next day, she said that she was going to the States for a while, I forget for how long, and that she would contact me on her return and hoped that I would be a little more cooperative. She last rang me on Friday, the ninth of this month, and as instructed, I said that she would be contacted.”
“And who did you say I was?”
“I said you were a Nazi inquisitor!” said Simeon angrily; Cavendish glared hard at the older man before allowing Simeon to carry on after a pause of several seconds. Simeon said in a more resigned tone, “I said you represented the party who possessed the object and that you would be in touch.”
“It is important to qualify this point Simeon, but did she give you any inclination of what the object might be, or did you intimate what the object might be?”
“Of course I didn’t! And no, she did not refer to anything specifically by name. Anyway you’ll find out for yourself soon enough.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Cavendish.
“I may not be a psychopathic inquisitor like you, but I do recognise desire and greed when I come across it. She obviously believes the object to be very valuable, either in an archaeological or monetary sense.”
“I think he meant psychological, Marchel,” interjected Miles apologetically.
“Could you let me have her contact details, please?” Cavendish requested of Simeon.
“Miles,” Simeon barked. Miles Goldstein scurried away with exaggerated haste from the table to go to their office to retrieve the information.
“Poor Miles is somewhat distracted at the moment,” said Simeon casually in the direction of Victor, “he seems to have found a new boyfriend and is somewhat besotted”. It was obvious to Beckett who the dominant brother was. He felt the continuing oppressiveness as silence reigned during Miles’ absence and was relieved when he returned carrying a business card, which he handed over to Cavendish. Beckett hoped that the interview was drawing to a close.
"Are you confident that all the items are secure, Simeon," asked Cavendish. "Now we know the auction has been compromised we must ensure nothing goes missing."
"Of course they are secure, only Miles and I have access until the time of auction," replied Simeon dismissively, insulted by the inquisitors doubt. Cavendish nodded sagaciously, the last thing he need after the incident in Prague was to be involved in a case where theft was again a possibility.
“What do you know of any special items that may be up for sale?” asked Cavendish of Simeon speculatively. He was still acutely aware of Christian Searsby’s comment at breakfast after his first night at Flash Seminary. Simeon thought he kept his poker face well under control, yet Cavendish detected a slight twitch at the corner of Simeon’s left eye. Cavendish did not play poker, for him life was a constant gamble.
“All the items in the sale are special; the articles possessed by the late member are highly sought after.” Simeon used the traditional etiquette of not referring to the recently deceased Ghost by name.
Cavendish’s face visibly hardened; to Beckett it seemed to become more angular, its softer edges swept away. He knew that his employer had been walking a tightrope of emotional control ever since Hugo Victor had entered the room.
“You are lying to me, Simeon,” said Cavendish equably. Simeon’s face flushed within a matter of seconds, he pushed himself erect with both hands against the tabletop so that he half stood as he leant over the table.
“You young schmutz!” shouted Simeon at Cavendish, “who the hell do you think you are talking to, some little arse-wipe in the Fatherland! I was holding auctions for the firm when you were still wetting the bed!” Simeon made the mistake of casting one glance too many to Victor.
“I’m talking to you, you fat...!” exploded Cavendish as he gave up all pretence of sangfroid. He clumsily reached inside his woollen coat, extracted his Python revolver from its shoulder holster and held the six-inch chrome plated barrel inches from Simeon’s forehead.
“Now tell me straight or I’ll blow your head off!” demanded Cavendish as he cocked the hammer of the revolver.
Beckett leapt back in his chair and looked in anguish towards his apoplectic colleague, yet all he saw was the blood vessels in Cavendish temple throb above his scarred eyebrow as the inquisitor flexed his jaw.
“That’s enough, Marchel!” ordered Victor from the back of the room. “Simeon pushed you a bit too far, now put the gun away, or it will be the Siebenbürgen this time!”
A visibly shaken Simeon slowly lowered himself back into his seat away from the barrel of the gun that followed him.
“Okay, Marchel. Just calm down you stupid bastard,” said Simeon calmly. He doubted that Cavendish would pull the trigger and yet he reminded himself that there were good reasons why certain sayings stood the test of time. The saying ‘there is no smoke without fire’ rang loudly in his ears. Cavendish had earned his notorious reputation for one reason or another.
“There are certain items in the sale that are highly thought of but,” Simeon laid heavy emphasis on the ‘but’, “they are not Anglo Saxon and Dr Spelman made no reference to them, so as far as I’m concerned it bears no relevance to this heresy.” Cavendish continued to point the gun as he considered Simeon’s reply. Slowly he lowered the gun and returned it to the shoulder holster.
Cavendish raised himself from the chair as if it was an act of supreme human effort. Beckett sat shell shocked, glued to his seat. Like everyone else in the room, he felt frightened to make any sudden or rash movements for fear of provoking the Untersucher.
The inquisitor placed the card that Miles had handed him in his black notebook, secured the leather fastening and returned the book to his pocket. The atmosphere in the room seemed to ease with the disappearance of the book and revolver.
“Thank you for your time. Thomas and I will be leaving now,” proclaimed Cavendish. Beckett noted how strained his colleague suddenly appeared as he addressed the room almost apologetically.
Simeon looked relieved to hear Cavendish’s announcement. He appeared similarly stressed, as if he had just sat an examination. Miles sat quietly at the table with a simpering, apologetic smile on his face whilst Hugo Victor sat impassively as he had been throughout the interview.
“No doubt I will be in touch shortly, gentlemen. Remember to keep me informed if Dr Spelman should contact you in the meantime. There is no need to show us out, I’m sure that Mr Beckett and I can find our own way. Good day to you all.”
Cavendish made for the parlour door whilst Beckett looked around the room at the three faces for any glimmer of acknowledgement but each purposely seemed to avoid establishing eye contact. Beckett followed Cavendish with a deliberate casualness that failed to impress anyone.
The Untersucher strode briskly in the wrong direction as Beckett stood on the worn steps outside the Goldstein dwelling, his hands resting on his hips. His mind was in turmoil, he had no idea what he was involved with or with whom he was involved. Cavendish was rapidly disappearing into the distance as his long strides carried him unknowingly towards the Circus. Beckett was not a deep thinker; he worked at an intuitive as opposed to a rational level. At that moment, he had seemingly two choices, to return to the car or follow the irascible and unfathomable German. God help him, but he followed the German.
CHAPTER 10. BUTCH AND SUNDANCE
It was a singular sight that that greeted Cavendish. He was familiar with the rich architecture of European capitals, the Baroque and Rococo styles that dominated the romantic period of imperial expansionism. Yet he had never seen anything quite like this.
The Georgian architecture was undeniably classical yet he found a disturbing earthiness about the whole scene. The trees that dominated the central roundabout were old and stood ominously stark and organic against the encompassing, ostensibly synthetic, wall of Bath stone. The decorations that embellished the architecture conveyed an apparent significance that he could not decipher save for odd references to Masonic and esoteric cultures. His attention was drawn to th
e carved image of a man’s face wreathed in vines like some reference to Bacchus.
Beckett emerged onto the famous Bath Circus by way of one of the many roads that terminated at the Georgian roundabout. He spotted Cavendish staring intently up at the engravings that adorned the circling houses. He was drawing heavily on a cigarette. He guessed that Cavendish smoked by the residual odour that filled the car when he first picked him up in the morning, yet it was the first time he had seen him indulge. An open top tourist bus rattled by as Beckett stood beside Cavendish.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get paid,” said Cavendish without tearing his gaze away from the enigmatic carvings.
“I thought you wanted to go out to the Mendip Hills this afternoon?” asked Beckett contritely. Cavendish looked to his left where Beckett stood at his shoulder.
“Don’t you want to go anymore?” asked Beckett. Cavendish continued to stare at Beckett as he took a long draw on his cigarette.
“You are a strange man, Thomas Beckett.”
“Pot, kettle, black, I believe, Herr Cavendish.”
“I’m sorry?” said an uncomprehending Cavendish.
“Oh, I suspect you probably are,” quipped Beckett. Cavendish tossed his cigarette end away.
“And you think I’m the strange one.”
“Oh, you’re strange alright, Cavendish. Do you want to go to the Mendips or not?”
“Are you not going to ask me what just happened?” asked Cavendish. Unusually, Beckett thought through his answer before replying.
“Well, you claim I don’t know you, but I think I’ve sussed you well enough to know that you will tell me eventually, so long as I don’t get hospitalised and you don’t bugger off in a huff. Saying that I haven’t let you do the latter, then I reckon you will tell me, ‘cos I reckon you are the most important person in your life and I’m the only tosser around here who will listen.”
Cavendish gave a rueful shake of his head and offered an easy smile that few people had ever seen. “Ouch, incisive, wounding and succinct. We’ll make a German of you yet, Herr Beckett. Now where the hell did you park your car?”
* * *
Yoxter Manor sat high the Mendip Hills. It was a non-listed building of medieval origins yet few people knew of its existence, it lay secluded in its environment, far enough off the beaten track to avoid the speculative curiosity of visitors from the nearby city of Bristol, the large town of Weston-super-Mare or the nearby tourist destination of Cheddar gorge.
Yoxter Manor was the home of the Montgomery family. They had lived in the Manor for unbroken generations and were an offshoot from Roger de Montgomery, a famous Marcher Lord, supporter and advisor to William the Conqueror. This branch of the Montgomery family had its own claim to fame, responsible for holding one of the only two sanctioned auctions in the UK. As auction holders, they were well placed in the British hierarchy of the firm.
Whereas Flash Seminary carried out a plethora of roles on behalf of the firm, Yoxter Manor remained in private hands and considered itself to be the home of auctions despite its second rate appearance when compared to Flash.
The nominal head of the family was Ralph Montgomery whereas the practical head was his wife, Estelle. Both, now in their fifties, were former Barristers. The Manor was also home to their two children, namely Jasmine and Edward.
“Who is this man coming to see us, dear?” asked Ralph directing his question at his wife.
“A man named Cavendish, darling,” replied the authoritative voice of Estelle, who even now spoke as if addressing a jury. Both were sitting in comfortable wicker chairs in the sometimes sun-warmed conservatory at the rear of the Manor. Some may have said that the conservatory was an inappropriate addition to such an ancient house; however, no one ever dared mentioned it to Estelle Montgomery, who was proud of her collection of flowering plants.
“What does he want?” asked Ralph, a pained expression overwhelming his prematurely lined face. “I’ve a busy day ahead; I could do without any distractions.”
“Darling,” said Estelle. “You’ve not had a busy day in the past fifteen years. The ‘busiest’ I’ve ever seen you was the time I caught you servicing that young clerk on the judge’s table.”
“Ooh yes, I’d quite forgotten about her.” Ralph smiled as he recalled the incident in his mind’s eye. “She had the loveliest...”
“That’s enough, Ralph. We don’t want any more or your smut, thank you very much.”
“I’m sorry, my dear. But who is this Cavendish fellow?” asked Ralph.
Estelle began slowly to explain Cavendish’s role to her husband.
“Apparently he’s one of those bloody inquisitors who like to pry into other people’s business. He seems to have a very mixed reputation, depends of course to whom one speaks. If you’ve been wayward then it is said he can be rather nasty, but then what does one expect from an inquisitor. They are not paid to be liked; they are paid to get results. I’ve been told he has an excellent clear up rate but has the reputation of being rather messy; he seems to have accumulated rather a large body count in a short space of time. I understand he is here to do penance for a serious misdemeanour in Prague. You really should take more interest in the goings on of the firm. My only concern is that he would hardly be coming to see us merely for a social call, his kind seldom do.”
“You I know I leave all the funny stuff to you, my darling. So what is he coming here for, have you been upsetting the Ghosts again?” queried Ralph.
“That was many years ago, darling, and all a misunderstanding. I was simply looking after the necklace until the time of the auction.”
“You were damned lucky that the inquisitor on the case fancied you or else we could both have been for the chop.”
“One makes one tiny mistake and nobody allows you to forget it, I don’t know why you keep bringing up the subject.”
“Because I can, darling, because I can,” said Ralph dryly.
“You can be an absolute beast at times, Ralph. Just remember who keeps this house on the straight and narrow.” Estelle sniffled into her handkerchief.
“I’m sorry, darling, that was very insensitive of me,” said Ralph apologetically. He raised the newspaper he was reading to his face in pretence of turning the page and so hid his gleeful smile.
Thomas Beckett was, as most Bristolians, quite familiar with the Mendip Hills, it was a natural place of pilgrimage for the city dweller intent on a little piece of rural solitude. He drove Cavendish out over Dundry and descended through the low clouds to the Chew Valley Lake before ascending the escarpment towards Priddy. Yet as he followed Cavendish’s directions, he realised that he had no idea where they were heading and the sight of Yoxter Manor, when it appeared before them, came as a complete revelation.
It could never be said that the house bore the image of a National Trust property, the grounds were tended as opposed to kept and the house had an air of careless abandonment about it. It had been extended and altered so many times over the years that it had lost any clear architectural style. Beckett best summed it up as ‘Nouveau Mongrel’. He steadily negotiated the twisting gravel drive through the trees that hid the house from the roadside view, and parked by an ageing blue Volvo estate.
“Before we go in remember what I said,” announced Cavendish, “that these people are to be treated with due politeness.”
“Hold on a minute,” replied Beckett, “it’s you that does all the chit chat, not me. What do you suppose I’m going to say?”
“Nothing, Thomas, but you did say you that you wanted to be given the heads up after our meeting with Simeon and Miles.”
“Yeah, you filled me in as far as who these people are. I still don’t pretend to understand what they are all about. I’ll just follow you and look suitably earnest. Just don’t go playing with that bloody gun!”
“Good plan, Thomas, let’s go.”
Cavendish and Beckett simultaneously vacated the car but by the time Beckett had managed to lock the door with
the malfunctioning key fob Cavendish was already ringing the bell at the oak front. Had the world still been a just place the door would have been attended to by a butler. At least that was Ralph’s take on things. As it was, an elderly careworn woman wearing an apron and an expression of indifference opened the door.
“They don’t want to change gas supplier nor electric. They don’t want new windows and they don’t want to set up a direct debit for a new home for abused ponies.”
“Not even pit ponies?” asked Cavendish.
“Christ,” said the woman “when was pit ponies last used?”
“The last one retired in 1999 or so I believe.”
“Really, I thought they disappeared when they stopped sending kids up chimneys.”
“I’m afraid not. Anyhow, we have not come for any of your mentioned reasons; we have come to see Mr and Mrs Montgomery. I believe you’ll find that they are expecting us.”
The woman cast a dubious eye over Cavendish with his outlandish scar and then Beckett. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “no skin off my nose, lover, you better come with me. Make sure you wipe your feet.”
They followed the woman to the rear of the house, only Beckett checked his shoes as requested. They were shown into a large, airy conservatory, which was pleasantly warm on this spring day despite the lack of sunshine, the air heavy with the scent of cultivated flowers.
“You’ve got guests, Mrs Montgomery,” announced the woman.
“Thank you, Mrs Lampkin. That will be all,” announced Estelle as she rose from her seat. Mary Lampkin shook her head as she left the conservatory to return to her cleaning duties upstairs. “She really is an angel,” said Estelle, “I don’t know how we’d manage without her. The two hours a day she spends here are invaluable. Welcome to Yoxter Manor, gentlemen.”
Beckett decided that Estelle was perhaps best described as handsome as opposed to attractive. She was tall yet retained a full, feminine figure and he noted her expensive plain dress and blonde hair, styled in a fashion made popular by Margaret Thatcher in the eighties. It was the latter aspect of her appearance that put the socialist Beckett on his guard.
Denied to all but Ghosts Page 9