Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Good day, Sir, Ma’am,” Cavendish bowed and snapped his heels smartly together as he made his introductions. “My name is Marchel Cavendish, Untersucher medius. May I introduce my associate, Thomas Beckett.” No handshakes took place, just a polite nodding of the head from Ralph Montgomery.

  “Associate,” queried Estelle, “what sort of title is that, certainly not one that I have encountered the firm using?”

  “Ma’am, Mr Beckett is assisting me. He is new to our world but is keen to learn.”

  “And has he been thoroughly assessed?”

  “Indeed so, Ma’am, indeed he has. I am his sponsor.” Beckett looked hard at Cavendish as yet another revelation came to light. Whatever Cavendish had told him, there seemed to be an awful lot omitted. Estelle caught the puzzled look that momentarily betrayed itself on Beckett’s face, for she stared at him as if assessing his worth and potential.

  “Are you one of the Canterbury Becketts?” Estelle asked.

  “No, I’m one of the Bedminster Becketts,” he replied.

  “Ah, ‘Bed’ as in corruption of ‘Venerable Bede’ and ‘minster’ as ‘large church’?”

  “I don’t rightly know about that, Mrs Montgomery. I’d say it was ‘Bed’ as in good line of charity shops and ‘minster’ as in excellent Polish convenience stores.” Estelle looked at Beckett trying to take the measure of the man. She discerned nothing of value beneath his good looks except a sharp sense of sarcasm, which would not have been amiss at her time at the Bar.

  “I think you have your work cut out with this one, Herr Cavendish.”

  “I’m not German, Ma’am,” replied Cavendish. Beckett glanced heavenwards, Cavendish clearly could not help himself, he seemed resolved on confrontation and being contrary in all his dealings.

  “Really? Oh, you never can tell these days, Common Market and all that.”

  “EU, Ma’am, we do not refer to it as the Common Market.”

  “Are you always so pedantic, Mr Cavendish?”

  “Apparently so, Ma’am.”

  “What brings you to Yoxter Manor, Cavendish?” asked Ralph.

  “Sir, I am investigating a possible anomaly in the forth coming auction. An academic named Dr Emily Spelman has approached Simeon and Miles Goldstein. She wishes to inspect a valuable Anglo Saxon item. Initial enquiries indicate that that she believes the object to be of monetary value as well as historical worth. The lack of specificity leads me to believe that she does not know of the catalogue, hence any details of the auction itself. Thus, we can conclude that she stumbled across the auction by accident or that she has been fed information by a third party. I favour the latter hypothesis and my investigations are so directed. I have arranged to meet Dr Spelman on Wednesday. She is travelling down from Oxford in the afternoon. I wish to inform you personally of the situation and to assure you that everything possible is being done to locate the source of the leak and prevent the auction from being compromised.”

  “That is damned decent of you, Cavendish,” said Ralph.

  “But how do you know that we are not the cause of your problems?” asked Estelle bluntly.

  “My dear, what on earth are you saying, Herr Cavendish cannot possibly suspect us, we are beyond reproach!” said Ralph indignantly.

  “But not so all members of the family, is that not so, Mr Cavendish?” said Estelle.

  “I’m very grateful to you, Ma’am, for making my task easier. Have you any reason to suspect any members of your family of trying to sabotage the auction?”

  Estelle took the lead in answering Cavendish’s questions.

  “I’m sure you are aware of the stories that surround our family, some may be true, and others are the result of spite and envy. As far as I’m concerned, Jasmine is well provided. She leads a happy, if somewhat shallow life. Now Teddy, I cannot say with certainty what he is capable of, it is usually the case of what he’s incapable of.”

  “Estelle, how can you say such things!” was Ralph’s only contribution to the proceedings.

  “Ralph, darling, Teddy is feckless, a lazy good for nothing, who will bring nothing but ruin on this family.”

  “Is Edward here today, Ma’am?” asked Cavendish.

  “He is with Jasmine in the living room; I’ll show you the way.”

  Estelle led Cavendish and Beckett from the warm conservatory into the gloomy and chilly interior of the manor. Beckett felt relieved to be away from the stifling pungency of the conservatory. He was surprised how ordinary the house appeared, there were no trappings of grand design, no opulent portraits of ancestors or suits of armour guarding the hallway.

  The living room, when revealed, would not have looked out of place in an IKEA catalogue. Jasmine and Edward lounged on a modern white leather sofa, Jasmine in one corner with her legs neatly tucked under her, Edward with his legs stretched out resting on the glass top coffee table. A large French window looked out onto a walled garden.

  Beckett vaguely recognised the end credits theme tune to ‘Friends’ issuing from the TV set. His daughter, Sarah, would have felt very much at home in Yoxter Manor.

  Estelle took her leave before Cavendish had to make the request and he walked slowly over to stand beside the TV to face the two siblings. Beckett started to walk over to join him but was aware of the scratching sound that a piece of gravel, trapped in his trainers, made against the parquet flooring. He self consciously halted mid stride and awkwardly took up a stance giving him a sideways view of the interviewees.

  He watched as the two youngsters turn their gaze towards him and sensed, rather than observed, Cavendish glance in his direction. He felt himself blush as he attempted to give his face the earnest, alert expression he said he would attempt to project. He sadly concluded that he was no Marchel Cavendish.

  Both of the younger Montgomery children were older that he had imagined, in their twenties most certainly. Jasmine was pretty with an almond shaped face framed by straight shoulder length, auburn hair, an amused smile lit her face, her slightly over-large eyes made her face appear expressive and innocent. He thought she possessed the haughty, beguiling beauty of the old aristocracy that masked the world from seeing the true person. She seemed absorbed with her text messaging on her mobile phone.

  Edward’s face wore a frown that creased his forehead, his tousled hair was already starting to thin and recede, and each facet foretold his future, that with every passing year he would come to resemble the image that his father currently portrayed.

  “Switch the TV off please,” said Cavendish to neither Jasmine nor Edward in particular. Their eyes left Beckett and fixed on Cavendish’s steely countenance. Beckett’s heart sank as he felt a replay of the earlier meeting with the Goldsteins.

  “Actually Marchel, I quite like the TV playing, it kind o’ lightens the mood a little.” Cavendish fixed his stare on Beckett. He had never seen Cavendish look at him in such away and he realised now how unsettling it was, why Simeon had over reacted with false bravado and anger. The look he gave disabled ones natural thought processes, replacing them with an incoherency that invoked irrational responses and over sensitivity.

  The Untersucher looked back towards Edward.

  “Thomas is quite right, the TV will stay on,” said Cavendish lightly, belying the look he had just shown the room.

  “My name is Cavendish, Untersucher medius; I am here to ask questions. Miss Montgomery, it is my understanding that you play no role in the running of this house, is that correct?”

  “No, that is incorrect,” said Jasmine, pouting her bright red glossed lips, “I look after the stable block, my two horses, Butch and Sundance.” She pointed a finger at Cavendish, “I’ve got you pegged as Butch, not so sure about Sundance though, a handsome stallion, but not much between his ears.”

  Beckett had never been so tastefully insulted in all his life, even now he could forgive her, accepting the slander as youthful impetuosity.

  “I think you misread us, Miss Montgomery,” answered Cavendish, �
�I think you’ll find Mr Beckett is the man with the brains, I’m the one with the gun.”

  “Whatever you say, sweetie,” said Jasmine carelessly with a dismissive wave of the hand, as she resumed her texting.

  “Miss Montgomery, you may leave the room, I have no wish to speak with you for the moment,” said Cavendish sternly.

  “I’ll stay here, thank you very much,” replied Jasmine, not bothering to look at her interviewer. Beckett detected a quiet determination in the girl.

  “As you please,” continued Cavendish. “Mr Montgomery, I have read your file and there are some disturbing revelations.”

  “You’ve read what file?” asked Edward angrily, if he had shown fear, it had only acted to fire his belligerence. Beckett had noted this reaction in Simeon Goldstein, only at that time he had not realised quite how Cavendish’s attitude had provoked it.

  “Your file cites acts of anti-social behaviour,” continued Cavendish, ignoring Edward’s reply, “these misdemeanours could indicate a predilection for acts against the firm. Surely, you must be aware that your actions would prompt an inquisition at some point. Is that what you wanted to achieve?”

  The silence that followed disturbed Beckett more that the words that Cavendish had spoken. He concluded that there really was something sinister about quietude. Suddenly the theme tune to the comedy DVD filled the air as the next episode the sprung into life.

  “I’ve read about you, Herr Cavendish,” announced Edward Montgomery, “read about you in a report that Mum had. It was about one of your cases, in Prague, I think.” If Cavendish was surprised or taken aback, he did not show it.

  “Mr Montgomery,” said Cavendish accusingly, “have you set out to compromise the forth coming auction?”

  “No, I’ve not.” Edwards’s declaration did not sound as convincing as he had hoped.

  “Have you contacted an Oxford academic with information relating to certain items?”

  “Of course I bloody haven’t, why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you are a waster, you have a good mind yet you choose to waste it. You are a loser.”

  “You bastard!” shouted Teddy Montgomery, “you should try living in a world of bollocks and bullshit!”

  “I do live in your world and I am charged to protect it,” said Cavendish arrogantly.

  “What, like you did in Prague?” spat Edward, “you, Mr German, are at the last chance saloon. You’re the fucking loser around here!” Beckett noted the further alarming pause following Edward’s swingeing verbal attack. The inquisitor broke the standoff.

  “Come with me,” ordered Cavendish assertively. Edward had no intention of moving. “Come with me,” repeated Cavendish.

  With the completion of his words Cavendish sprang forward with lightening speed, grabbed Edward Montgomery’s woollen jumper at the shoulder, bunching the green material in his clenched fist, lifted the stunned youngster bodily from the sofa, and promptly walked and half dragged him towards the door. Beckett could just discern Cavendish’s whispered words as he led the protesting Edward towards the door. “Time you and I had a quiet chat...”

  Jasmine smiled at what she thought was a most amusing scene played out for her benefit. Beckett was frozen to the spot, events happening too fast for him to respond to cognitively.

  The door opened before Cavendish reached it. Estelle, who had obviously been standing behind the door eavesdropping, stood aside as Cavendish and Edward disappeared through the door. Estelle bequeathed Edward a scathing look as he vanished.

  “Jasmine, don’t look so pleased with yourself, darling,” said Estelle. She turned to the bewildered Becket and said quietly, “do not be concerned, Mr Beckett. Herr Cavendish has just taken Teddy outside to have a word in his ear. I sometimes don’t think that boy is one of us at all.”

  CHAPTER 11. A ONE TRICK HORSE IN PRAGUE.

  During the short walk back to the car Beckett avoided looking at Cavendish. He pointed his key fob at the Focus and pressed the unlock button repeatedly to little effect.

  “Would it not be quicker to put the key in the lock, Thomas?” queried Cavendish. Beckett persisted with his efforts, holding the key fob at various angles to the window and dashboard before finally, a dull single thud from the driver’s door locking mechanism endorsed Beckett’s grunts of encouragement.

  Beckett climbed hurriedly into the car and leaned across to open the passenger door. Cavendish lowered his body into the car and meticulously wrapped the material of his long coat around his legs. Beckett could not resist a quick glance at Cavendish. He caught Cavendish staring at him and immediately turned his head away.

  “It’s alright Thomas, I’m not angry with you.” Beckett peered at Cavendish.

  “What do you mean?” asked Beckett.

  “I mean that I’m not angry with you,” said Cavendish evenly.

  “I didn’t say that you were,” said Beckett evasively.

  “You didn’t have to say anything; I know what you’re thinking. Drive on before the Montgomery clan wonder what we’re up to.”

  Beckett started the car and accelerated with greater severity than he had intended and the gravel path could tolerate. Gravel spewed from the front drive wheels and showered the lawn and the parked Volvo.

  “Anyway, you don’t know what I’m thinking,” said Beckett.

  “Yes I do,” countered Cavendish, peering in the door mirror to verify Beckett’s efforts at pebble dashing the old Volvo.

  “So what was I thinking?” demanded Beckett.

  “You were thinking that I was angry with you.”

  “No I wasn’t,” replied Beckett more vociferously than he had intended.

  “You were thinking that Jasmine was very photogenic and how well she would look through the view finder of your camera.” Beckett pulled out onto the tarmac road that signified, he hoped, a return to normality.

  “No I wasn’t!” shouted Beckett.

  “You always look at women like that,” commented Cavendish.

  “No I don’t!” protested Beckett. “You calling me some sort of perv or something?”

  “No, I find your appreciation of women very refreshing. My world can be most misogynistic at times. Moreover, no, I’m not upset with you, quite the contrary. You made my job a lot easier.”

  “I did?” asked a surprised Beckett.

  “Yes, it made the interview much shorter that I had planned, we cut to the chase very quickly. I cannot keep brandishing my weapon at people. People will consider me a one trick horse.”

  Beckett laughed aloud as he steered through the twisting lanes, partly in relief from not having incurred the wrath of the Untersucher and also from the German’s misuse of the English language.

  “Why do you continually burst out laughing for no apparent reason?” asked Cavendish, correctly assuming that he was the source of Beckett’s merriment.

  “You know, Cavendish, you really are a funny bastard. The funny thing is you don’t realise it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Cavendish suspiciously, turning to face his accuser.

  “Well, ‘brandishing my weapon’, I mean.” Beckett adopted a juvenile voice to repeat Cavendish’s words.

  “What is wrong with that?” asked a flummoxed Cavendish.

  “What the hell do you think it sounds like?”

  “It sounds like I got my weapon out to show people.” Beckett laughed again, more forcefully this time.

  “Marchel, why don’t you try listening to yourself occasionally?”

  “Thomas, my English is very good, I will have you know I studied the works of all the great English writers,” said Cavendish indignantly.

  “Yes, that’s your problem. You’re a little bit too highbrow for us country boys. And by the way, it’s ‘one trick pony’, not ‘one trick horse’.”

  “Are you sure, Thomas?”

  “Oh, I’m sure, Herr Cavendish. I’ve been meaning to ask since earlier on, are you really bonkers or is it all an act?” Beckett
was feeling emboldened by his criticisms of the Untersucher.

  “Bonkers? Oh, you mean mentally deranged. Of course it’s an act. It is an assumed role. I merely step into the role that is required of me.” Beckett was not convinced.

  “So what did you say to the young Montgomery lad?” Cavendish did not reply immediately, a few hundred yards of hedgerow sped by before he answered.

  “I gave him some careers advice.”

  “Careers advice?” asked Beckett dubiously.

  “That’s right; he is a good lad at heart, I can see a bright future for him.”

  “And what would that be?” asked Beckett.

  “Ah, now that would be telling, but there is certainly no love lost between Edward and the rest of the family.”

  “So why doesn’t he leave them?” asked Beckett.

  “You know families are not that straight forward from your own experiences,” Cavendish was actually thinking of his own. Beckett nodded his.

  “So Edward wasn’t a suspect?”

  “Not particularly, everyone is a suspect at the moment but I cannot see a particular motive for him to betray the firm. He does not seem idealistic or ambitious enough based on the little talk I had with him. But I can’t have people questioning me in public; I do have a reputation to uphold.”

  Neither man spoke until they reached the reservoir.

  “Marchel?” asked Beckett who had been deliberating whether now was a good time to start asking questions.

  “Yes, Thomas?”

  “What did the kid mean when he said you were at the last chance saloon?” Cavendish considered what he should say to Beckett. His natural response would have been to say nothing, yet Beckett’s dogged steadfastness following the Goldstein interview had touched an underused part of the Cavendish psyche. What he said he would never have said to anyone else, save perhaps for one other person.

  “My track record has been a little shaky of late, Thomas. My success rate has been maintained, and that is the key criteria to my assessment and rating but unfortunately there have been a few complications, such as in Prague.”