Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “That depends on your definition of treasure. What is more valuable, a diamond ring in a jewellers shop or the ring worn by Jeanne d’Arc when she was burnt at the stake by the perfidious English?”

  “Before I met you my answer would have been quite different,” replied Thomas thoughtfully.

  “In our world, Thomas, provenance is everything. I have seen the most apparently wretched objects bought for millions purely because of the story they told.”

  “I rather like that,” said Beckett, “one day my old slippers might actually be worth something.”

  “I am really looking forward to meeting Miss Spelman tonight,” continued Cavendish.

  “Doctor,” corrected Beckett.

  “Why are you ill?” enquired Cavendish. Beckett glanced across at Cavendish to explain his challenge. However, he was cut short by Cavendish’s broad smile.

  “My dear, Mr Cavendish. I believe you made a funny. My company is obviously rubbing off on you. I must make a note on Twitter.” The smile had not left Cavendish’s face as he surveyed the water and watched a small cruiser pass the SS Great Britain heading down towards the lock gates.

  “You suddenly seem very pleased with yourself, Marchel, is there something you aren’t telling me?”

  “Sorry, Thomas. We are just reaching an interesting point in the investigation, we are finally to meet the person who has instigated the whole chain of events, don’t you find that exciting?” Beckett thought of the face portrayed in the picture that Cavendish had shown him.

  “Yeah, I reckon you could be right, Marchel,” said Beckett, unaware of the impact that Dr Emily Spelman would make on his life.

  CHAPTER 13. AN ODOUR OF PRIMACY.

  The chill of the day heralded a cold evening. Thomas Beckett had caught a taxi into the city. After the sofa antics of the previous evening, he was glad that Cavendish had booked him an hotel room for the night.

  The taxi had dropped him off at the Centre permitting him to walk the last few hundred yards to the hotel. He enjoyed the centre at night and the cloud of the day had introduced a prematurely dark evening. At this time of the day, the Centre was not particularly busy, the Hippodrome audience were already seated and watching their chosen show, and the youngsters would not be out in force on this Wednesday evening.

  He rounded the corner, heading for College Green and looked towards the illuminated cathedral. The artist in him always appreciated the way that city buildings were lit up at night; it was both aesthetic and comforting. He pulled back his jacket and shirtsleeve, revealing the second hand of his Rolex watch, purchased with the proceeds following his first affiliation with Cavendish. It was his treat before handing the remaining cash to Sue and was the last he saw of the money, yet he felt a pang of remorse at his self-assumed extravagance, which he quickly tried to shrug off.

  Only fifteen minutes late, Beckett hoped that Dr Spelman would be later still, for he had no desire to let Cavendish down. The inquisitor was sitting alone at the corner table with place settings laid out for three people. As Beckett traversed the plush carpeted floor, the thought crossed his mind that the words of ‘Cavendish’ and ‘alone’ seemed to make an apt pairing.

  Cavendish wore his pale blue jacket and white open necked shirt, his casual elegance provoking Beckett to feel anachronistically over dressed by way of wearing a suit and tie. On his approach to the table, Cavendish stood up and offered him his hand in greeting, adding to Beckett’s discomfort. Meeting Cavendish, even after a short absence, often felt like meeting him for the first time.

  Cavendish expressed his broadest asymmetrical smile. Beckett wished he had offered his more modest version for it was far less likely to upset the appetites of the other diners. He reflected that Cavendish’s most genuine smile was often his most visually intimidating.

  “Mr Beckett, so glad you could make it!” Cavendish enthused.

  “Hell, Marchel, I had no other plans for the evening, I just happened to be passing and all.”

  “It is a beautiful evening in Bristol, don’t you think?” said Cavendish warmly. Beckett doubted the sincerity of his friend’s sudden enthusiasm for his home city but took it as a good omen for the coming evening as he removed his jacket and placed it on the back of the heavy chair.

  “I ordered the same wine as the other evening, if that is alright with you? You certainly seemed to enjoy that grape.” Cavendish continued to smile.

  “Are you okay, Marchel, you seem, ah, rather buoyant shall we say?”

  “I’m fine, Thomas, I’m just excited about meeting Dr Spelman. It is where we cut the Gordian knot.”

  “What?”

  “It is where we begin to unravel the mystery of the missing link!”

  “I suggest you calm down a bit before Dr Spelman gets here or else you’ll scare her off. Your eagerness is certainly scaring me. Oh-oh, don’t look now, but judging by the picture you showed me earlier, Elvis has just entered the building.”

  Dr Emily Spelman walked into the restaurant with a practiced confidence and assuredness. Beckett followed her passage across the floor whilst Cavendish studied Beckett’s expression; he smiled to himself, amused by Beckett’s lack of subtlety.

  Emily wore a plain white blouse beneath a blue two-piece suit, the image of a woman on business rather than pleasure, except perhaps for the extra inches afforded by her heeled shoes. Her long brown hair shimmered in the soft candle light of the restaurant. Cavendish whispered in Beckett’s ear.

  “Please don’t drool so, Thomas, it makes you look like an imbecile”.

  Cavendish stood and held out his hand in greeting.

  “Doctor Spelman, it is very good to meet you. My name is Marchel Cavendish, and this is my associate, Thomas Beckett.” Not for the first time, Beckett empathised with Dr Watson as he took Emily’s hand.

  “A murdered Arch Bishop, how absolutely fascinating!” An infectious smile lit up her face, a smile as sharp and as potentially deadly as a rapier. She spoke with a precision and engaging clarity that her years in Oxford had inured. She noted the way that Beckett’s eyes slowly scanned appreciatively up and down her body before returning to her full glossed lips as a facial focal point.

  Both men savoured her intoxicating perfume but interpreted the scent in different ways. For Cavendish her scent implied good taste and elicited his sexual yearning, currently on hold whilst in England. For Beckett it oozed expense, personifying the unobtainable and provoked intimidation.

  “Please sit down, Dr Spelman. May I offer you a drink, I ordered a Sauvignon Blanc?”

  “Thank you, Herr Cavendish” replied Emily graciously. Cavendish poured a generous measure of the wine into her waiting glass.

  “You are German, I take it?” Cavendish frowned at her observation.

  “No, I’m not German,” he replied brusquely. Beckett smiled at the familiar denunciation.

  “My apologies, Mr Cavendish. Following my talks with Mr Goldstein I was under the impression that you were.” Emily emphasised the ‘Mr’. “I must say I was most intrigued by your summons. Succinct, yet deliberately obscure. Hard for a girl to resist.” Cavendish replied with his most restrained, charming smile, which Beckett thought he must have worked hard on in front of a mirror to perfect.

  “Are you staying here in Bristol, Dr Spelman or do you plan to return to Oxford this evening?” enquired Cavendish.

  “I’m not sure it’s any of your business, Mr Cavendish, but as you ask, I’m staying at the hotel just off Corn Street.”

  “Excellent! Then we can enjoy a pleasant meal without you having to rush off,” enthused Cavendish, failing to observe his partner cringing at the affected bonhomie.

  Emily studied Cavendish with what she considered her most equivocal expression. She was trying desperately to assess the man and was thus far struggling. He dressed expensively; she could tell that his jacket and shirt were of good quality. He looked fit and assured of himself. Despite his denials, he portrayed the image of the German executive or acade
mic, which her career had brought her into contact with many times.

  What troubled her was his face. It was certainly not traditionally handsome, for the face lacked the equilibrium that handsomeness demanded. Nevertheless, she conceded, he possessed a fascinating face, not unattractive to certain women. Was it an honest face? Well, it certainly did not invoke a reaction to fear for ones well-being but it possessed a certain rigidity and his very pale blue eyes emoted a cautionary frostiness. Whoever he was, he was not the man he had fabricated for this moment. The scar was his most intriguing attribute, perhaps the fact that she considered it an attribute and not a disfigurement revealed more about herself than him.

  Cavendish passed the menus around. “May I offer you dinner tonight in way of recompense for the curtness of my invitation? When Simeon explained to me that you had been in touch I thought directness was the best way of settling this matter.”

  “I kindly accept your offer, Mr Cavendish, but please don’t be insulted if I say that I’m not easily bought.” Cavendish smiled knowingly yet hid the rush of optimism that assailed him.

  “Dr Spelman, please, I meant to make no such intimation, if I did then I apologise unreservedly.” Cavendish bowed his head as he made his apology.

  “Are you sure you’re not German?” asked Emily for a second time. Beckett choked on his wine. He had not expected such a direct and confrontational question to be asked by the Good Doctor. He found the spontaneous reiteration of the question amusingly timely and confirmed his early suspicion that the evening was certainly not going to be uneventful. Unlike the earlier interviews with the Goldsteins and the Montgomerys, here he felt at ease in the presence of Cavendish and a beautiful woman whilst quaffing expensive wine. And it was not even his birthday.

  Cavendish did not respond to Emily’s baiting but carried on as if the remark had not been made.

  “You contacted the Goldsteins claiming that you were aware of a certain item that was going to be sold at a private auction.”

  “You are most correct in your assertion,” replied Emily. She stopped talking as the waiter walked across to the table to inquire if they were ready to order. The starter and main course orders were taken.

  “You don’t seem very big on small talk, Mr Cavendish,” said Emily as the waiter left with their order, “you have not asked a single question about who I am. I can only assume that you already know.”

  “Again my apologies, Dr Spelman, indeed I do know of you, professionally speaking.”

  “Then I’m flattered. But who are you, Mr Cavendish, and who are you, Mr Beckett?” Emily looked Beckett squarely in the eyes and the photographer’s face reddened as she continued her scrutiny. He looked awkwardly to Cavendish for an answer and Emily followed suit by turning her attention to the German.

  “It is sufficient to say that we are in the antiques trade,” replied Cavendish.

  “I can see you as being in the antiques trade, Mr Cavendish, but as for Mr Beckett, I don’t quite see it,” stated Emily.

  “I’m a photographer by profession,” confessed Beckett, “I just help Marchel out from time to time.”

  “And what do you photograph?”

  “I’d like to photograph you.” It was a stock answer that Beckett gave whenever asked the question, however he realised as soon as he spoke that it was perhaps not the most suitable reply he could have made given the circumstances.

  Emily’s gaze once more lingered on Beckett to the extent that he again began to feel disconcerted. The stare was long enough for Emily Spelman to form an opinion of Thomas Beckett. He was a very handsome man; she guessed he was a good ten years older than herself. There were hints of grey in his freshly washed light brown hair. He possessed compassionate blue eyes, edged by laughter lines, which gave support to her idea that he was a man who endeavoured to enjoy life, not always successfully. His face betrayed a refreshing directness that revealed he was unused to having to conceal his thoughts or emotions.

  “Right then,” said Emily leaning forward to Cavendish as she spoke, “as you seem a very direct person I’ll be blunt and not apologise for it, it’s the English way.”

  Realising it or not, Emily looked about the room for prying ears before resuming her inclined position. “You are in possession of a very valuable Anglo Saxon object that is about to go before a private sale. I may not be an expert on ‘private sales’ but I know that they are usually underhand and deal in objects that cannot be sold on the open market for various reasons, usually none of them honest. So let’s say the sword is genuine, you are about to sell a national treasure to possibly some overseas buyer who’ll deprive this country of its heritage, let alone a priceless work of art. I will not let that happen. It is my obligation as an expert to verify and authenticate the sword and let the powers that be decide upon its fate.”

  With that, Emily sat back in her chair and drank the contents of her glass down in one, much to Beckett’s admiration, as Cavendish considered the pretentiousness of her undoubtedly rehearsed spiel.

  “You know of the sword, Dr Spelman. I was wondering how this was so?” asked Cavendish.

  “Come, come, Mr Cavendish, what sort of girl do you take me for?” Beckett now observed Cavendish’s smile beginning to wane as if he was struggling to maintain his conviviality.

  “You must appreciate, Doctor that as this concerns a private sale I must ask how you came to know of its being.”

  “How I came to know of the sale is not relevant. What is relevant is that you intend to sell a national treasure.”

  “I see,” said Cavendish in considered tones. He chose his words carefully, “so you believe an ancient sword should not be sold privately?”

  “Mr Cavendish, you may be an amoral shyster but I cannot condone your attitude. Indeed, a sword purporting to belong to the last Saxon King of England is certainly of national importance. In fact, I demand that the sword be made available for authentication.”

  “You demand?”

  “I do, I think you’ll find I have the full weight of British law and officialdom behind me.”

  The waiter bought the starters to the table. “Another bottle of the same, please,” asked Cavendish. The first bottle had already disappeared, Beckett and Emily holding the honours equally.

  “I do not own the object, Dr Spelman,” continued Cavendish, “I am merely a representative. My client is a very private man and is devastated by all the commotion caused by your involvement in the matter. May I ask you how you came to be aware of the item’s existence?”

  "You keep asking me the same question, Mr Cavendish. You are starting to sound somewhat repetitive. But to extend you the courtesy of an answer, no you may not, for it is not relevant to the matter in hand.”

  “But surely, Dr Spelman, you could give me something to offer my client. He is most concerned about his privacy and as a result may well withdraw the item from sale.”

  “Too late for that!” replied Emily almost too quickly.

  Cavendish noted the way she paused to regain her composure and the nuance of anger that betrayed itself with her lapse of discipline.

  “My client does not like to think that undesirables have become aware of his prized possession,” continued an insistent Cavendish.

  “I don’t think I qualify as an ‘undesirable’, do you Mr Beckett?” countered Emily turning to the attentive Beckett.

  The photographer choked on his cream of tomato soup, splattering the tablecloth and his shirt with consummate ease. Cavendish looked at Beckett with an assumed look of distaste whilst Emily smiled with amusement at having scored a point.

  “I’ll tell you what I think, Dr Spelman,” said Cavendish shifting his attention away from his associate as he fumbled to mop up the soup from his shirt and table cloth.

  “I’m not a stupid man and I have judged the situation as it stands, please correct me if I am wrong. You do not intend to let this sale take place. You wish to authenticate the object. That, as I see it is the nub of the question, fo
r it depends on what you conclude as to how the matter will finally be resolved. Correct?” If Emily was taken aback by the ease at which she had made her case then she certainly did not betray it.

  “Correct,” was her simple reply.

  “Then I suggest I convey to my client the gist of what we have discussed and suggest that the object is made available for scrutiny. If you’ll both excuse me for a moment please.”

  Cavendish dabbed his mouth with his napkin, stood up and walked away from the table. Beckett had never been left alone by Cavendish and felt a moments panic. He removed his stained tie as he smiled sheepishly at Emily, who just returned a blank stare whilst sipping her wine. Looking deep into her hazel coloured eyes, he knew that he had to overcome his awe quickly or become befuddled by his professed intimidation. Beckett spoke up.

  “The new waitress walks over to a guy dining in the restaurant. She whispers to the man, ‘would sir like desert?’ The guy says, ‘what flavour ice cream have you got?’ She whispers hoarsely, ‘chocolate, strawberry and vanilla’. ‘Do you have laryngitis?’ the guy asks sympathetically. ‘I don’t think so, we have chocolate, strawberry and vanilla, but I can check with the manager’.”

  Beckett laughed warmly at his own joke and was pleased to see Emily smiling. It was the second time he had seen her smile and he realised that he was in mortal peril.

  Riding his luck, Beckett fired off another couple of restaurant jokes before using up his repertoire.

  “Mr Beckett, what on earth are you doing with that man?” asked Emily.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What on earth are you doing with the likes of Cavendish?”

  “Oh, he’s alright really, once you get used to him, can be a bit odd at times but his heart is in the right place, trust me.”

  “Mr Beckett, I would not trust you if you were the last man on earth,” smiled Emily.

  “You’ve got me all wrong, Doctor...” Before he could finish Cavendish reappeared at the table. “Shit, Marchel, where did you appear from?”

  “Not disturbing anything am I?” asked Cavendish. Emily and Beckett simultaneously leant back into their chairs as if they had been caught doing something illicit. Cavendish took his seat at the table as the main courses arrived.