“It took ten minutes to get over the impassioned farewells; you never told me this was a one way trip!”
“Laid it on a bit thick, did I? Ah well, never mind, you’re all mine now, Thomas.”
“Bloody hell, I feel like I’ve just been press ganged by Captain Bligh.” They mounted the Galaxy. Cavendish was, as ever, meticulous in arranging his coat and adjusting his seat to suit his long legs.
“Where to?” asked Beckett. “The fuel tank is full and the Satnav is primed and ready to go.”
“Set a course for Stow-on-the-Wold, Mr Beckett,” said Cavendish, enjoying a rare moment of flippancy.
“Aye, aye, skipper, slow ahead it is. That is, after I’ve fart-assed around with this satnav.” Beckett was pleased to see Cavendish playing along with him; it indicated that he was in an easy frame of mind, which could only bode well for the journey ahead.
Beckett enjoyed driving the Galaxy, for the high driving position gave him an imperious feel over his fellow weekend travellers. He took the roads north out of Bristol and felt no compunction to ask anything about their destination until they were well clear of the city.
“Why Stow-on-the-Wold, Marsh?” asked Beckett.
“A timely question, Thomas. We are visiting a true artisan, an artist and an alchemist of profound skill. We are going to view Dr Spelman’s sword.”
“So you’ve found an Anglo Saxon sword for her,” it was a statement rather than a question.
“Well done, Thomas, you are getting quicker on the uptake, my presence must be brushing off on you. Although to correct you, if I may, I have had a sword made for her.”
“Won’t it look a bit new?”
“Au contraire, Thomas, the alchemy involved is in making the sword appear eleventh century. The sword was forged the day after our meal with Dr Spelman; it has taken the days since then to create a blade that will stand the perfunctory scrutiny of an academic. The thing most in our favour is that Dr Spelman obviously wants the sword to be genuine.”
“Has she been giving you much grief during the past few days?”
“An extraordinary amount. I have received various threats; most un-lady like at times, you would have been shocked. I wondered if they were her words or Slingsby’s.”
“So you have had to stall her whilst the blade was being made?”
“Yes, and I fancy I narrowly missed another audience with your Mr Slingsby when I arrived early for a meeting with Spelman.”
“Surely he knows you exist, Emily must have told him about you?”
“Oh, we have already met. I went out to assess him whilst you were hiding in the men’s room the other day.”
“Why did you do that, bit stupid wasn’t it?”
“Well, I didn’t say ‘hello, my name is Marchel Cavendish, I am an inquisitor for a very discrete organisation who happens to be on your case’. I suppose he has worked out who I am concerning the Spelman connection. Whether he sees our meeting as coincidence or planned is irrelevant, they amount to the same thing. It is whether he raises his profile or remains in the background that is of interest. The question is this. Is it Slingsby who is pulling Dr Spelman’s strings?”
“He does have a bit of a bad boy reputation, you know. He’s a smooth public schoolboy who thinks the world owes him a living. He certainly has a reputation for the ladies.”
“Dr Spelman certainly seems to be under his spell,” said Cavendish absently.
“Why do nice girls always go for the bad boy types?” asked Beckett reflectively.
“Because they are exciting, and women always think they can change them. And who says she is a ‘nice girl’?” replied Cavendish, “anyway, the answer to our question is not very far away.”
“How far?” asked Beckett looking across at Cavendish.
“You’ll find out, I’m not an Untersucher medius for nothing, you know. Do you intend to play that music for the duration of our trip?”
“Don’t you like it?”
“What is it?”
“The Sphagnum Bog, this particular album is ‘The Best of...’.”
“It sounds somewhat dated, I’d hate to hear the ‘worst of’ album,” suggested Cavendish sarcastically.
“That’s ‘cos it was recorded in seventy seven, ‘seminal punk’, I like to call it. What were you doing in seventy seven?” asked Beckett innocently. Cavendish glanced across to Beckett.
“I was not yet born, are you trying to say I look older than I am?”
“Sorry, Marsh, you know how it is; you think everyone’s the same age as yourself.”
“Only old people think that, I certainly consider myself to be a good deal younger than you.”
“Wow, keep your hair on,” said Beckett, “I didn’t realise you were so sensitive, you can’t go around bragging about your ‘Heidelberg duelling scar’ and expect to look like a member of the latest boy-band!”
“I do not brag about my ‘schmeiss’, Thomas.”
“Sorry, of course you don’t.”
Lynda Anderson lived above her shop in Stow-on-the-Wold. The shop blended in well with its Cotswolds surroundings selling affordable antiques to the passing tourist or dealer. Whether the shop provided a comfortable living for its owner was speculative at best, yet no one in the town asked such questions, such things were not done in the Cotswolds. The journey to Stow-on the-Wold took almost two hours, so it was past seven o’clock when Beckett found a vacant parking space in the market square by St Edwards Hall.
The shop was a brief walk from the car and displayed a ‘We are closed’ sign hanging from the interior of the ageing wooden door. Cavendish pushed the door chime and waited with apparent ease for the minute or so that elapsed with no response from the interior.
Beckett fidgeted and alternated his glance up and down the street, even though the place seemed to be in hibernation. He wondered why everyone in the firm kept people waiting for so long outside the front door. Maybe it was an etiquette thing. He was surprised by the person who finally opened the door and ushered them swiftly inside.
Instead of the anticipated tweed skirt and octogenarian appearance, there stood a woman in her late thirties wearing white laboratory trousers and a matching long white coat. Her long wavy hair was pinned up at the back of her head and she exhibited the air of a scientist as opposed to a dealer in antiques. A pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her slender nose and she looked over the top of them suspiciously to appraise her two visitors. Lynda Anderson led them through the display of antiques, or ‘tat’ as Beckett liked to call it, to a door at the rear of the shop.
A flight of gloomily lit steps led down to a cellar. Lynda led, Cavendish followed with a casual grace, whilst Beckett took up his customary position at the rear of the pack, his footfall echoing without the surety of the others.
“You really must give me more time, Marchel. I do have a reputation to uphold.” Lynda’s rebuke was delivered in a soft measured tone that offered no threat.
“I know, but there is never enough time in this game. How is it looking?”
“Well, the smith did a decent enough job, perhaps too good really. It looked like the thing had only just been made, which of course it had.” So far, Beckett had barely noted the conversation around him, for he was distracted by the revelations of the room in which he found himself. It was a space best described as a laboratory.
Lynda led them to a stainless steel table at the end of the room; upon it laid the object that held Cavendish’s rapt attention.
“Oh Lynda, it is truly magnificent,” said Cavendish reverentially.
“Thank you, Marchel,” Lynda almost purred her thanks.
“It truly is a thing of beauty,” said Cavendish admiringly.
“The ageing process is just complete, just a few, um, tweaks and it’s all yours,” confirmed Lynda. She clearly responded well to flattery, yet the compliment was no more than the craftsmanship demanded.
Atop the table lay a late-period Anglo Saxon sword. Beckett�
��s gaze was drawn to the blade and even to his unqualified eye; he could see at once that it was a sword of quality fit for a King.
“Not bad for a sword forged a few days ago, don’t you think, Thomas?” asked Cavendish.
“That sure is something. May I pick it up?” Beckett asked.
Lynda nodded but added, “don’t touch the blade, Mr Beckett, it is not yet inert and I’d hate for your fingers to drop off.” She smiled, as might a doting mother, as Beckett wrapped his hand around the hilt and lifted the well-balanced blade, holding it at arm’s length he peered approvingly with his right eye along the extent of the blade.
“I feel like a Roman gladiator!” declared an exuberant Beckett.
“You are a thousand years or so too early, I fear my dear Didymus,” said Cavendish.
“Didymus?” asked Beckett, not for the first time frowning at a Cavendish statement.
“Didymus is Greek, an epithet for ‘Doubting Thomas’, you know, Thomas the Apostle. I believe it means ‘twin’,” informed Lynda.
“Thank you for your efforts, Lynda, I owe you one,” said Cavendish smiling.
“You owe me more than one, Herr Cavendish.” Lynda blushed and she recovered by saying, “I hear you’re to be married soon, is it true?” Cavendish took no pleasure in the reminder of his recent engagement and his voice betrayed his true feelings.
“It is true, Lynda, no date has been set as yet.” Lynda Anderson laid a hand on Cavendish’s sleeve.
“Then I hope she realises what a lucky girl she is.”
“Thank you, Lynda,” replied Cavendish gently.
“Ah hum?” interrupted Beckett, “I’m still here and my arm is beginning to ache.”
“Och, I’m so sorry!” cried Lynda, betraying her Highland origins, “please pass the blade here.” Beckett gratefully relinquished the sword to Lynda, who laid it circumspectly upon the workbench.
“What would you like me to do with it, Marchel?” asked Lynda.
“I’d like you to send it the Flash Seminary, mark it for the attention of Brother Christian Searsby.”
“Okay, anything else?”
“No, I think you have done more than enough, Lynda,” and with that Cavendish embraced her and offered a soft kiss to her welcoming lips.
“Um, maybe I should work for you more often, Marchel,” smiled Lynda as they parted.
“Lynda, you know that I can never repay you for all you have done for me.” Lynda Anderson blushed again but smiled gratefully at Cavendish’s generous words.
“Do you have time for a cup of tea before you leave?” she asked.
“What do you think, Thomas?” asked Cavendish.
“Fine by me, Marsh, I’ve not had a drink since leaving home, I’m spitting feathers.” Cavendish threw Beckett an uncomprehending look.
“Och, come on the pair of you, you must think me a dreadful hostess.” Lynda led them out of the cellar and up to the flat above her shop.
The rooms confirmed Beckett’s suspicions that Lynda was no dowdy spinster. Upstairs was in complete contrast to the cosy antique world below. The flat was decorated in a contemporary style, the pastel white walls; the effect-lighting and minimalist feel offered a fashionable take on interior design.
Lynda left the men for a few minutes before returning with a tray carrying a teapot and accessories, the old pot seemed out of place with the rest of the room’s decor. She noted Beckett curiously studying the ceramic pot.
“I’m all for modern trends, Mr Beckett, but one has to be practical as well. This pot makes a grand cup of tea!”
She poured tea into their respective cups and waited for the men to add milk and sugar as to their taste.
“So how long have you and Marchel known each other, Lynda?” asked Beckett when he thought the moment was right.
“Marchel and I first met about eight or nine years ago,” said Lynda, “I’d just been recruited by the firm and, as they often did and perhaps still do, they shipped me off to Germany for what I’d guess you’d call an induction course. Because Marchel spoke English they used him as my mentor, he was just a young Zusteller then, very young but very keen,” she smiled fondly at Cavendish as she told her tale.
“Lynda is a little older than me,” informed Cavendish returning Lynda’s smile.
“We were both younger, Marchel, you were twenty-three and I was close to thirty,” clarified Lynda.
“So you two were an item then?” asked Beckett, even he enjoyed a good romance.
“Lynda was my first love, Thomas, the first girl I lost my heart to,” said Cavendish. Lynda blushed again, it was only then that Beckett realised she had changed from her whites into a pair of figure hugging jeans and a loose fitting white polo shirt, similar in style to the one that he was wearing. “So why did you not stay together?” asked Beckett.
“Oh, I had to come home eventually,” said Lynda, “and my then fiancé was waiting for me. But that never worked out.”
“Do you live alone here, Lynda, I mean, do you have a partner, I mean a girl like you...” Beckett dug himself into a hole with nowhere to go.
“You must forgive Thomas, Lynda. He is very European in his bluntness sometimes,” interrupted Cavendish.
“That’s alright, Tom,” answered Lynda, “I do have a partner; he works away a lot which is handy for it means I can do commissions like this without too many questions being asked. It’s difficult to have ‘mixed marriages’.” Beckett imagined the problems of holding onto a relationship with someone who was outside the firm.
“I heard about Prague, Marchel. I’m sorry, what on earth happened?” asked Lynda. A shadow fell across Cavendish’s gaunt face. He suddenly appeared tired and drawn.
“If you’ll excuse us, Thomas, I’d just like to have a few minutes with Lynda alone,” said Cavendish quietly. At which point both Cavendish and Lynda stood up and walked quietly towards what Beckett assumed to be her bedroom. The bedroom door closed quietly and Beckett was left alone in the minimalist room for a good ten minutes.
It was dark when Cavendish led the way back to the Galaxy.
“A nice lady, Marsh,” observed Beckett, he could sense that Cavendish was about to go off into his own private world where silence would reign for an interminable length of time.
“She most certainly is, Thomas.” Beckett was relieved to have caught Cavendish in time. “Now we must return to Bristol, on the way I shall contact Dr Spelman. You had better stay at the hotel tonight; I can’t have you returning home yet, your family will be most disappointed if you do.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Never mind about that, you set your thoughts on going to Derbyshire.”
“Derbyshire?”
“Yes, it’s a county in the east midlands, just south of Yorkshire.”
“I know where Derbyshire is!” Beckett told a half-truth, he thought he knew where Derbyshire was on the map but had never been there. “Where abouts in Derbyshire?”
“Chesterfield, do you know it?” enquired Cavendish.
“Only as one of those perpetual third or fourth division football towns that you used to hear of on Saturday afternoons after watching the wrestling on the ‘World of Sport’.”
“You’ve lost me, Thomas.”
“You know, the football results were always after the wrestling. Saturday teatime was always cockles in our house. Cockles in vinegar with a piece of bread and butter.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Thomas, and judging by your culinary taste it is probably just as well.”
“Ah, those were the days. What were you saying?” They had now reached the car and were quickly on their way back to Bristol.
“I said that we are going to Chesterfield,” continued Cavendish.
“That’s right, you did. Why?” asked Beckett.
“Because it is where we must go,” said Cavendish factually. “We will arrange to meet Dr Spelman there and let her see the sword.”
“And then?�
�� questioned Beckett.
“We have not yet reached the ‘and then’ stage, Thomas. A lot of things could happen before ‘and then’.”
“May I ask the significance of Chesterfield without you shooting me down in flames like some moronic imbecile?”
“I do not shoot you down like an imbecile,” reacted Cavendish.
“No, you don’t, I said you shoot me down like a moronic imbecile.”
“You are goading me, Thomas.”
“Indeed I am, Herr Cavendish.”
“Then I shall give you two good reasons for visiting Chesterfield. They have a very atmospheric Spring Fayre, which I'm sure you will enjoy, and Flash Seminary is nearby.”
The drive back to Bristol was made sedately with Becket at the helm. He was not a great fan of driving in the dark. Cavendish rang Emily Spelman and Beckett struggled to pick up the nuance of the call as Cavendish spoke in his typically polite and fulsome manner. How Emily reacted he could not tell, he strained to hear her voice but could discern nothing above the sounds generated by the moving vehicle.
All he knew was that Emily agreed to meet them in Chesterfield the next day, all being well with the train connections and such like. Cavendish did offer to give her a lift but she obviously declined the offer, graciously or not. Either she did not want to appear too friendly or, the more likely option, she wanted to travel with the journalist. Either way Cavendish was happy.
Cavendish had booked two rooms at the Holmcourt hotel already, which was no mean achievement, what with the climax of the Spring Fayre coinciding with their planned visit. Beckett wondered how far ahead Cavendish had planned. Was he working to some timetable? Had he designed their moves like a chess Grand Master?
Beckett began to feel somewhat claustrophobic driving in the dark Gloucestershire countryside. He regretted now not taking the motorway back to Bristol. Cavendish had drifted off into his own world of reverie and Beckett did not like the silence. He had left his CD and MP3 collection in his suitcase, playing his CD again would only annoy Cavendish, and the radio held little amusement for him.
He tried to think of the coming days ahead but he had little to focus on. He knew nothing of Cavendish’s plans, such as what he intended to do with the sword. All he knew was that the sword was being sent to Flash Seminary in Derbyshire. It was all very well going with the flow but it was good to know of any impending rapids or waterfalls.
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