“Whatever your poison, mate. It’s okay by me,” said Smudger smiling.
A pint of bitter was handed to Beckett who sipped it whilst looking around the room. His eyes had now become accustomed to the gloom enabling him to observe his surroundings in finer detail, not that he liked what he saw.
“So, come along to join in the celebrations, have you?” asked the Mancunian twang of Baz.
“Sort of, didn’t really know it was going on to be honest,” replied Beckett.
“Yep, I reckon it’s the best kept secret in the country, and long may it be so,” proclaimed the moderated Estuary English dialect of Big Davey.
“You boys been here before then?” asked Beckett.
“Yep, every year without fail,” said Big Davey.
“Yes,” said Baz, “this is our second year.”
“So what is the attraction for you boys?” quizzed Beckett.
“Pretty obvious isn’t it?” answered a puzzled Smudger, and by way of explanation he continued, “we come for the ambiance.”
The three men laughed in unison, Beckett’s smile was one of acquiescence.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Tom,” said Smudger, “you look like a troubled man.”
“Do I?” asked Beckett defensively.
“It’s my business to understand men, that’s what I do. Now, I’ll tell you what my advice is, you go over to the corner over there and have a word with young Mary.” Smudger pointed to the gloomiest corner of the pub, from which Beckett could just discern the faint light of a burning candle.
“Well, that’s kind of you to offer advice, Smudger, but I’m not really into that kind of thing,” said Beckett as delicately as he could. These boys seemed friendly enough but Beckett did not want to risk upsetting them.
“Don’t be a plank, man!” shouted Smudger to Beckett. “Mary, love,” ordered Smudger, “get your arse over here!”
“There really is no need, honest,” said Beckett, slinking back to the wall. A waif-like girl in her late teens, wearing a long kaftan style dress and smoking a poorly made roll-up cigarette tiptoed over towards Smudger.
“Mary, poor old Tom here needs your help,” said Smudger to the girl.
“I really don’t,” insisted Beckett.
“Don’t talk bollocks, man,” insisted Smudger. “I can see you are really in need of Mary’s special gifts.”
Both Baz and Big Davy smirked conspiratorially. Mary smiled as she approached Beckett. She blew aromatic cigarette smoke into Beckett’s face, inducing him to flinch and cough. The next thing he noticed was a pack of tarot cards waved before his eyes.
“Go on, son. Mary has the gift, she’ll sort you out, you know that the cards never lie,” said Smudger.
At that moment, the door of the pub opened and a head appeared around the edge of the door accompanied by an overwhelming blast of fresh air.
“Major Smith, Sir,” said the voice from beyond the door, “the bus leaves in five minutes, Sir.”
“Thank you, Corporal,” replied Major Smudger Smith, “be with you now.” Smudger addressed his two companions.
“Captain, Lieutenant, time to hit the road, gentleman.” Somehow, Beckett could not equate the northeast accent with the rank of major. He had never heard a British officer in the old black and white movies speak with such a dialect; perhaps the 1940’s thespians were incapable of performing a Geordie inflection.
“Now listen to me, Tom. You have a session with Mary, it could change your life. Take care of yourself, you hear.” Smudger slapped Beckett on the arm and limped out of the pub followed by his two grinning subordinates, leaving Beckett alone with Mary, the tarot card-reading girl.
“Come on, me duck,” said the Chesterfield lass, “Let’s learn all about you.”
She grabbed Beckett's hand and made to drag him towards her dark corner table but Beckett had his heels firmly planted.
“Sorry, love, I’m not really up for all this shit.” The background chatter that filled the pub slowly died and Beckett could make out all the ‘hippies’ in the bar look his way. He instantly regretted his hasty choice of words, the most obvious way out of his predicament was to agree to the girl’s demands and so he allowed himself to be led over to the corner seat, where he reluctantly sat on a barstool.
The table was lit by a solitary candle held in a wine bottle, its sides streaked with runs of molten wax, which had cooled to form patterns of intricate depth and colour.
“Alright, me duck, I’ll cut all the ‘shit’ and give you the straight reading, it won’t be half the fun though. Ten quid, please.”
Beckett opened his mouth in protest but stifled the outburst. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and took out two five-pound notes. She took his hands and stared into a crystal ball that lay at the centre of the table. She leant forward as if looking for something in the heart of the glass, her eyes almost touching the sphere. As she did so, the top of her kaftan fell forward affording a clear view of her breasts that drew Beckett’s unintentional gaze.
“Stop looking at me tits and relax,” she ordered. Beckett flushed as he complied and decided that he too should stare into the ball. However, all he could see was the distorted reflected light from the candle.
“My, you are an interesting one,” said Mary, “what do you want me to look at, your future or your past?”
“Well there is sod-all point in looking at my past; I think I should know that, don’t you?”
“So you know of your past lives do you?” said Mary, who did indeed sound a little contrary, unused to dealing with such disbelievers.
“The future it is then,” she continued. “I see a beautiful woman. She will fulfil a deep longing but at a price.” Beckett looked up from the crystal ball and into the earnest face of the young woman.
“Do you want her?” asked Mary. Beckett may have considered her act theatrical but she had him hooked none the less. Mary smiled and raised her eyebrows. She let go of his hands and leant serenely back from the globe.
“Is that it?” exclaimed Beckett with more than a hint of disappointment, “Is that all? I never said anything.”
“You don’t have to, lover,” said Mary evasively, “oh there is plenty there alright but not for you to know about.”
“What sort of fortune telling is that!” blurted Beckett.
“It’s the sort of shit that you deserve, me duck.”
“Well thanks for nothing!” said Beckett standing up belligerently. He was actually looking forward to having his fortune read even if he did not believe a word of it.
“Me duck,” she said as he went to leave, “seriously, be careful of what you wish for.”
“Thanks, love, that is really specific and helpful,” said Beckett derisively. He turned his back on her and walked towards the door.
“Beware of false prophets!” shouted Mary. Beckett stopped and turned back towards the girl.
“Beware of who?” he asked. He thought she might as well have thrown in the Ides of March whilst she was at it.
“False prophets!” cried Mary animatedly.
“And who are they, a seventies prog rock band?” laughed Beckett.
“No, I’d guess they are people pretending to be like me,” declared Mary sheepishly. Beckett continued to laugh and shook his head.
“Thanks, Mary. Thanks for cheering me up. Be lucky.” He turned for a final time and left the pub.
CHAPTER 19. THE SHADOW OF A DREAM.
“Brother Christian, how are you?” enquired Cavendish politely.
“I’m good, Marchel, it goes well.” Cavendish nodded his approval.
“Have you received the package?” asked the Untersucher. “Yeah, no problem, it looks good,” replied Searsby whilst rolling a cigarette.
The two men were sitting on a bench seat outside the impressive town hall in Chesterfield, an area where the fayre had not been allowed to encroach. It was Sunday afternoon; Beckett was in town discovering the delights of the fayre.
&n
bsp; “Yes, Lynda certainly has done me proud. I was very lucky to get her at such short notice, she is busy working on another Mummy exhibition, I believe.”
“Touching up her last masterpiece, no doubt,” grinned Christian Searsby, whose smile had an unfortunate leering quality.
“Have you managed to secure the church for us?” asked Cavendish.
“No probs, the Dean owes me a favour or three. We have access to the crypt whenever you want it.” He dangled a set of keys before Cavendish. “So are you going to give me the heads up on the victim?” asked Searsby.
“Her name is Doctor Emily Spelman. In her early thirties, single, an Oxford academic who seems desperate to make an impression in her Oxford circle. Oh, and Mr Beckett tells me that she is most attractive. Personally speaking, she is not my type.”
“And what type is she?”
“Ambitious,” denounced Cavendish.
“Surely you are ambitious, Herr Untersucher?”
“Your man Shakespeare said something like, ‘the very substance of ambition is merely the shadow of a dream’.”
“You know all that shit about Shakespeare? You’re a sadder foreign bastard than I thought,” smiled Searsby.
Cavendish laughed at Searsby’s observation. Searsby wondered what had become of Cavendish’s ‘bad-ass’ attitude and arrogance, so evident when at Flash Seminary.
“You here with that Beckett dude?” asked Searsby.
“I certainly am.”
“You know most people are asking the same question, what the hell are you doing hanging around with a brick like him?” Cavendish ignored the question and continued with his opinion of Emily Spelman.
“She is obviously intelligent yet she is hampered by a beauty which she has never learnt to exploit sensibly. I feel she is somewhat naive, her desire to succeed seems to mean that she is prepared to prostrate herself to achieve her desires irrespective of consequence. I think she needs protecting from herself.”
“You like her then,” smiled Searsby. Cavendish side glanced at Searsby but give no hint of confirmation or denial.
“We will give her the full works, Christian; hopefully the sword will be sufficient to beguile her.”
Searsby stroked his bearded chin and lit his cigarette before asking one last question. “The script you sent me, it doesn’t mention anything after ‘you hand over the sword’. What is the end game here?”
“The end game is that you hand the sword over to me, no one else, clear?” Cavendish took a cigarette from his own packet and proceeded to light it.
CHAPTER 20. PROVOCATION IN THE CRYPT.
Dr Emily Spelman waited for the two men to arrive at the green outside St Mary and all Saints church, where earlier Beckett had listened to the machinations of the Christian sect, attempting to bring fire and brimstone down on the sinful town of Chesterfield.
The day had clouded over and there were auguries of rain in the air. She checked her watch. It was almost four o’clock, the arranged hour for the meeting. Emily had not been in Chesterfield long, she and Slingsby had arrived by car, not by train as she had informed Cavendish. Such modest subterfuges gave a hint of control, despite the fact that she and Slingsby were very much in the hands of Cavendish.
They had again argued during the drive north. He contended that if the sword was accessible, then he should be present, or at least nearby, so that he could be in a position to take it. She argued poorly that such a plan was no plan at all, but a simple mugging. He scorned her weakness and lack of resolve, which she took as an insult to her intelligence and commitment.
It was now obvious that they came to Chesterfield with different aspirations, though in reality their desires had always been poles apart. She wanted fame and kudos, to reveal to the world a long lost treasure. She thought he had similar ambitions but his primary motivation seemed to be the procurement of money, which she had initially assumed was to be attained by a journalistic scoop. Now she was not so sure. Her life had changed irrevocably since her first meeting with Paul Slingsby. How simple it used to be, there were of course complications, but there was an order and discipline to her routine, which she neither acknowledged nor appreciated.
They had met when he had asked her out for dinner to discuss a project that lent itself to her field of expertise. Such meetings were not uncommon, however, the subject matter he broached certainly was. She understood now that from the moment that he set eyes on her, he had begun to demonstrate his prowess at seduction and he emphatically knew all the right buttons to press.
He seemed initially oblivious to her appearance and talked only of her academic record and successes, his flattery was skilful and erudite. He had claimed that he was looking for an expert in the Anglo Saxon period and revealed the story of Harold’s sword, which any person with knowledge of the period would have considered a grail-like object.
His decision criteria for selecting her as opposed to one of her estimable colleagues were unclear and initially irrelevant from her viewpoint but in retrospect, despite his skilful avoidance, he would have placed her physical attributes high on the list. She knew little of life outside the world of academia, she had travelled and met many people but they were all from her sphere, if the hidebound term ‘living in a bubble’ should be applied to anyone then she was a contender for that title. Her life had been channelled according to the rules and expectations of the Oxbridge elite.
Slingsby’s proposal had seemed a Godsend, a heaven sent impetus to her stalling career, hence she embraced his scheme unconditionally and such was his conviction and powers of persuasion that her life of abstinence had been cast aside that very first evening. Her unleashed passions were invigorating and empowering; he made her feel that anything and everything was possible, totally at odds with her pre-Slingsby state.
And yet this state of euphoria was short lived as she should have known but chose to ignore. Slowly, she noted his inconsistencies as he sensed her wavering commitment to the project, prompted by the reassertion of her conscience. He countered this by allowing his aggression, for so long held in abeyance, to seep into his argument. She found this physical side of his nature intimidating, though only to be expected from his life in investigative journalism. His ruthlessness disturbed her and she had threatened to back out of the project several times but each time their confrontations had concluded with volatile sex. Against all rational wisdom and her loathing for the man, she embraced and enjoined his ministrations. She had been utterly corrupted.
The green was comparatively quiet; a group of teenagers sat on the grass, glancing nervously at the sky to check on the likelihood of their having to seek shelter elsewhere. Finally, she saw the two men approach her from the direction of the town centre. The long dark coat and sunglasses that Cavendish wore made his blonde hair appear almost white in the gloom of the afternoon. Beckett had retrieved his green parka and bore a look of grim determination, which made her feel even more nervous than she already was.
Beckett spotted Emily standing on the path that crossed the green. She wore jeans with knee length brown boots and a short red woollen coat buttoned against the invading chill of the late afternoon. He was about to smile at her but thought that Cavendish might not approve, and so set his jaw to mimic a look of steely determination that he certainly did not feel.
Cavendish sped up as they closed on Emily and held out his hand in greeting. Beckett turned his head to watch Cavendish’s expression and hoped he would not smile. Cavendish did not let him down; instead, he greeted Emily in a very matter of fact manner, his face expressionless behind his sunglasses. Emily remained silent as she shook his hand. She looked at Beckett, who smiled and she responded likewise in an abrupt fashion as someone might greet a grieving relative at a funeral.
“You appreciate, I hope, that this is to be a very swift look at the item,” said Cavendish to Emily. “I have been instructed by my client to deliver the item to the Goldstein brothers in Bath as originally intended. You seem to have persuaded him tha
t maybe the sale would now be a mistake, and he is considering how best to go about making it available to view whilst still being in possession of it. He is thinking of involving the British Museum, perhaps lending it to them.”
“He can’t do that!” exclaimed Emily, “this is my find!”
“Your ‘find’? I don’t believe we have lost anything, to find something would be to imply that something was missing. My client appreciates your academic interest, hence the opportunity now for you to view it. I think it’s a very generous opportunity for which you should be grateful.”
Beckett watched Emily quietly fuming but she wisely said nothing. Cavendish would have countered anything she said. Her desire to see the blade was intense enough to overcome her loathing for the scar-faced man and to prevent her from storming off there and then. She glanced around to the traffic behind her that curved around the church along the A61 through the town. When her attention returned to the men she once more looked composed, almost resolute.
“So where is the sword now?” she asked Cavendish.
“In the crypt.”
“Where?” she asked incredulously.
“It’s the only public place where we can obtain any privacy at the moment. I’m sure you did not want to return to our hotel rooms?” said Cavendish with a playful grin.
“I’d have preferred it to a bloody crypt!” Beckett laughed at Emily’s reply prompting Cavendish to give him ‘the stare' that reset Beckett’s expression to one of steely intent. Beckett’s grin returned as he noted Emily’s soft smile that betrayed itself following the Untersucher’s silent rebuke.
“My client is somewhat theatrical, I suppose,” said Cavendish returning his attention to Emily. He too offered a smile, which Emily chose to ignore.
“Let’s get on with it then,” she said, “lead the way.”
They approached the crypt by way of a side door in a small-enclosed garden just off the main road. Beckett self-consciously considered whether their presence would go unnoticed at this hour of the day. He thought they painted an odd picture, a tall blonde-haired man in a long overcoat, leading a shorter slim woman, followed by a greying haired man wearing a heavy army surplus coat. It all felt very suspicious to him, yet as Cavendish had frequently told him, people rarely noticed anything around them unless you wanted them to.
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