Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  Beckett shook off the embrace of gothic horror that assailed him as Cavendish led them through an aged black wooden door down into the forbidding crypt. A paltry offering of overhead-unshaded light bulbs lit the vault, for which Beckett was thankful, as he did not have to see what was contained within the creepy catacomb. He tried to control his over active imagination, which fed off the atmosphere that pervaded the town on this festive weekend. He kept his gaze focused on the dank route he trod, fearing his eyes might project a beam of light upon something he would rather not see.

  “Did you hear about the man who thought cryptology was the study of tombstones?” offered Beckett.

  “This is all rather melodramatic isn’t it?” commented Emily, provoked by Becketts light hearted aside, with a nonchalance that hid her creeping fear.

  “Well at least we’re away from prying eyes,” responded Cavendish in an easy manner, “far better than the hotel bar. I thought you might appreciate our location, make you feel at home.” Emily was unable to see Cavendish’s face as he led the group, thus she could not visually assess the seriousness of his last remark.

  Was she being led into a trap? Why had she let herself be sandwiched between the two men? She reassured herself that they would be foolish to try anything on. Yet how did she know that they were not foolish?

  Cavendish halted and a hooded figure emerged with a menacing abruptness from the shadows. Emily jumped back in fright at the unanticipated appearance and issued a gasp of foreboding. Beckett, unaware of the hooded figure, walked straight into the back of the now retreating Emily, who lurched forward under the impact of his thirteen stone bulk. To his credit, Beckett reacted in an instant and caught her as she stumbled.

  Beckett held Emily tightly by the tops of her arms but the immediate sensation she experienced was not one of salvation but one of restraint, especially when he hauled her upright so that she collided against his chest. Panic seized her body as she arched her back and twisted her head to look up into her attacker’s face. Her worst nightmare became manifest as her over stimulated imagination visualised the imminent assault.

  Paralysed by morbid apprehension, her eyes alighted upon the grinning and embarrassed expression etched into the shadowy face of Thomas Beckett. Suddenly, the arms clutching her lost their menace and her panic subsided as quickly as it had arisen.

  “Sorry about that, Dr Spelman. I can be a bit clumsy at times,” flustered Beckett politely. Emily Spelman found Thomas Beckett’s smile utterly beguiling. She managed to smile weakly back at him, embarrassed by her fears induced by their ridiculous location.

  Beckett could not tear his eyes away from Emily; the hazel hue of her eyes was lost in the dim conditions leaving rich pools of infinitude leading to the heart of her soul. For the first time Beckett understood the expression of drowning in someone’s eyes.

  “Thank you, Mr Beckett, but I think you can safely let me go now,” said Emily reluctantly.

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” mumbled Beckett as he released her from his grasp.

  Cavendish and Christian Searsby both stood and watched the vignette unfold. Searsby looked bored whilst Cavendish flaunted his amusement.

  “If you two have quite finished, perhaps we could get on,” said Cavendish addressing both Beckett and Emily, who both looked at each other as if having been rebuked by their teacher for their inappropriate behaviour.

  “Good evening, Brother,” continued Cavendish speaking directly to the cowled Searsby. “You have the package?”

  The figure emerged further from the shadows revealing more of his monk-like garb, his flowing black robes blurring his outline against the invasive darkness. He offered a cloth-wrapped bundle to Cavendish who took it and turned to face Dr Spelman. He pretentiously proffered the bundle to the academic.

  “You hold it,” Emily ordered boldly, her hands clenched behind her back to control the tremors. She walked across to him, her boot heels clicking against the stone flooring of the crypt, and began to unwrap the package. Cavendish fixed his gaze on Emily’s face hoping to gauge her reaction by its subliminal nuances. He was not disappointed by what he saw.

  As she removed the layer of cloth, she exposed the pseudo-Saxon sword to the diffuse light of the crypt. Beckett heart pounded against his ribs with the tension of the moment and dramatised the mood with a slow side step, which allowed him a better view of the blade. It looked far more stunning in the setting of the crypt than it did in the laboratory, something that Cavendish had no doubt legislated for. It had the aura of age and majesty that was subtle, intangible but irresistible.

  Emily poured over the blade for at least five minutes, which seemed an interminable age to Beckett as he fidgeted uncomfortably in the subterranean gloom. She held the sword up to what light was available and examined the blade and hilt; she felt the balance of the blade and inspected it with aid of an eyeglass.

  “It is beautiful, is it not?” said Cavendish as he reeled in the historian, “I am an uncultured man when it comes to such things but even I can see it is a lovely object.”

  “Do you have no sense of history?” demanded Emily angrily, then almost reverentially added, “this is the blade belonging to the last Anglo Saxon King of England. Perhaps he used it at the Battle of Hastings where he lost a kingdom to the Norman invader. The sword is beyond price.”

  Beckett was moved by her obvious passion for the object, he momentarily forgot that it was a fake; such was the atmosphere within the crypt.

  Emily made to take the wrapping from Cavendish.

  “Uh uh,” he said, “I don’t think so. The blade stays with us; we are taking it to Bath tomorrow.” Cavendish snatched the sword from Emily and handed it over to Beckett, who looked suitably astonished to be handed the blade.

  “Yours to place in safe keeping, Mr Beckett,” said Cavendish, “I think it is time for us to go.” Brother Christian approached Beckett holding what appeared to be an over sized wooden case for a pool cue. He took the sword from Beckett and put the wrapped sword in the case, fastened it reverently and handed it to Beckett.

  “Take good care of it, my son,” said the Brother, only Beckett observed Searsby’s blatant wink, which he found oddly disturbing and inappropriate.

  They retraced their steps back out of the harrowing crypt. A gentle rain had begun to fall during their sojourn. Emily said nothing as they returned to the green outside the church; her mind was a torrent of conflicting emotions, she had been thoroughly overwhelmed by the sight and touch of the sword. Unsure of what to do next, she wished that Slingsby was nearby; waiting in the wings, ready to enter the fray to seize the blade. Before she could husband her thoughts, Cavendish made a statement; neither Beckett nor Emily noticed the narrowing of his eyes.

  “My employer wishes to thank you, Dr Spelman.”

  “Thank me, for what?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “For pointing out the errors of his ways.” Emily frowned at Cavendish. “Yes, my employer wishes to thank you and this private viewing his way of demonstrating his gratitude. He has decided that the world is not ready for the sword and the shallow grasping ambitions of people such as you.”

  “He can’t do that!” she spontaneously shouted.

  “Oh, he can, he most certainly can.”

  “But I’ve seen it, I know it exists!”

  “No one would believe you, Dr Spelman. You have not established my employer’s name and even if you did, he would deny everything. Just be thankful that you have seen it.”

  “You bastard!” she spat.

  “I’m sorry you feel so aggrieved. I’m just doing my job. But as you are being personal, may I say that I find you the most onerous, abhorrent and despicable person I have ever had the misfortune to meet and if the sword was available you are the last person on earth I would hand it over to.”

  Beckett looked on agog at the spectacle that was unfolding before him. The vehemence of Cavendish’s words startled him with their abruptness. He stood to Cavendish’s left and faced
Emily. Her eyes were full of tears following Cavendish’s admonishment but there was anger and hatred also welling in her eyes. Cavendish had not finished.

  “Dr Spelman, I know we don’t see eye to eye, perhaps we never will, we have a very different take on the world. I can see that you are upset. I would suggest that you do not make any hasty decisions. My client is a hasty man and is often very inconsistent with his thoughts and practices. What he says one day he contradicts the next. I have business to attend to this evening so I will not be returning to Chesterfield until late tomorrow morning. I would like to say it has been a pleasure getting to know you, but I can’t. I’m deliriously happy at the prospect of never having to see your ugly, supercilious face again. ‘Wiedersehen!” Cavendish turned on the spot and strode away in the direction of the hotel.

  Beckett had received no stage directions from Cavendish; he stood rooted to the spot, clutching the sword case. He looked at the wet paving slabs upon which he stood. He felt embarrassed and confused and absently studied the white circles of lichen that grew upon the worn stone at his feet as he collected his thoughts. He was aware that Emily had not moved. Slowly he looked up and saw the tears running down her cheeks. Her initial look of distress had been replaced by a look of grim resolve as she stared at the tall retreating figure of the German.

  “I’m sorry,” was all Beckett could offer.

  “And fuck you too!” exploded Emily. Beckett felt the drizzle permeating through his short hair as he continued to regard Emily. For some obscure reason he felt responsible for her distress.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “Oh don’t be so pathetic!” replied Emily, directing her hatred for Cavendish at his partner. Beckett felt a stab of pain in his gut in response to her acerbic putdown.

  “I, I...” he mumbled.

  “Oh get lost, go and suck up to your boyfriend!” spat Emily. Beckett nodded sadly, hung his head and slowly turned his back on Emily Spelman, to follow submissively in the footsteps of his perverse employer.

  The late afternoon streets of Chesterfield were seldom as busy as they were this Sunday as the climax of the weekend fayre approached. Beckett struggled to catch up with his colleague and it was only when he reached the small market square that he managed to grab his attention.

  “Marchel, stop will you!” beseeched Beckett. Obligingly Cavendish halted and waited for Beckett to overtake him. Beckett was breathing hard as he prepared to confront the Untersucher; he half crouched and issued forth long streams of warm breath, which condensed in the cool moist air.

  “Are you alright, Thomas,” asked Cavendish softly.

  “Well, as you’re asking, no I’m not. What the hell was all that about?” he demanded.

  “What was all what about?”

  “Oh, don’t get all clever and slippery, Cavendish. You know what I mean!”

  “I assume you refer to my disparaging words to Dr Spelman. Well they were no more than she deserved,” smiled Cavendish disarmingly.

  “So that’s it then is it?” asked a distraught Beckett. “We came all this way for bloody nothing? And where the hell are you going tonight?”

  “I’m going to Flash Seminary.”

  “What about me?”

  “The restaurant is still booked, have a meal and a few drinks and enjoy the festival. I’m sure you’ll be glad to get rid of me for a few hours.”

  “Marchel, what the hell is going on, I’ve lost the bloody plot.”

  “Go and order some drinks, Thomas. I’ve a few calls to make. Everything will become clear.”

  Reluctantly and none the wiser, Beckett retired to the bar of the Holmcourt Hotel leaving Cavendish to stand by the stone fountain outside the hotel, sheltering under the canopy of a chemist shop. With his mobile in hand, he quickly summoned up Steinbeck’s number and waited for the response.

  “Well, Marchel?”

  “It went well, Horst. Now I have to play the last piece.”

  “Is she onboard?” enquired Steinbeck.

  “I reckon so, laid it on a bit thick but I think it did the trick.”

  “Well done, Marchel.”

  “Press thumbs, eh, Horst.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘fingers crossed’? Don’t rely on luck, Marchel. You’re a lousy gambler.”

  “I won’t, Horst.”

  “Good man, keep me posted.” Steinbeck ended the call.

  Cavendish glanced nervously at his watch. He had laid the bait for the Didier ruse. He had now to ensure the trap could be closed. A phone call from Beckett to Dr Spelman should do the trick. Cavendish doubted his colleague would give up the chance of one last evening with the lovely Emily.

  CHAPTER 21. ‘TWERE WELL IT WERE DONE QUICKLY.

  The bedroom door slammed, rousing Paul Slingsby from the shallow slumber he had drifted into whilst Emily was meeting the German and his friend.

  Emily stomped into the room, tugging agitatedly at the buttons of her red woollen coat. Once removed, she dismissively cast the wet coat on top of her suitcase, which lay upon its wooden stand by the dressing table. Even though he had been startled awake, Slingsby instantly recognised that all was not well with the world of Dr Spelman.

  “Bastards!” she screamed as she sat at the foot of the bed and tugged at her left boot. “The bastards!” she repeated as she removed her right boot and slung it to join its partner beneath the bedroom window.

  “What happened?” enquired Slingsby, keen to discover the outcome of her meeting.

  “The bastards have stitched us up, that’s what’s bloody happened!” Even if she did have her back to him, remaining in his supine pose, he could easily read her volatile state. He smiled; he thrived in highly charged emotional situations. He detested calm, calm offered people breathing space, it enabled them to think, to be evasive. Highly stressed, emotional people seldom possessed the duplicity to lie.

  “Tell me, Em. Tell me what happened, from the top.” The story pertaining to the crypt and the subsequent events gushed forth from Emily in a passionate deluge of bitterness and recrimination. Slingsby adroitly annotated her re-telling to maintain her highly stressed state.

  “So what do you want to do?” he asked when she had completed her story. He had raised himself erect so that he was leaning against the headboard of the bed.

  “What can we do?” she asked viciously.

  “We do what we came here for and exact our revenge.”

  “Oh yea, like he’s really going to hand it over!”

  “But you said he is not going to be there. You said that only the ponce Beckett would be there this evening.”

  “And?”

  “Well you said the idiot fancies you. Take advantage of his feelings!”

  “How do you mean?” Slingsby grinned lasciviously as he slid off the bed and slouched over to his small travel bag. He took out a small sealed plastic bag, which contained two small tablets. He dangled the sachet before her.

  “What are they?” she asked, screwing up her eyes in an effort to glean their significance.

  “They are knockout pills; send him to the land of nod.” He knew Emily’s sensitivities would recoil at the actual existence of date rape pills, despite her previous insinuations.

  “Where did you get them?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Never you mind your pretty ‘supercilious’ face about that,” he answered, quoting Cavendish, hoping to sustain her rancour. “How much do you hate Cavendish?” he asked.

  “With every fibre of my being.” Very poetic, even when she is incensed, thought Slingsby. He walked slowly up to Emily, placed his hands on the tops of her arms, and encouraged her to stand up. He raised her chin with his left hand as he leant forward to peer into her eyes.

  “Imagine his rage tomorrow when he finds the sword missing,” he said gently.

  “He’ll be apoplectic!” she answered, her face lighting up with a smile. He reciprocated the smile with a childish smirk.

  “Yea, he’ll go mad and kick the ass o
f his boyfriend. Emily laughed at Slingsby's picture of a deranged and broken Cavendish throwing a tantrum when he realised that the ‘onerous’ and ‘abhorrent’ Emily Spelman had outsmarted him.

  “What’s your plan?” asked Emily. Slingsby began to unbutton her blouse.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s all very straight forward; you see all you have to do is...”

  Slingsby’s words were stymied by the alarming shrill of a mobile ring tone. He twisted his head as he located the source of the sound; he guessed it to be issuing from Emily’s coat. He collected the mobile and handed it to Emily, who peered at the caller ID.

  “It’s Cavendish!” she exclaimed with a mixture of fright and confusion. Slingsby scrutinised the phone’s display as though his close attention would lend something to the situation. He shrugged.

  “Better answer, I suppose.”

  “No way!” she whispered in a manner to suggest that Cavendish might be listening. Slingsby scowled, grabbed the phone and pressed the green button to accept the call as Emily clasped the separate halves of her blouse together. He thrust the phone back in her hand and Emily could hear an enquiring voice coming from the phone, which she instinctively knew, was not the loathsome Cavendish.

  “Hello?” she asked tentatively.

  “Is that Dr Spelman?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, it’s Tom Beckett.”

  “Hello, Mr Beckett.”

  “Ah, I hope you don’t mind, ah, but I was wondering, well I was going to suggest, if it’s all right with you, I mean I don’t want to cause offence or anything...”

  “Get to the point, Mr Beckett.”

  “Marchel said he has something to show you that might offer some recompense for this afternoon. I think he is regretting his, ah, his ah, his choice of words,” stammered Beckett.