Emily did not reply at once, she looked to Slingsby who was listening to the conversation. Slingsby was grinning and nodding his head at Emily, indicating that she should encourage Beckett to continue.
“I thought Herr Cavendish was going to be elsewhere?” she asked of Beckett.
“He is. I’m afraid he has asked me to show you something. I’ve a table booked in the restaurant for seven if you are remotely interested, of course I completely understand if you...” Slingsby was grinning ear to ear and nodding franticly at Emily to agree to the invitation.
“Okay, Tom. I’ll see you at seven.”
“Oh, right, good. I’ll see you then. Bye.”
Slingsby clapped his hands and gave a whoop of delight.
“Hell girl, couldn’t have planned things better myself! Who says fortune doesn’t favour the brave!” Emily smiled back wanly at the journalist, for in truth, she didn’t really know what she was smiling about.
It was only as she took a bath that Emily regained her composure following her meeting with Cavendish. She slowly yielded to the reality of what Slingsby had proposed. The treacherous onset of doubt began to creep in. Later, as Slingsby left the room to go down for a smoke, she lay on the bed draped in a white towel and stared blankly out of the window at nothing in particular.
Emily was not a great fan of the theatre. Her only real connection to Shakespeare had been at school, and there she studied ‘Macbeth’. Yet despite her lack of interest, she could not help drawing comparisons between her own predicament and that of the lead character in the ‘Scottish Play’, despite the gender reversal. Like the anti-hero of the play she was, at the outset, the one ‘not without ambition’ and she did indeed ‘lack the illness which should attend it’.
She ruminated upon her relationship with Slingsby. There was undoubtedly a strong sexual attraction on her behalf but that passion, she considered, had already faded. Initially he had allowed her to be the dominant player, but lately she realised it was he who was actually calling the shots. Her flaming desire to claim the sword and make a name in the academic world had begun to cool, until she had seen the blade. Then the flames of hopes and dreams had been fanned anew to restore her faith in their dubious project only to be shattered by Cavendish’s abusive slamming of the door in her face.
However, she now wished she had not been so hasty in revealing her feelings to Slingsby after her return from the crypt. He had latched onto her anger so swiftly; it had been so easy for him to get her to agree with his plan. She did not want to hurt Thomas Beckett; he seemed a decent enough man even if he did associate with the reptilian Cavendish. Slingsby’s plan was so simple, to seduce Thomas Beckett, lure him to his room where they presumed the blade would be kept, let the drug do its work and take the sword and flee to Slingsby’s waiting car and be away before anyone realised the sword was missing.
Cavendish frightened her, quite why, she was unsure. There was something hidden deeper beneath that vague, polite exterior. Perhaps gangsters used the same guise. Perhaps the man in Chicago smiled politely before ordering the St Valentine’s Day massacre. Yet Beckett was a different prospect. He was not repellent to her as Cavendish was, in fact, in a different time and place she might find him highly desirable, he had a certain virtuousness couched beneath his verbal armour that she found refreshing.
She bit her bottom lip as she toyed with her doubts. All she had to do was administer the drug before going to his room and so gain access to the sword. But how long did the drug take to cause the unconsciousness required?
She also concerned herself with possible reprisals; her imagination flew away with her at times. Did she over exaggerate the threat of an outraged Cavendish? Would he come after her to exact his revenge? Slingsby assured her that such things did not happen in the real world. After all, they were not dealing with an organised crime syndicate, but an eccentric collector of rare artefacts who realised he was operating outside the law. Once they went public with their find, then perhaps they could be reconciled with the sword’s owner? When he was present, Slingsby’s arguments were always persuasive, yet when she was alone the world did not seem quite so straightforward or benevolent.
The door opened and Slingsby strutted in, she could immediately smell the cigarette he had just smoked on his breath. He leant over and kissed her hard on the lips and she recalled the passion he had once instilled in her. Why had she have given herself to this ‘bad boy’? Had making the grade in the academic world come to this. Could everything be justified by her ambition? She knew the answer but now the die was cast.
“It’s about time you got ready, babe,” said Slingsby. As she stood up to walk to the dressing table to apply her makeup, he grabbed the back of her towel and tugged it sharply. The wrenched towel spun her to face the journalist, who let the towel fall to the floor. She fought to control the impulse to cover herself with her hands; she felt a surge of anger, which she hoped, did not manifest itself physically.
“Jesus girl, I’m beginning to think I might lock you in and keep you all to myself. I’m not sure this Beckett should get a good eyeful of my Emily.” Slingsby became excited picturing Emily seducing Beckett. She gave a phony laugh as he pulled her towards him and fell into his excited embrace.
“Anything and everything is possible,” he whispered as he kissed her neck. She thought she heard herself reply with the words of Lady Macbeth, “if it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly.”
CHAPTER 22. SATAN AND THE CUDDLY BEAR.
Thomas Beckett waited nervously at the restaurant table, toying with the cuff buttons of his blue shirt for the want of anything better to do.
The restaurant staff had entered into the spirit of the weekend by decorating the room in an old-fashioned Halloween style. Witches’ brooms stood idly by, black cats and pointed hats strategically littered the restaurant, whilst various runes and hexes adorned the walls. For Beckett, the room had an unsettling ambience he associated with the ill-advised pursuit of trying to celebrate Christmas in August.
A young waitress, wearing a tight white top and short black skirt approached Beckett as he sat forlornly at his table for two. She had often witnessed similar scenes played out, the refreshingly modest and handsome man had earlier been sitting alone in the bar, casting frequent glances at his watch before finally deciding to head for the restaurant. She wondered, from a professional viewpoint, if there was anything sadder than dining alone after you had been stood-up.
“Are you ready to order, Sir?” asked the freckled faced redheaded waitress. Beckett glanced at his Rolex; it was approaching a quarter to eight.
“Another five minutes?” asked Beckett apologetically. The redhead smiled and was about to walk away when Beckett added, “Miss, a bottle of house white wouldn’t go amiss though.” The girl acknowledged his order with a warm smile; he might as well drown his sorrows.
“My name’s Michelle,” she said as she left the dining room to walk through the reception area. Here she caught sight of a woman in a red woollen coat walking reluctantly into the hotel.
Michelle considered the woman’s appearance. Her hair had been spoilt by the incessant drizzle, but being simply styled down past her shoulders, there was no real damage done. She assessed the woman’s make-up, it showed a skilful application of subtle colours and shades and the girl had to concede she looked very pretty, perhaps even beautiful, bearing in mind she was an ‘older woman’. Michelle gamely concluded that this woman was her man’s date and immediately felt contempt for the selfish woman for having kept him waiting so long. What Michelle did not know was that this woman had been standing under the cover of a nearby building for the past half an hour, attempting to garner the courage to make an appearance at all.
“Can I help you, Madam?” Michelle asked of Emily.
“Yes, thank you, I’m meeting someone for dinner, I’m afraid I’m a little late,” Emily almost whispered.
“I think you’ll find him in the restaurant,
Madam, through there,” she pointed.
“Thank you very much,” said Emily politely. She walked cautiously into the confined restaurant. Michelle whispered under her breath.
“Bitch, you don’t deserve him!”
Emily found Beckett sitting alone in the corner of the room beneath a mobile of twisted vines and ivy suspended from the ceiling. It resembled a dream catcher, similar to the one she had once hung above her bed, which had wretchedly failed at its prescribed job of preventing her disturbing nightmares.
The restaurant was full and Beckett looked ill at ease alone in the crowded room. He stood as she approached and clumsily offered his hand in greeting and accurately read her hesitation before she lightly took his hand.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr Beckett. I got a bit tied up,” explained Emily hurriedly as she took off her damp coat and hung it on the back of her chair.
“Not a problem,” said Beckett, speaking off the cuff.
Emily looked at him with a stony expression, which Beckett countered with an apologetic, disarming smile. She thought he had the cutest smile, it was the kind of smile that could defuse the most difficult situation, and she guessed correctly that he had cause to use it more than once.
Emily adjusted her white blouse as she took her seat, drawing his attention to the swelling tailored cut of the material.
“Have you been waiting long?” she asked lightly by way of making conversation.
“Oh, no,” he replied, “I just got here.”
Michelle returned with Beckett’s bottle of house white and he instantly regretted not having ordered something a little classier. Why did he desire to impress Emily Spelman? Michelle poured the wine for Beckett to try and he nodded his uninformed approval, confirming the taste of a cheap chilled white wine.
They ordered their food with an awkward formal exchange of platitudes, agreeing only to take a main course. Beckett was happy not to prolong his embarrassment and Emily equally content not to delay the inevitable.
“I’d like to apologise, Tom,” she said hurriedly.
“For what?” he replied automatically, knowing full well what she had to apologise for.
“For what I said earlier, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I was...”
“It’s okay, things get said, I’m sure Marchel didn’t mean all the things he said.” Emily’s silence conveyed her rebuttal of Beckett’s statement. Beckett shrugged and smiled to convey his understanding of her sentiments.
“So what have you to show me?” asked Emily.
“Nothing,” conceded Beckett sheepishly as he prepared himself to face her wrath.
“What do you mean, nothing?” He was surprised by the lack of venom in her question and looked up from the tablecloth to view his dinner guest’s expression. He wished he possessed Cavendish’s adroit skill at reading facial inferences. Her beauty blinded him although if he had to hazard a guess, he decided that despite her mantle of self-assuredness there was something else. That something was fear. However, he realised that was a ridiculous notion. That was why Cavendish was a hard-hearted inquisitor and he was an underemployed photographer.
“Look,” babbled Beckett as quickly as he could, “Marchel regretted his choice of words. He asked me, no coerced me, into ringing you, to get you here so that we, I, could apologise properly. If you want to leave, it’s fine by me, I quite understand. Sorry for what he put you through, it was wrong, and I...”
“Tom,” interrupted Emily.
“Yes?”
“This is your role then?”
“What do mean?”
“I mean, that is why Cavendish likes having you around. I’ve wondered ever since we first met what the hell you’re doing with a slug like him. I see now, he offends and upsets everyone he meets and leaves you to clear up the mess. You are the yin to his yang.”
“Well, I suppose that’s better than being the Pinky to his Perky.”
Emily laughed; she could not remember the last time she laughed innocently, without malice. Yes she could, it was the night of the meal when she had first met Tom. She dismissed the recurring notion that here was the man she unwittingly agreed to drug.
Beltane was not prepared to let these two sad and lonely people go their own way, certainly not this weekend. For little by little, Beckett’s reserve eroded as he started to relax. Even Emily somehow absently disregarded the true purpose of the evening. She found herself entirely invigorated in the company of Tom Beckett, he was not of her world, he lacked the deceptive subtlety of academia, and try as she might, she could not detect an ulterior motive in his actions or conversations. Admittedly, he flirted, albeit in an amusingly diffident way. Moreover, would she not have been insulted had he not done so? And there she was again, increasingly thinking of him as a date not a victim.
“Are you married, Tom, do you have a family?” she asked.
“Yep and yes,” replied Beckett, “I take it you’re not?”
“No, I’m not the marrying type.”
“I don’t blame you for that,” said Beckett sadly.
“Aren’t you happy?”
Beckett considered trying to give a smart answer but none came, “no, not particularly.”
“But you seem content, you don’t have an edge about you, not like your friend,” she said referring to Cavendish.
“Marsh? I don’t think he’s unhappy, he’s just focused. He has a purpose in life,” replied Beckett as he studied his wine glass whilst rotating it by the stem with his fingers.
“And you don’t?” asked Emily earnestly. Beckett put his glass down on the table, looked her straight in the eye, and answered without resentment, “no.”
“But you have a wife and family, don’t they give you a purpose?” asked Emily with an inquisitive tenderness that did not go unnoticed by Beckett.
“Sue was sixteen and I was twenty when we got married. My parents said we were too young, but hey, what do parents know,” he smiled ruefully and Emily responded likewise. “I was a big disappointment to Sue, I talked the talk but didn’t, oh you know the rest. The kids gel you together and you learn to live your lives together but apart, if you get my drift. We have our moments, but they are few and far between. And that in a nutshell, is my life, dear Doctor.”
Beckett knew he had divulged something intimate to Emily and was perturbed by the insight; the only other person he spoke frankly with was Cavendish. How ironic that the only two people he felt any connection with were on opposite sides of the fence. Maybe Emily’s interest was disingenuous; in truth he did not care. She was a beautiful, intelligent woman who made for a compelling date, who genially laughed at his jokes and even offered a few of her own.
With only main courses ordered, the meal was over in less than an hour. The red haired waitress returned to clear away; she smiled sweetly at Beckett whilst blanking Emily.
“Are you going to watch the fireworks, then?” asked Michelle, “they really are worth seeing; we’re being allowed out to see them!” Beckett looked encouragingly towards Emily, who vaguely shrugged her shoulders, she suddenly felt utterly bewildered and irresolute.
“Fancy it?” Beckett asked.
“I’m not sure, Tom...” Emily spoke hesitantly, unsure now where the evening was taking her.
“Oh, come on,” he said brightly as he winked teasingly at the dallying Michelle, who giggled girlishly in response. Beckett’s flirting with the young waitress shocked Emily, inducing a stab of jealousy. So alien an emotion was it for the normally judicious academic that his playful interaction with the young waitress made her mind up for her. “Why the hell not!” she laughed impulsively.
Michelle scowled with disappointment at Emily’s impromptu decision and left hastily with their plates. Beckett leant close to Emily, catching the intoxicating fragrance of her expensive perfume, unaware that it had lost its capacity to intimidate.
“I don’t think she likes you very much,” whispered Beckett conspiratorially. She laughed carelessly back and gazed into his conte
nted blue eyes. Above them rotated the mysterious green floral decoration, wafting in the undulating currents of the charged atmosphere within the restaurant. At that precise moment, Emily Spelman hated herself and understood with an ephemeral ambiguous lucidity that there was not a chance in hell that she was going to carry out Slingsby’s despicable plan. If he was accordingly upset, well that was tough, as far as she was concerned, Paul Slingsby was now mercifully history and so too was stealing the sword. Night had fallen by the time they left the hotel restaurant. The light persistent rain remained, giving the cobbles of the square a shimmering quality beneath the electric stall lights and the flaming torches that projected dungeon-like from the sides of selected buildings. A discordant crowd headed towards the main square and Emily took Beckett's arm as the clamour of people became denser as they neared their goal.
The square was already thronging with spectators. A folk band, playing infectiously lively music, entertained the raucous gathering. Dads hefted their youngsters onto their shoulders to enhance their view of the firework demon, and a few older girls decided that they too should similarly sit astride their boyfriends’ shoulders. Beckett had often witnessed such spectacles at the Glastonbury Festival and drew Emily’s attention as he pointed at one such girl. He visually weighed the girl and cynically calculated how long her boyfriend could support her before his shoulders collapsed under the unreasonable weight. Emily interpreted his conclusion and giggled as he mimed the boyfriend’s sad demise.
Emily snuggled closer as more people continued to press from behind. He looked down and scrutinized her alluring face as she appraised her surroundings and became aware that he had wrapped his arm around her slender shoulders, encouraging her to draw ever more tightly into his body. Her warmth seeped agreeably through him and he told himself that the contentment evoked was simply comforting on this dank evening and nothing more.
The music stopped and a man, who Beckett guessed to be a Morris dancer, leapt dramatically onto the stage and grabbed the microphone.
Denied to all but Ghosts Page 19