“Thomas!” shouted Cavendish; he desperately needed Beckett’s reassuring presence. “Thomas!” he urgently repeated his call. At length Beckett’s head appeared around the open arched way that joined the dining room and lounge.
“Sorry, Marchel,” said a bleary voiced Beckett, “I must have dozed off, it’s been a long day.” Cavendish felt a ridiculous sense of relief knowing that he had found Thomas Beckett.
At that moment, Cavendish’s mobile phone shrilled importunately persuading the inquisitor to stare intently towards the source of the strident summons. He was unused to receiving random calls, for most incoming calls were scheduled. Surely, Steinbeck would not be ringing now?
He reached for his mobile, lying upon the dining table, noted the caller’s identity and pressed the answer button.
“One moment if you please,” he said as he walked hurriedly out through the door into the kitchen and left the house via the small conservatory to take the call outside.
“Okay, go ahead,” said Cavendish as he sat on a weathered concrete bench in a quiet spot at the top of the garden. The darkness was all-enveloping as the clouds soared in from the sea. A superstitious man would have taken little comfort from the auguries in the firmament.
“Cavendish, it’s Simeon Goldstein. We have a problem.”
“Hello Simeon, what sort of problem do you have?” asked Cavendish, feigning a voice of calm indifference.
“Miles has gone missing.”
“Missing?”
“Yes, missing, you klutz. I’ve not seen him for several days. There is another problem as well.”
“Go on,” asked Cavendish, all pretence at his lack of concern now abandoned as he prepared himself for Simeon’s news.
“The Romanov items are missing.”
“The Romanov items are missing?” repeated Cavendish.
“What is wrong with you, are you deaf, you stupid Nazi?”
“No Simeon, no on both counts,” he cared little for Simeon’s taunts as he listened intently.
“The Romanov items are missing. You’d better get here straight away.” Goldstein terminated the call.
Cavendish sat longer than he had intended in the garden whilst he absorbed Simeon Goldstein’s news. ‘The Romanov items are missing’. Marcel Cavendish suspected his ambitions were teetering on the brink of collapse.
CHAPTER 27. A FOOL AND HIS EGO ARE EASILY PARTED.
Cavendish returned quietly from the garden to the house. No one paid any attention to him as he took his seat at the dining table. He sat quietly for several minutes before speaking.
“Would you join me in the garden please, Thomas?” Beckett interpreted the request as a summons to the headmaster’s office. He followed Cavendish sheepishly out into the garden.
The Untersucher lit a cigarette and, ignoring Beckett, looked skywards, attempting to locate any stars in the breaks provided by the streaking clouds.
“There is a change of plan, Thomas,” announced Cavendish solemnly. If Cavendish expected any reply from Beckett then he was to be disappointed. “I’m going to have to leave shortly to return to Bath.”
“You’re joking,” said Beckett, shocked by what he heard, “why, what have I done now?”
“What have you done?” Cavendish ceased his sky gazing and smiled at Beckett. “You have done absolutely nothing. The phone call was from Simeon Goldstein. Miles is missing along with the Romanov items.”
“I assume when you say Romanov”, Beckett made the rabbit ears sign with both hands when referring to the name Romanov; “you are referring to the Russian Tsar and his family.”
“Indeed I am, Thomas, I certainly am,” laboured Cavendish.
“But you never mentioned anything about Russian items. I thought we were dealing with Anglo-Saxon stuff?” asked Beckett cautiously, sensing his partners barely contained angst. Cavendish drew heavily on his cigarette before answering.
“When I was at Flash Seminary, when I first arrived, a reference was made to special items in the auction. If you remember, I asked Simeon about anything special when I shoved my gun in his fat ugly face. He conceded as much. But Horst made no mention of any Romanov items. Christ, do you know how much money the Russians would pay for anything connected with the bloody Romanovs!”
“Hundreds of pounds?” suggested Beckett heedfully.
“Add a few more zeros,” snapped Cavendish. “I have a horrible feeling that I have been duped. No, worse than that, that I have been played for a fool.” Beckett could detect Cavendish’s anger and fear in his voice.
“Hah, I thought I was so cool playing Spelman along,” Cavendish began to take small strides around the garden, waving his cigarette from side to side to emphasise his words, “dangling the goodies in front of her and watching her take the bait hook, line and whatever-bloody-else it is.”
“Sinker,” offered Beckett.
“Fuck sinker,” exploded Cavendish, “watching the girl prostrate herself for a fancy bauble I had created to catch a bigger salmon.”
“Just ‘fish’ would have sufficed.”
“Shit, shit, shit!” The flood of words thereafter were unintelligible to Beckett as Cavendish exploded, shouting in a concoction of German and French.
When Beckett was alone the next day, he regretted the flippancy of his comments. He had not realised the true consequences and implications of what Cavendish was telling him. All in all, it had been an awful day. The problem for Beckett was that tomorrow promised to be even worse.
The German calmed down the instant he saw Houghton standing at the conservatory door.
“Is everything alright out here, guys?” asked Houghton, the concern in his voice apparent even to Beckett.
“Fine, Josh,” answered Cavendish, reasserting control of his emotions, “I’ll have a quick word with Thomas and be back in to see you.” Houghton lingered a little longer to make sure things had settled down before returning to his sergeant.
“He thinks we’ve had an argument,” observed an amused Cavendish, “Josh is better than most, many people thought I would put up with you for only a few days before you bored me and I cast you to the wolves.” Beckett was stunned by Cavendish’s pronouncement.
“What do you mean?” asked Beckett, devastated by the statement.
“Thomas, I am a loner by reputation, I don’t ‘do’ the people thing.” Beckett was hurt; the day was going from bad to worse. The Untersucher continued. “I haven’t got time to explain to you now; I don’t pretend to understand myself what is going on. All I know is that I have to act fast or else.”
“Or else what?” asked Beckett miserably.
“Or else it will be the Siebenbürgen for me.”
“Eh?” asked Beckett, shaking his head. Cavendish stared at his colleague.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. Just do what you think is right tomorrow, and before you ask, you’ll know what that is when the time comes. Don’t worry about Josh and the sergeant, they don’t know you like I do, do they?” By way of reassurance Cavendish added, “you should hear what people say about me.”
Cavendish advanced slowly towards Beckett and characteristically placed both hands on his shoulders, leant forward and looked him in the eyes.
“Thomas, the next few days are going to be very important. Whilst I’m not here you are my eyes and ears, understand?” Beckett nodded; he began to feel sick in the pit of his stomach. “When you confront Spelman and Slingsby in the morning, make sure that Josh takes them to Flash Seminary, don’t let that sergeant interfere, understand?” Beckett again nodded. “Be strong for me, come on, I’ll fill Josh in on the situation.”
Beckett finally found his voice.
“I can tell you’re upset, Marchel, and I know you are in a hurry, but what’s the big deal?” Cavendish removed his hands from Beckett’s shoulders and resumed his vigil of the sky.
“Alright, Thomas, just for you. You know the sword creation was a feint to draw out the auction spoiler. We surmised that the Good D
octor and her journalist were simple intermediaries and we are using them to reach the real source of the heresy. It now appears that whilst I have been seducing Spelman and Slingsby, the perpetrator has been playing me.” Cavendish smiled grimly, exaggerating the scar’s dominance of his features. “I have been drawn away from the epicentre of his desires; whilst I have been dabbling with fake swords, he has stolen the real star of the show, the Romanov items. Hah, I can almost empathise with the Good Doctor!”
“Why did he not just steal them outright, without getting you involved?”
“That is an excellent question, but we can assume that I come into the scheme of things somewhere. Stealing the artefacts is one thing, discrediting me is something entirely different.”
“Have you made any enemies?” asked Beckett innocently. Cavendish grinned ruefully.
“You’d be better off using the antithesis, I have certainly made enemies and unfortunately Untersuchers do not make many friends either.”
“What about me?” Beckett asked forlornly. Cavendish looked slowly down from the sky to the ground. “It would be nice, Thomas, if you proved to be the exception to the rule. Come on, it’s cold out here, let’s break the news of my imminent departure to the others.”
CHAPTER 28. A JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS.
It was regrettable that Marchel Cavendish had to endure a five-hour drive from Norfolk to Bath in the early hours of Wednesday morning without the company of Thomas Beckett. He decided to travel down past Cambridge on the M11 to hit the M25 and then take the M4 to Bath.
His mind replayed the events of the past week. He put behind him the drugging of Beckett as being unavoidable, yet found the episode unsettling despite his assumed professional justification. Maybe he had unlocked the secret of performing the Didier ruse- do not try to be clever or subtle, be blatant and over the top.
He should not have been surprised at Beckett’s aggression towards him following the drugging. However, Beckett appeared to be more disappointed with Emily Spelman, which he supposed was natural enough gauging by their apparent emotional connection.
He had never told Beckett of how he had found his drugged body in the hotel room. He had allowed Beckett to assume that he had taken care of him and put him to bed. Cavendish knew that it could only have been Emily, who had no doubt induced his vomiting in an attempt to remove the poison from his system and save him from the worse effects of the excessive dosage she had administered. She had undressed him and put him to bed, remaining with him much longer than was strictly necessary if she was simply a thief. The whole thing was a very intimate act of which only Cavendish and Emily were aware.
Perhaps he should have told Beckett of her selfless actions but he decided to shield him from the knowledge. He wanted to keep Emily Spelman in the opposition’s camp and did not want his partner to be taken in any more than he already was by the duplicitous woman. Anyway, he had his own ambitions for Dr Spelman; he had resolved to integrate her into the firm. Beckett’s take on the world was admirable, it may have been flawed but it seemed remarkably uncomplicated to someone like Cavendish.
As the motorway miles mounted Cavendish sped through the countryside of England, the M25 was as tediously quiet as it was ever going to be at three o’clock this Wednesday morning. The reason for his hatred of long trips alone, whether it was driving or flying, was that his mind was trapped; there was no escape or distraction from himself. As often happened, his mind drifted back to memories of his childhood.
“But why can’t I stay here and go to school, Mummy?” Marchel was crying in the garden of his Grandparent’s house, somewhere in the south of England on an idyllic summer’s afternoon.
“Oh please, Marchel, do grow up, you are nearly fourteen, and you know very well the reasons why. Your father wants you educated in Germany; it’s all for the best, we want you near his posting. Don’t you like your school?”
“I hate it!” the boy screamed.
“You really are the limit sometimes, Marchel, we do everything we possibly can for you and you’re so ungrateful! You’ll thank us one day.”
The scene changed, Marchel stood on the starting line for the one hundred metre sprint at the academy athletics day. He knew he was fast but so too was his rival, Sepp von Manstein. He looked towards the gathering of parents who sat along the grass bank that lined the home straight of the running track. He spotted his parents, his mother waved and his father stood and raised a triumphant fist of encouragement.
The race started and for the first eighty metres, Marchel held the lead, yet as the finishing line closed, he was aware of a presence gaining on him. He pushed as hard as he could, desperate to reach the line first, but still the person was gaining on him. With only metres to go Marchel watched the speeding figure of Sepp pass by and cross the line ahead of him.
“Hard luck, Marchel,” said the track-suited PE teacher, “fine run lad, pipped at the post.” Marchel grinned, pleased with his performance, he looked across to wave at his parents. His father had vanished and his mother was crying.
The scene switched again to the Heidelberg University gymnasium. It was late in the evening. Marchel stood a few feet away from Sepp von Manstein, both held razor sharp duelling sabres. Robust padding protected their chests, arms, and throats whilst steel goggles safeguarded their eyes. The Mensur commenced with a controlled slashing of blades, both Marchel and Sepp standing rigidly still. The blade flashed towards Marchel’s face, striking his eye guard and cheek, and was gone before Marchel could feel anything. He was aware of his fellow students rushing towards him, he was conscious of blood pouring onto his tunic.
“Leave him alone!” The voice commanded and was instantly obeyed. It was the voice of Sepp, who arrogantly strode towards Marchel whilst hastily tugging his own metal goggles back over his head. He snatched what remained of Marchel’s goggles from his face, causing Marchel to wince aloud in pain, and inspected the wound he had inflicted. Sepp grinned broadly, ran his hand through Marchel’s straggly hair and tilted his head to prevent any more blood seeping into his left eye.
“Fantastic! That’s going to be one hell of a scar if we treat it right. Christophe, come see,” Sepp beckoned over one of the spectating students, “see how the wound extends above the eye and beneath, an exceptional result!” The wound was indeed treated in the prescribed manner; it was stuffed with horsehair overnight to prevent it healing cleanly. To their kind, such a scar was a thing of legend.
The road sign indicated the exit for Swindon as Cavendish unconsciously raised a hand and traced the outline of his Mensur smite. Cavendish was weary of reminiscences, he considered ringing Beckett but at this early hour, he hoped Beckett was still asleep. No doubt the wine he had consumed would help him in that regard.
He imagined Beckett asking him a question. “Are we going to wait ‘til a sensible hour before we visit the Goldsteins?”
“Are we hell as like,” the reply came a little less mollified than Cavendish would have answered had Beckett been present, reflecting Cavendish’s state of mind. “He can damn well get up and see us. The two of them have caused enough trouble. At the moment I’d quite happily put a 357 round into both of them.” He was not cognisant that alone this night, his imaginary conversation had been conducted in German, the language he had spent most of his life speaking. Had Beckett been able to understand German he would have been surprised at how different Cavendish sounded, the attentiveness of his speech pattern when speaking English was absent in his native tongue.
Cavendish parked the Galaxy on an anonymous side road, whether legally or not he did not know nor care. He donned his shoulder holster and woollen coat, and set off on foot to visit Simeon Goldstein. As it transpired, Simeon Goldstein was already up; it was doubtful that he had seen his bed that night. When Cavendish noted the dishevelled appearance of Simeon Goldstein, he fleetingly thought of offering some words of commiseration but quickly remembered why he was there. Cavendish entered the house with no comment or small talk, leaving Si
meon to close the front door.
“Is he back?” asked Cavendish harshly.
“Yes, yes he returned in the early hours. I put him straight to bed with a sleeping tablet.” Simeon sounded flat and subdued.
“Get him up,” ordered Cavendish.
“But he is...”
“I said, get him up.” There was a tone of quiet menace in the Untersucher’s voice. For a second it seemed as if Simeon was about to remonstrate but instead he shrugged and disappeared to collect his brother. At length Simeon returned, supporting his brother with his arm around his shoulder. Simeon sat Miles on one of the dining table chairs in the parlour.
“Be a good chap and put the kettle on, Simeon.” Cavendish forced a smile as he made his request; Simeon wished he had not, for it made him look far more menacing.
Cavendish took a seat and sat rigidly upright with his arms folded across his chest and stared directly at Miles, who briefly made eye contact before furtively glancing back at the tabletop.
“I think you’d better tell me what you have been up to,” said Cavendish, his eyes never leaving Miles and the fierce intensity of the stare made Miles cower before him.
“Marchel, my brother has had an awful time and is still feeling the effects of the tablet,” said Simeon standing in the doorway, he had obviously switched the kettle on and returned immediately to the room. Cavendish held his left hand up to silence Simeon, his eyes remaining firmly fixed on Miles. The momentary silence was finally broken by Miles, who spoke in a soft, almost inaudible voice.
“I’ve been a bit foolish, Marchel. I’m afraid I had my head turned by a handsome young man.” Miles brought his hands up to cover his face and began to cry gently. Simeon went to consol his brother but Cavendish’s raised hand stopped the elder brother in his tracks.
“Coffee please, Simeon. Carry on, Miles.” The sobbing eased and finally Miles looked up at Cavendish with pleading eyes.
“I had no idea he would take the valuables, I didn’t even know that he knew where they were. He seemed such a nice young man, not like a lot of the youngsters these days who just seem to want to get on with it. He seemed to enjoy our walks and talks, he was very attentive.” Miles started to sob again, this time Cavendish suspected the tears reflected the sadness of a lost moment as opposed to his predicament with an angry Untersucher.
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