Distracted by the house, Cavendish had not noticed the waiting figure of a man dressed in a black puffer jacket, who now approached the helicopter in the familiar assumed helicopter crouch.
The Untersucher finally recognised the man as Christian Searsby, who he had last seen in the crypt of St Mary’s in Chesterfield only three days ago. Cavendish leaned over Asimov and opened the door. He could see Searsby waiting just beyond the rotor reach of the helicopter, the North Face jacket bulking out the bearded figure, making him appear far more imposing than he would have otherwise.
Asimov looked to Cavendish for guidance, the latter nodded and Asimov took it as instruction to exit the aircraft. He hesitantly unfastened his seat belt, picked up his bag and stepped carefully down from the helicopter. Searsby took his arm and guided him away from the aircraft in the direction of the seminary. They paused and turned back to face the helicopter as Cavendish climbed out having spoken briefly with the pilot.
Searsby felt a slight tug from Asimov as he attempted to move towards Cavendish and had to apply a gentle pressure to prevent his passage. Cavendish lugged the suitcase out of the helicopter and walked stiffly over to Searsby, removing his sunglasses as he made his approach. He held out his hand and exchanged greetings with Searsby, each with a broad smile.
“Welcome back. Good trip, Herr Cavendish?” asked Searsby stroking his beard as he spoke.
“A good result, I think, Christian. At least I’m here. I’d be grateful if you could get my friend Zach settled in.”
“Sure thing, Marchel, we’ll take good care of him.”
“I’ll just have a few words with Zach alone,” continued Cavendish as he took Zach to one side, out of earshot of Searsby.
Cavendish leant over Asimov, placing both his hands on the young man’s shoulders and talked intently into Asimov’s face from a close, almost intimate distance. Searsby watched with intense fascination as Asimov occasionally nodded his head in response. Finally, he witnessed Cavendish tenderly kiss Asimov on his left cheek before he led him back to Searsby.
“You okay, you look knackered, man?” enquired Searsby.
“I need to freshen up, Christian, have you got a room I could use.” Searsby’s smile confirmed Cavendish’s desire.
“Zach has agreed that you can take the bag,” informed Cavendish, “you should find some valuables in there relating to a forth coming sale, take good care of them.” Searsby simply nodded and the three of them walked across the coarse grass towards the seminary.
Flash Seminary had begun its chequered life in the early nineteenth century, constructed during the period when Gothic Revival architecture was in vogue. It had once been the home of a wealthy Georgian industrialist, Sir Peregrine Gray, who spent his vast fortune on the property. Sir Peregrine became a member of the firm and formed a diverse collection of rare African artefacts that filled his grand house for many years.
The Grays were an interesting family, the sort of family that upheld the great British tradition of stoic endeavour. Sir Peregrine’s brother was killed at the battle of Waterloo when he fell from his horse and drowned in a puddle on the sodden battlefield. This act of national immolation set the trend for future generations.
The Gray family lost many ‘heirs and spares’ in the Crimea, the Zulu and Boer wars. Perhaps their finest hour came during the Great War when the loss of three sons and various cousins effectively plunged the Gray line into certain extinction. Few families had given so much and been so proud to achieve so little.
By the nineteen thirties, there were few left to admire the heroic family efforts and the grand mansion was in a similar state of terminal decline before the firm stepped in and purchased the property. It was now the UK headquarters for the organisation and Flash House took on the name of Flash Seminary. A retreat, a place of study and anything else that required privacy and contemplation, Flash facilitated all these things. It boasted access to perhaps the finest library in the world, namely the private library of the firm. Flash seminary was the only UK location granted access rights to the firm’s extensive virtual ‘libraria’.
Cavendish remained on the south facing terrace as Searsby took Asimov inside. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and flicked open the Zippo lighter as a shaft of sunlight burst through a gap in the cloud to his left.
“And who are you?” announced the strident voice of an elderly woman.
“Oh please, not now,” muttered Cavendish to himself. He heard the clicking heels of stout walking shoes against the lichen covered flagstones punctuated by the offbeat metallic ring of a metal-ended walking stick.
Violet Gray, the last survivor of the Gray family, slowly tottered towards Cavendish. She was known simply as ‘Lady Gray’, although the title was an affectionate inaccuracy. He refused to make eye contact; instead, he kept his eyes focused on the far hills of the Peak District National Park, visible through a break in the surrounding forest.
“Ah, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I, you surly brute,” said Lady Gray, “have you been here long?” Cavendish remained silent. “I’d say by your superior look that you haven’t been here long enough. Don’t you worry, my lad, we’ll soon beat that smug look off your face. My Eddy will soon sort you out, you filthy Hun swine!”
Lady Gray walked slowly around Cavendish. True to the perverse character of the natural world, what the gods might have taken from Violet Gray with regard to her mental faculties, they had compensated for with physical vitality, for at eighty-five she had the appearance and energy of someone twenty years younger. His peripheral vision caught sight of her brown tweed combo as she circled audaciously around him.
“Luftwaffe or Kriegsmarine?” she asked as she prodded him with her stick, “I’d say you were Luftwaffe, you’d be jolly uncomfortable in a U-boat, tall boy like you. Still, no more than you’d deserve, you filthy Nazi.” She stopped her circular inspection and halted beside Cavendish to share his view of the distant moorland.
“My Eddy is a flyer you know, just qualified as a navigator in Bomber Command. He’ll soon teach you Jerries not to mess with dear old Blighty.” She reached into the pocket of her tweed jacket and took out a bar of chocolate. Circumspectly glancing around her, she placed the chocolate bar into Cavendish’s non-smoking hand.
“Don’t tell anyone I gave you this, they’ll shoot me!” She looked up at Cavendish and he relented by gazing down into her kindly face. He smiled and squeezed her hand gently as she smiled back affectionately. After a moment of intimate engagement, she snatched her hand away from him and took a step backwards.
“You filthy Hun swine!” she shouted. “Wait ‘till my Eddy hears about you, he’ll have your guts for garters!” Lady Gray stormed off with her stick waving defiantly in the air. Cavendish’s eyes followed her before he meticulously stubbed out the cigarette on the flagstone beneath his feet and toyed with the cigarette filter, squeezing it between finger and thumb.
During the Second World War, Flash Seminary had been a prisoner of war camp for axis troops, housing fliers and naval personnel before dispersal to other camps in the UK and Canada. Violet Gray’s husband, Edward, flew his third and final mission in early 1945. It was his Lancaster bomber’s first trip over Germany. The crew of young men successfully found their target and with a sense of pride and achievement flew home. Unfortunately, Eddy, as navigator, managed to misdirect the plane over the North Sea and the crew of seven stooged over the lonely water looking for land until their fuel ran out and met a watery grave in the vast icy puddle.
It was late afternoon on Wednesday, as Blanch Nichols was having a heart to heart exchange with Emily Spelman in Wells, when Cavendish picked up the suitcase and walked lethargically towards the Gothic pile. He desperately needed to sleep but first he had to deal with other matters. He carried the case up to the same room he had used a few weeks ago and set about analysing its contents and the possessions he had recovered from the dead man at the Plymouth hotel.
He recognised the American Passport
and examined the name. Robert Patterson, he ignored any other information that the passport may contain as he concluded, incorrectly, that the passport probably displayed a false ID. Yet as he sifted through the man’s wallet, the name of Patterson kept reoccurring.
Cavendish considered the banality of the contents of the wallet. The premature death of its owner seemed to vindicate his own take on the futility of existence. The past few days had enervated him and he had been without sleep or Beckett’s calming influence for far too long, his deep-seated insecurities were beginning to return, so reluctantly, he decided that the examination of the case could wait.
Cavendish took out his phone. He was unsure of his motive for checking the tracking app but his heart rate instantly lurched into overdrive as he disbelievingly comprehended that the sword was no longer in Wells but was somewhere in Gloucestershire.
Shock induced panic engulfed him; he leapt to his feet from the bed, scattering the contents of Patterson’s pockets over the floor. Instinctively, he grappled for his cigarettes in his coat pocket, his hands shaking fitfully as he fumbled with the Zippo as he attempted to light the cigarette. He almost swallowed the cigarette as he drew desperately on the filter tip. Pacing nervously about the room his tired mind was assailed by carnal images of Spelman and Slingsby in a remote Gloucestershire hotel bedroom. He was seized by a desperate rage as he contemplated the incompetence that must have taken place during his absence. He rang Beckett.
“Where is Dr Spelman?” Cavendish demanded savagely.
“Hi Marchel, where the hell are you?” answered Beckett, disturbed by the hostility evident in Cavendish’s question. He was standing in the garden at Wells, smoking another cigarette.
“Where the hell is she?” demanded Cavendish vehemently.
“She’s here, Marchel, in the house,” Beckett answered cautiously and waited for a response from an unrecognisable sounding Untersucher.
“And Slingsby?” challenged Cavendish.
“He’s dead; apparently shot by some American.” Beckett felt ashamed at how little emotion his bland statement evoked.
“Is Emily hurt?” asked the German. Beckett thought he detected a slight mollification in Cavendish’s demeanour.
“She’s as well as can be expected after hearing about the death of Slingsby and having been locked up for several days.”
“Get Dr Spelman over to me at Flash as soon as you can,” demanded Cavendish harshly.
“Why your concern?” asked Beckett, taking umbrage with Cavendish’s manner.
“The sword is in Gloucestershire, wherever the hell that might be!” informed Cavendish.
“Good, that means it should be safe for us to go out and get something to eat,” replied Beckett tersely.
It was at that point that Cavendish terminated the call. He let his left arm that held the mobile fall limply to his side, suddenly embarrassed by his bullying of Thomas Beckett.
He justified his actions as a result of being over tired and having been hit from left field. He was not concerned with the fate of the fake sword. He wasn’t moved by the fate of Slingsby.
He was alarmed by Beckett’s revelation of Emily’s incarceration, for any harm to her would spoil the long-term plans he had suggested to the firm’s council regarding her future, which he had made via Steinbeck in a bid to curry additional favour with them. A less exhausted Cavendish would have called Beckett and established the answer to the riddle of the wayward sword. Worst of all, he would now have to apologise to Beckett, again.
He rang his partner once more, this time the voice that Beckett heard was recognisably Cavendish.
“Hi, Thomas, sorry about that, it’s been a hard few days. Well done with Dr Spelman, is she okay about Slingsby?”
Despite Cavendish’s voice now sounding anally familiar, Beckett still felt a reticence to open up to his employer. He spoke with a reserve and a deliberateness that Cavendish could not fail to discern.
“She’s alright, she had a bit of a rough time with an American chap but physically she’s fine.” Cavendish finally took in the American reference.
“Good, now please don’t let anyone go questioning her,” insisted the Untersucher, “I want her calm and comfortable by the time she gets to Flash.”
“Well, the sergeant has already taken a statement of sorts,” replied Beckett.
“Oh Christ, keep Emily away from that Rottweiler,” implored Cavendish, “I owe Josh a great deal but his new sergeant won’t necessarily see things our way.”
“And what is ‘our way’?” asked Beckett icily.
“Tell Josh I’ll speak to him later; I’ll tell him all about the Romanov connection and that I found the guy who took the items from Miles. I guess he has some sorting out of his own to do with regards to Slingsby.” Beckett noticed how Cavendish sidestepped his own question.
“So you are at Flash and you want me and Emily with you tomorrow, right?” asked Beckett.
“Yes, Thomas, but don’t rush, hopefully the hard work is now done and can be finished here.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to get to Flash, wherever that may be?”
“Oh, come on Thomas, make use of the facilities. Call Bethan Williams, her number is in your phone, tell her you want a vehicle and she’ll arrange it,” stated the hectoring Untersucher.
“You make it sound so simple,” said Beckett cynically.
“It is, Thomas. I’ll see you tomorrow. Remember to call Bethan. I’ll let her know you are going to call.”
“Marchel, where have you been?” The line went dead leaving the sensitive photographer confused and irritated.
“German prick,” muttered Beckett to the Norfolk sky.
Cavendish returned the phone to his coat pocket. He suddenly felt hungry and regretted smoking the cigarette, for a fug of stale smoke hung assiduously in the high ceilinged room. The odour combined with his hunger made him feel nauseous. Food could wait, what he needed was sleep and to let the events of the past few days be integrated and analysed by his subconscious. He was struggling to see the big picture and the link between disparate events. Only after a few hours sleep could he think clearly and confidently plan his next move.
Struggling out of his overloaded woollen coat, he mused upon the death of Slingsby and sought out his emotional response. He gave a dismissive shrug when no sentiment was forthcoming and phoned Bethan, extolling his appreciation for her help and informing her of Beckett’s future phone call. Josh could wait until the morning.
Clumsily, he removed the shoulder holster and tossed it carelessly to join his coat, where it landed with a muffled yet reassuring thud. He began to unbutton his shirt but it all became too much effort. Instead, he walked over to the window overlooking the west lawn where the helicopter remained, and tugged the heavy velvet curtains closed.
Vaguely checking his watch and registering that the small hand pointed past the fifth numeral on the dial, he found himself suddenly standing by his bed, where he let himself fall, and crawled to find a comfortable position on the welcoming duvet and surrendered himself to the care of Morpheus.
* * *
Kate Watercombe, the head of household at Flash Seminary, tapped lightly on the solid wooden door panel of Cavendish’s bedroom. No one had seen him since he had disappeared to his room the previous afternoon. She had last seen him Sunday evening when they had dined together and she had rather warmed to the eccentric German. Indeed, she was disappointed with his early departure in order to 'chaperone', as he put it, his colleague and the intriguing academic.
She rapped harder, careful not to spill the mug of hot coffee she carried in her right hand. Still there was no response from the room. Gently, she twisted the doorknob and was not surprised to find the door unlocked, few people felt the necessity in the comfort and security of the seminary.
She walked lightly in bare feet across the carpeted floor, the folds of her pink dressing gown billowed, agitating the stale atmosphere within the room, which was held in a pe
rpetual twilight by the heavy drapes blocking out the early morning light. She sniffed the leaden air and detected the smell of stale tobacco smoke and unwashed man. Instantly, she recalled her heady college days when she would rise in the morning following a heavy student night of partying. A mental note was made to admonish Cavendish for his indoor smoking pursuits.
She could now see the man lying spread-eagled on his back in bed; a single sheet was wrapped around his left leg leaving his body intriguingly naked. He looked Christ-like and she was reminded of a renaissance representation of the crucifixion.
For a second she considered leaving the room but he appeared to be sound asleep. His breathing was deep and heavy, punctuated by an occasional snore, which made her smile. Kate found the notion of being in the presence of a famous, snoring and naked Untersucher highly amusing and arousing even in her sober state. Walking around to the side of his bed, she placed the mug of coffee on the bedside unit where Cavendish had placed his watch next to the alarm clock that reported the time to be just after seven o’clock on Thursday morning.
She was about to walk away but was stopped by a particularly aggressive snore, which she assumed must wake him. He remained motionless with his eyes closed, his breathing not noticeably different. She could not help herself as she found herself studying his naked torso. She was not wearing her glasses so leant forward to gain a clearer image.
She had no idea that he was so thin, for he looked almost emaciated. She could count each rib and easily define his skeletal anatomy. His skin was pale, almost grey in the sallow light of the room, and virtually hairless, yet as she looked more keenly she realised he was far from emaciated for his muscular definition was honed and well defined. She admired his musculature as she scanned along his left arm.
She gasped as her gaze fell upon his upturned wrist. Sitting where his watchstrap would lie was a large scar across the inside of his wrist. A second, more prominent scar sat just above it. There was no mistaking what they were. She stared in disbelief to discover that a man of Cavendish’s reputation had at one point chosen to slash his wrist.
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