Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Is that it?” Emily looked confused. She remembered Cavendish’s wink back at the car.

  “Is that what?” asked Cavendish innocently. Emily again chewed her bottom lip and said nothing; Cavendish picked up his notebook and stood up.

  “What about Brad?” asked Emily as she watched Cavendish walk smartly to the gothic framed window at the end of the library.

  “Oh, we’ll find him,” answered Cavendish idly as he stood with his back to her looking out onto the gravelled forecourt where Beckett had parked the Focus.

  “And the sword?” she enquired.

  “In the words of Thomas Beckett, I refer to our Thomas, not the venerable horsehair shirt wearing saintly tosser, ‘I don’t give a shit about the sword’. I suppose Thomas told you the sword is a fake, grant you a very good fake.”

  “Yes,” she said meekly.

  “And don’t you despise him for that?” he asked provocatively.

  “No,” she found her voice unintentionally rising in pitch.

  “The odd thing is he patently does not hate you, I can’t understand why. He’s like that, very forgiving, even after you tried to kill him.” Emily glared fiercely at Cavendish’s back.

  “I never tried to kill him, you bastard!” she barked defiantly.

  “No, I don’t believe you did. And I suspect that it was only Slingsby’s intervention that fateful night that convinced you to go through with the doping.”

  “You mean you saw what happened?” Emily was thunderstruck.

  “Yes, I can only assume he had something very potent to use against you." Cavendish placed his hand inside his jacket pocket and reverentially turned to face Emily. In the palm of his hand lay a small digital voice recorder.

  “Josh made a search of Slingsby’s artefacts which they found in the basement in Wells. They found a memory card. Would you like to hear it?”

  Cavendish switched on the device and the library was filled with Emily’s animated voice. He switched the device to fast forward as he spoke.

  “Rather dull, listening to you berate your peers...” He pressed the play button and the airwaves were resonant with Emily’s enthusiastic groans and shrieks of libidinous ecstasy, insistent that someone administered to her needs more energetically. “Much more stimulating on the laptop...” Cavendish smirked meaningfully. “I wonder if I should let Thomas watch it.”

  Emily leapt from her armchair.

  “Stop it! Please, stop it!” she pleaded. Cavendish smile evaporated the instant he stopped the playback. Emily glared savagely at him.

  “Here,” he declared dismissively, “I have no need for it.”

  He carelessly tossed the machine across the room towards Emily. She was taken unawares by his throw and failed to make the catch, the device falling noiselessly upon the thickly carpeted floor in front of her. With trembling hands, she bent down and snatched the player from the floor.

  “You bastard!” whispered Emily as she retook her seat.

  “So you have said before, you’ve been mixing with Mr Beckett too much and have picked up some wayward words.”

  Emily bit her bottom lip, her heart was pounding against her ribs and she could feel her temples throbbing with every heart beat.

  “So are you prosecuting me for theft?” she asked dejectedly. She felt tired and suddenly the whole charade seemed futile and pointless.

  “No.” Cavendish sounded as unemotional as ever.

  “And for what I did to Tom?”

  “Oh, I think you have done a splendid job on Thomas. Do you know he threatened to kill me if I hurt you? Well done.”

  “I’m very fond of him,” she felt reluctant in Cavendish’s presence to be any more demonstrative.

  “Even though he knew the sword was a fake? Like the way you were ‘very fond’ of the late Mr Slingsby?”

  “You bastard,” uttered Emily again but with less venom.

  “I’ve been called worse, but I appreciate your consistency. I assume Thomas told you who I actually am and the organisation I represent.”

  “He called you an inquisitor and mentioned some crazy organisation he called the firm. Blanch filled in some gaps.”

  “Blanch told you,” said Cavendish half as a question, half as a statement, “I must say I didn’t see that as a possibility. You have risen even higher in my estimation. Tell me, what was your paternal Grandfather’s name?” Emily was thrown by the question and frowned at the Untersucher. “Your Grandfather, what was his real name?” repeated Cavendish.

  Emily suddenly realised the implication of the question. She shrugged before answering as if to indicate her ambivalence to his question.

  “Grünwald, he changed it when he brought his family to England from Germany.” The ‘Greenwood’-images of the designs that had intrigued him in Bath and the carved wooden embellishments in the grand hall at the seminary flashed before his mind’s eye. His surreptitious smile puzzled Emily.

  “Excellent! Now I suggest you find Mr Beckett before he does any harm to me or anyone else,” announced Cavendish, pointing towards the door.

  In a haze of confusion, Emily walked to the exit.

  “Emily,” said Cavendish as she reached the door. She paused and looked at him blankly. “I know I’m a bastard, but I do my job as well and as efficiently as I can. You may have guessed that I don’t have many friends. I hope Thomas is still my friend after this. Please don’t hurt him, he is not like us.”

  Emily’s blood boiled with the tension of the past few weeks and shouted her reply to the Untersucher.

  “Who the hell are you to judge me? What about Tom, he’s a big boy, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Do you really think so, Emily? I don’t think Thomas is that far sighted, do you?” Cavendish could not prevent himself from smiling.

  “I am actually sorry for what you have been through,” continued Cavendish. “I am Marchel Luc Cavendish, appointed Untersucher medius by the power of the Holy Roman Empire. I have the prerogative of life and death as ordained by God, or so I was initiated,” he scoffed at his own bombast. “You have been a victim in this story, as I suspect you have been for much of your life. I would like to change that.”

  Emily peered at him enquiringly as if she had misheard his last statement but said nothing and left the room, she felt insensate and completely bewildered as she clutched the audio device tightly in her hand.

  CHAPTER 38. HE ONLY ORDERED A PIZZA.

  Remaining in the library having interviewed Emily, Cavendish rang the servants’ bell. After a minute or two Kate Watercombe ambled into the room, Cavendish could tell from her gait that she had already been drinking.

  “You are a most welcome guest, Herr Cavendish, but I’d be grateful if you would stop ringing the bloody servant’s bell, we have much better things to do than run after you. What do you want?” Cavendish stood by the fireplace as if warming his backside against the virtual flames of a roaring fire.

  “My apologies, Kate, but I’d be grateful if Brother Christian could collect Mr Asimov and bring him here.”

  Kate rolled her eyes in an exasperated manner.

  “You know we are trying to prepare for this evening’s entertainment, we could do without all these interruptions! And another thing, will you stop bloody smoking indoors, nobody else does it, so I don’t see why you should!”

  Cavendish fired a disarming smile, which prompted her to remember the events in his bedroom earlier in the day.

  “Oh, all right then,” she conceded as her neck flushed, “I’ll go and find Christian.”

  “Thank you, Kate. And could you ask him to stand by to answer the bell when I’ve finished with Asimov?” Kate shook her head in disbelief at his audacity, and left the library.

  After about ten minutes, the library door opened and Searsby escorted Zach Asimov into the room. Cavendish was beginning to wonder if the confused expression that Asimov presented the world was actually his habitual look. He offered Asimov the same seat that Emily had o
nly recently vacated before he too resumed his seat.

  “How are you feeling, Zach?” asked Cavendish.

  “I’m feeling much better thank you, Herr Cavendish.”

  “We are all friends at the seminary, Zach, please call me Marchel. How do you find it here?”

  “I think it’s lovely, Herr Cavendish, the room and the food’s great.”

  “It is lovely isn’t it? Somewhere where one can get a little peace and quiet.” Asimov nodded in response. “You’ve had a tough time, Zach, not many people have been through what you have just experienced.”

  “I don’t know,” said Asimov, “but it was horrible, I can’t remember much about it really.”

  “No, you were in a state of shock; it’s the body’s way of protecting us. The doctor said you’ll be fine and I have to say you are looking much better already after a good night’s sleep.” Asimov again just nodded his head. “I’ve got a few questions for you, Zach, nothing stressful; just tell me what you can.” The slow, unsure nodding continued.

  “How well did you know Robert Patterson?”

  “We were going to France together, you know, a summer on the Med. That’s why we ended up in Plymouth.”

  “Why France?”

  “He said he had a contact there, someone who would buy the letters I got back for a lot of money.”

  “And who was that?”

  “I don’t know. Bob said the less I knew the better. He said he didn’t want to worry me with things like money. He is a very generous man.”

  “So it was you who took the letters? Sorry Zach, that was an unfair question, I know you stole the letters. Whether you admit to it or not is not pertinent to my investigation. I’m not here to punish anyone; I’m just here to establish the truth. What I would like to know is how you came to know of the letters; after all, they were private letters. You don’t strike me as being a thief.”

  “I’m not a thief, Herr Cavendish, Bob told me they were his letters and that he had lent them to Miles and he hadn’t given them back. He said it would be much quicker if I was to simply take them back than to go through the courts. He said not to worry as Mr Goldstein wouldn’t say anything when he realised the letters were gone.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I was to take the letters when Bob told me to and catch a train to London and eventually hand them over to Bob. But suddenly Bob said there was a change of plan and told me to get the letters straight away and take a room in Bristol and wait for him to call. I didn’t like that, that’s when I began to find it all a bit frightening. Bob rang and told me to get on a train to Plymouth and meet him at the hotel. I don’t remember much after that except for the helicopter ride.”

  “What day did Bob tell you to take the train to Plymouth?”

  “Tuesday, around about lunch time.” Cavendish paused briefly to consider the time line.

  “Did you ever see Bob talking to anyone when you were together or did he make any phone calls?”

  “No”

  “You mean Bob never used his phone?”

  “He rang for pizzas.”

  “Don’t you think that constitutes talking to someone, Zach?”

  “Not really, I think it constitutes ringing for a pizza.”

  Cavendish paused and pretended to write something in his notebook to hide his exasperation. “When he ordered pizzas, did he ever say anything that struck you as being odd?”

  “No.”

  “Fine, I think that is enough for today, Zach. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Can I go home soon?” asked Asimov plaintively

  “When I think you have finished helping me, yes, you may go home.”

  Cavendish smiled weakly at the forlorn Asimov. He had decided to treat Asimov with kid gloves and was disappointed not to illicit anything useful. He decided a break was necessary before continuing. If had no useful leads by the end of the session he regretfully concluded he may have to be more forceful.

  The inquisitor put away his notebook and lifted himself out of the armchair, Asimov copying his movements, and walked to one of the large windows overlooking the lawn and watched Beckett pacing deliberately in seemingly ever decreasing circles whilst drawing heavily on a cigarette.

  Cavendish was reminded that as a child he had once visited a zoo somewhere, the location escaped his memory, and watched a large polar bear in its compound. The enclosure did not strike him at the time as being overly small; he remembered that contained within the white washed walls was a pool of sorts allowing the bear to swim. The bear was a rescue animal from a circus. All it did, all day long, was take two steps to the right, turn around and take two steps to the left. He was too young to know of the concept of being stir-crazy yet he knew the bear was very unhappy. He later learnt that the zoo was blamed for the bear’s condition, nobody cared that it had been rescued. There was a moral to that story which one day he would explore.

  Beckett took a final draw on the cigarette and clearly burnt his fingers. He hastily dropped the cigarette and brought his burnt digits to his mouth whilst shouting expletives at the offending butt, audible through the open window.

  Asimov had taken a position next to Cavendish; he giggled and for the first time spoke without prompting.

  “Bob likes to swear; he made me laugh once when he ordered a pizza and suddenly shouted, ‘Fucking Frisia, I’m not going to fucking Frisia!’ Well something like that. I know Frisia is in Holland, it made me laugh anyway.”

  Having walked across to the fireplace, Cavendish pressed the servants’ button on the wall. A few seconds later, the library door opened and Christian Searsby entered serenely to collect the perpetually bemused Zach Asimov and escorted him back to his room on the second floor. As the pair departed, Josh Houghton entered the library and threw himself into Cavendish’s armchair.

  Cavendish stretched his arm, rested it on the mantelpiece, and faced the detective. Houghton imagined Cavendish taking a pipe out of his pocket. Instead, he produced a cigarette and diligently lit it.

  “You know, Josh, it is a much under rated pleasure smoking a cigarette indoors.”

  Houghton smiled gravely.

  “It will kill you, Marchel.” Cavendish shrugged his shoulders to demonstrate his disdain for the inspector’s concern.

  "Is Dr Spelman being looked after?” Cavendish asked.

  “Yeah, she saw Beckett briefly before being whisked away by my sergeant. Blanch was shown some vintage dresses and stuff, I think she wanted to share the moment with someone.”

  “Yes, our Emily is a fascinating woman, winning hearts and minds. Talking of hearts, how is Thomas?”

  “He’s in a bit of a state, Marchel. I think you’d better have a word with him.”

  “Do you mean I should have a ‘word’ with him, or have a plain old fashioned chinwag?” Cavendish smiled whilst exhaling an expansive plume of cigarette smoke.

  “You know what I mean. I can see why you brought him along on this trip,” confessed Houghton as he followed the rising smoke on its journey to the ceiling.

  “You can?”

  “Yeah, he really is your everyman; you knew he and Dr Spelman would hit it off.”

  “No I didn’t. I know I have a reputation and I’m keen to keep it, but if people think I brought Thomas along as a fall guy then they are mistaken.”

  “So why did you bring him along?” asked an intrigued Houghton.

  “Because I like him, he’s my friend. He doesn’t judge me or make demands, he...,” Cavendish’s words petered out. Houghton viewed Cavendish quizzically

  “Well, after all the things he was shouting when you took his poor Emily away I’d say you’ve just lost a friend,” declared Houghton sensitively.

  “I really hope not,” said Cavendish pensively as he too followed the passage of his cigarette smoke.

  “So why did you take her away like that, you must’ve known he was going to be pumped up.”

  “I thought it would be kinder to Emily to end her
torment as soon as possible.”

  “You’ve got some bloody strange ideas, Cavendish.”

  The Untersucher raised his eyebrows at Houghton’s comment and abruptly changed the direction of their conversation.

  “What did you think of what Asimov had to say, I take it you were listening?”

  “Nothing much, but I’m wondering if Frisia has any significance, it would be nice if it led to some Dutch conspiracy,” suggested Houghton.

  “Well, part of all this, I’m sure, is to discredit me. It would be amusing if there was a Dutch connection, you know how they hate my country.”

  “I take it you mean Germany when you say ‘my country.” Cavendish chuckled at Houghton’s correction and offered him a piece of Dutch folklore.

  “There is a saying in the Netherlands when referring to the Germans that goes something like this, ‘We’ll be nice to you when you bring our bikes back’.”

  “Most droll, you’ll forgive me if I don’t tell that one to the kids,” replied Houghton. "Do you think you'll get much out of Asimov?"

  "I hope so, the trail runs cold otherwise. Still, I've a few days to work on him."

  Houghton shuddered at the prospect. Inquisitors were trained to extract information. He didn't like to consider the extent of their skills portfolio.

  “Why don’t you go see Tom before he smokes himself to death?” suggested Houghton, suddenly keen to be alone.

  Beckett had ceased his pacing and was sitting on a stone bench staring bleakly into the distant High Peak, stark against the low cloud. Cavendish silently sat down beside and took a cigarette out of its packet. He offered another to his partner. Beckett took the cigarette without acknowledgement and accepted the proffered light from the Zippo lighter. Both men sat in silence and smoked.

  Cavendish thought hard for something incisive to open the conversation.

  “Are you alright, Thomas?” It was hardly the most penetrating opening he had ever used but it seemed appropriate. Beckett responded to the mediocrity of the question.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, Marchel.”

  “Sorry about earlier, I thought it was better to get Emily out of the way.” Cavendish sensed a sudden tension in Beckett as if he was a cobra arching his back ready to strike. Cavendish quickly expanded his point. “I just wanted to clarify a few things to eliminate her from the proceedings.” Cavendish sensed the cobra relaxing.