“Herr Cavendish,” declared Kate before Sir Fletcher could steer the conversation elsewhere, “I’m fed up of your smoking in this house, you’re only a guest and should act accordingly.”
“Actually I’d rather like a cigar later,” said Sir Fletcher, offering Kate a broad smile. Kate responded quickly.
“You have earned the right, Fletcher. Herr Cavendish has not.”
“Here, here!” added Houghton, slapping the arm rests of his chair as his usual reserve was subdued by the contents of the extensive wine cellars at Flash Seminary.
“Thank you for your support, Josh,” said Kate graciously, “and as a forfeit for being so boorish, Herr Cavendish, you may give us some entertainment. A song I think.”
All eyes focused on Cavendish to see how he would respond to Kate’s provocation. Cavendish leant back in his seat.
“I will sing if you let me smoke,” challenged Cavendish, offering a conciliatory grin.
“Are you typical of your country?” asked Kate. “Do you always expect to get your own way, oh don’t answer that. You sing us a song and I’ll consider it.”
Beckett watched the competitive exchange between Cavendish and Kate with amusement. He wondered what Cavendish would do to avoid performing his forfeit. He could not imagine for one moment that Cavendish would actually sing.
Cavendish slowly stood up, and walked with a calculated casual gait towards the piano, where he sat down on the stool.
“I must ask for your patience, it’s been a while since I played.” Cavendish exaggeratedly adjusted the position of the stool whilst he spoke. “This is a German folksong about the river Rhine. It was a tune written in 1837 by Friedrich Silcher from a poem by Heinrich Heine. And before you ask Thomas, it is a song I learnt at school and it’s in German. It’s called ‘Die Lorelei” and tells the tale of the famous Siren, who lured boatmen to their untimely deaths.” He smiled and winked at Kate and was pleased to note her involuntary blush.
The occupants of the room exchanged curious glances and Blanch giggled nervously as Cavendish performed a few theatrical gestures with his fingers before starting his performance. He sang, a lilting beautiful ballad, sung in a soft melodic voice that not a single person in the room had anticipated. There was a stunned open-mouthed silence as Cavendish bowed and retreated from the piano.
“That was beautiful, Marchel,” declared Kate in a slightly slurred voice that clearly emoted her poignant mood, “I don’t know what the bloody hell it was all about, but it was really lovely, thank you. You may smoke if you wish.” So Marchel Cavendish was clearly not immune to the potency of Flash Seminary after all.
Cavendish strode across to the sideboard to pick up an ashtray and on the way granted Beckett a celebratory grin. Beckett shook his head in disbelief; he should have remembered that Cavendish sang at university in Heidelberg.
“I suggest we play a game,” announced Sir Fletcher as Cavendish leant against the piano and offered a light to his musical reward. “It is called word association. I say a word and you all have to come up with an associated word. We’ll go clockwise around the room, starting with you Blanch. The word is...head.”
“Oh I don’t know!” shouted Blanch hesitantly, “hair!”
“Too slow!” boomed Sir Fletcher, “next!”
It was Kate’s turn. “Hat!” she shouted excitedly. Next was Beckett, who raised his eyebrows despairingly towards the ceiling.
“Coat,” said the photographer with indifference. Parlour games were not his thing and very uncommon in south Bristol. Emily slapped his hand.
“What was that for?” he cried grouchily.
“For being so boorish!” she chided.
“Christ, I’ve spent a lifetime on this planet without hearing anyone use the word ‘boorish’, and I hear it twice in one bloody night!” Emily playfully slapped him again before adding her own contribution.
“Vest!” she declared earnestly.
All eyes turned to the slouched Houghton.
“Knickers,” broadcast Houghton in his deepest voice. The room erupted with easy, alcohol-induced laugher, no one more fervently than Blanch, who apparently found it hilarious to hear her chief mention underwear.
“That was very good,” said Sir Fletcher gravely, “but painfully slow. On the next round, I want it snappier. The next word is...”
The game continued and grew more riotous as everyone waited with keen anticipation for the round’s conclusion with the inebriated Houghton who managed to finish with an earthy contribution, delivered by his fine bass voice. He was ably aided and abetted by Emily who seemingly always managed to set him up with an appropriate connecting word, ‘bats’ being a suitable link word for a delicate part of the male anatomy.
With the completion of yet another round and with the laughter echoing in his ears, Houghton held up a drowsy hand.
“You’ll have to excuse me for the next round; I need to pay a visit.” He laboured out of his seat, dizzy with the sudden movement, the result of too much booze and sitting around, he concluded wearily. He walked slowly towards the door in an attempt to hide his inebriation. Sir Fletcher took advantage of the break and extricated a cigar from his dinner jacket pocket. Cavendish walked across to Sir Fletcher and offered him a light whilst he spoke discretely into the ear of the senior civil servant, who nodded silently, acquiescing to the Untersucher’s request.
“Reverse order this time,” ordered Sir Fletcher quickly, “your word Emily is...” By now Emily was fully into the game, the alcohol had liberated her mind and she sat forward with mock eagerness to hear the word. “Frisia!” shouted Sir Fletcher with gusto.
Houghton stopped in his tracks just outside the drawing room as he heard his superior utter the word. Emily waved her hands in the air as she pondered.
“Oh...oh... Lupins!” A rather drunk and apathetic Beckett lamely offered ‘pansies’, and the round floundered in a low-key fashion with Blanch’s forgotten answer.
By then Cavendish was no longer listening, he caught Houghton gazing at him from around the open doors at the end of the drawing room and lip-read Houghton’s words.
“You sly old bastard!”
Cavendish waved his hand foppishly at Houghton; it would take more than Houghton’s insinuation to wipe the smile from his face. He abruptly marched out of the dining room to join Houghton with whom he conferred before summoning Blanch, who rose unsteadily to her feet and tottered shakily out of the room.
The three of them walked to the library, Cavendish already had the phone to his ear.
“Simeon, it’s Marchel.”
“It’s late, Marchel, don’t you sausage-eaters ever sleep?” said a typically scratchy Simeon Goldstein at home in Bath.
“Sorry, Simeon, it is important. When I suggested re-interviewing Miles, you informed me that it was not possible because you were going to a country fete, who is the friend who is exhibiting?”
“Why, have you suddenly taken an interest in gardening?”
“I was just wondering who would possibly want to be friends with you?” teased Cavendish, savouring the anticipation of the moment.
“What an impertinent boy you are. If you must know it’s Hugo Victor, he is exhibiting his beautiful displays.”
“Don’t tell me, he grows Freesias.”
“If you already know, why are you asking?”
“Thank you, goodnight, Simeon. Pass on my regards to Miles.”
CHAPTER 40. THE BEST LAID PLANS OF MALICE AND MEN.
Standing in the Library, Thomas Beckett peered out through the arched gothic windows at the distant group of four people standing amid the walled flowerbeds, Cavendish, Kate, Sir Fletcher and Emily.
Cavendish towered over the two women, a familiar figure in his long woollen coat. How he managed to feel comfortable in such a coat Beckett could not understand, for it was a lovely mild morning in late April, even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. The understated formal gardens at Flash were just starting to show p
romise with the arrival of the spring sunshine.
Beckett had a feeling that events were drawing to a conclusion. He had read crime fiction, his wife was an ardent fan of the genre, and he often perused the odd copy to while away a vacant hour and felt that there were not many chapters left in this particular novel.
He had not spoken with Cavendish since the previous evening but knew that Cavendish had been talking with Houghton and Blanch in this very room late into the night whilst he had fallen asleep on the settee in the drawing room.
Something that Emily had said the previous evening had obviously triggered the discussion and Beckett felt anxious to find out what it was. He had an inkling of what was now being discussed out on the lawn, he guessed it was to do with Emily’s future and the vibe of the previous evening certainly vindicated the assumption. He felt a guilty pleasure of voyeuristic curiosity as the informal meeting progressed and had no intention of abandoning his surreptitious surveillance.
He did not hear Josh Houghton enter the room but became aware of his imposing presence as he stood beside him.
“I’m sure you are intrigued to know what they are talking about,” asked Houghton as he toyed with his goatee.
“No, not in particular,” replied Beckett.
“You’re a lousy liar; your face takes on a sulky look when you lie.”
“So what are they talking about?”
“They are offering her a position in the firm, perhaps something to do with her academic skills; she is an Anglo-Saxon specialist, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, something like that,” answered Beckett. He realised how little he knew of her Oxford life, it was as if they were living in a bubble, life went on around them but they were not part of it. He wondered if the others felt the same.
When Beckett failed to pursue the topic, it fell to Houghton to expand his point further.
“You know, I get the feeling that they might be suggesting she trains to become an inquisitor.” This time he received Beckett’s full attention.
“What Emily? I thought they were all men?”
“They are. It would be a clever ploy on Marchel’s part. There are no British inquisitors, so that would be a first. And that she happens to be a woman is a double whammy.”
“Would they accept her?” asked Beckett, his concern escalating.
“Well in any large group there are the conservative traditionalists and the rampant reformers. I believe Marchel is trying to appeal to the latter. I like to think of it as his way of hitting back at his detractors.” Beckett did not want to contemplate the serious implications of Houghton’s startling announcement.
“What was the powwow about last night?” asked Beckett, moving the topic away from Emily.
“I think we’ll leave that for Marchel to announce, he’s calling a meeting for eleven o’clock,” replied Houghton earnestly.
By eleven o'clock they sat in the drawing room; everyone adopting the same seats as the previous evening except for the absent Kate Watercombe and Sir Fletcher Dobson, whose armchair was now occupied by Cavendish. However, the atmosphere could not have been more different, the fancy dress was missing, so too the mood of bonhomie, the ambience was now far more business-like.
“First of all an announcement,” said Cavendish, “Dr Spelman has been offered a position with the firm which she is considering. Obviously she knows little about the organisation, like most of us when we joined, so it’s only fair we give her time to think it over.” Cavendish smiled but he was the only one to do so. He watched Emily look pensively towards Beckett and wondered how their story was going to work out.
“Let me tell you a tale,” began Cavendish. “An Untersucher received an assignment in the UK concerning a forth coming sale. Feel free to translate as we go along for the Good Doctor, Thomas. Now such sales are rare and attract a great deal of interest from the top players, the Samlers or Ghosts as you prefer to call them. On the death of a Ghost, any artefact that has been acquired from the firm has to be returned. The role of many a novice Untersucher is to explain to a bereaved spouse that a certain object has to be returned. It is not the easiest of jobs, usually a compromise is struck and we create replicas for them to exhibit along with the appropriate recompense. The secret jewel in the crown of this sale was to be a selection of letters from the Romanovs, one in particular from the Tsarina to a certain Russian monk who was apparently immortalised in song during to seventies.”
“Boney M, a great song about Rasputin,” chipped in Beckett. A collective smile went around the room, an opportunity to relax briefly from Cavendish’s terse delivery.
“A Ghost would pay good money for such rare items with a proven provenance. Therefore, when it was revealed that the sale might have been compromised, my brief was to investigate. Hardly an arduous undertaking for a medius such as myself. Simeon and Miles Goldstein were responsible for compiling the auction catalogue due to take place shortly at Yoxter. And it was to Simeon that an approach was made by Dr Spelman, revealing that she knew a certain Anglo-Saxon object was in the market place.” Emily visibly sank into the sofa.
“But the important thing to remember here is that I knew nothing of the Romanov letters and there were no great Anglo Saxon treasures on offer, just a piece of old stick that stuck in your King Harold’s eye, priceless but frankly worthless outside the organisation where it’s provenance would be questioned.” Cavendish barely paused for breath.
“So why did Emily believe the sword existed? Because Slingsby had contacted her. How did Slingsby know? It is inconceivable that he should have stumbled across the object during an investigation because the reputed sword of Harold did not exist, ergo; he too had been fed the information. Now the simplest thing would have been to approach Slingsby and Dr Spelman and compel them to reveal their source. However, my boss had other ideas, remember I was here on probation to prove myself to the firm. Hence Horst insisted I use the unwieldy ‘Didier ruse’.”
“Who is Didier Ruse?” asked Blanch, keen to be seen taking an interest. Cavendish could have replied with a little more tact but in his current mood had little thought for personal sensitivities.
“Ruse as in trick, not ruse as in name. The Didier ruse, fabled in firm folklore, is effectively the game we played with Emily. Unfortunately it seldom works, which is why I was so suspicious when the ruse played out successfully. The end game, however, was somewhat different.”
“Whilst you three were in the process of liberating Emily,” Cavendish chose his verb with care, “I was called away by Simeon who informed me that the Romanov letters had been stolen. Now the only thing that makes sense is that the whole sword plot was a McGuffin, a device to distract me from the real crime, the stealing of the letters. Suddenly my early suspicions or paranoia were justified, for if the top items of the auction disappeared, despite my already keen attention, then my reputation and career would certainly have been damaged. My only concern is why the letters were stolen when they were, for the timing was awful. Even so, had it not been for Simeon’s diligence then they would have been snatched clean away. My guess is that it relates to the killing of Slingsby and Robert Patterson in Plymouth, both I presume by whom I have ascertained as being Patterson’s son, Brad. Why, I don’t know. Asimov provided the only clue, ‘Frisia’. Josh and I, having no particular interest in flowers, immediately thought of the Netherlands and the Heligoland Bight, an indication of our thought processes if ever you needed one. In our defence we did decide to brainstorm the matter this morning but during last night’s meal I hit upon the idea of introducing the clue into Dobson’s parlour game, which everyone, save for Mr Beckett, seemed to enjoy.” Beckett sneered mockingly at Cavendish’s lighthearted jibe.
“It was Emily who identified the word ‘Freesia’ to be referring to a plant genus or species, whatever classification it might be. Asimov said he had heard Paterson saying to someone on the phone ‘fuck Frisia’, when what he perhaps heard was ‘fucking freesias’ or ‘fuck your Freesias’, I’m sure y
ou get the idea. The Goldsteins told me they were going to a fete this weekend, so stalling any planned visit to re-interview Miles. The fete features a flower show and they are the guests of a specialist freesia grower by the name of Hugo Victor.
“I bloody knew it was him all along!” cried Beckett.
“Why did he do it?” asked Emily, she was looking out of the window remembering her days of terror in the Georgian house.
“Emily,” said Cavendish softly, “I finished my studies at Heidelberg reading psychology. It left me with a firm denial of the question ‘why’, why does anybody do anything? I have ceased to question the ‘why’; I am only interested in the ‘how’.”
Cavendish had not been entirely honest with Emily, he had spent too many hours questioning the reasons and factors that had affected his life and which had made him the person he was. It had made him ill and still troubled him. He found ‘why’ to be a wearisome and distressing word.
“I have no idea why he has gone to the lengths he has, perhaps we’ll find out tomorrow.”
“I know twenty-five letters of the alphabet really well,” interjected Beckett. “But I don’t know ‘Y’.” Houghton smiled and Blanch giggled nervously at the joke.
“Will you arrest him tomorrow?” asked Emily?
“I don’t perform arrests, Emily. That is what the chief inspector and the sergeant do for a living; I’m here only to ensure the integrity of the auction. If there is a civil case to answer then I suspect Josh will arrest him, a link to the murder of Patterson will be necessary for that, and so too Slingsby.”
“Where is this flower show?” asked Beckett.
“It’s at Yoxter Manor, our grandees are playing host to the local peasants,” answered Cavendish disdainfully.
“Not those bloody tosspots again,” sighed Beckett.
“Oh, I think you’ll be fine. I know how you and Emily love these ‘folky festivals’,” said Cavendish offering Beckett a polite smile. “How long does it take to get to Yoxter Manor from here, Josh?” asked Cavendish.
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