Denied to all but Ghosts (11 page)

“I couldn’t live here,” observed Beckett,
“not my cup of tea at all. All too neat and proper for my
tastes,”

“You’ll be surprised what they used to get up
to here, Thomas. It would even make you blush.”

“What do you mean?”

“Georgian England may now present itself with
genteel respectability but the truth is the people who could afford
to live here had the morals of a harlot.”

“Really?” asked an intrigued Beckett.

“Well, I generalise of course, but gentility
did go hand in hand with vice, gambling, sex, drugs, you name it.
They certainly liked to live life to the full.” Beckett looked at
the grand buildings and considered that perhaps a more adept
description for them should have been ‘Bath stoned’.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Beckett,
not for the first time wondering what his role with Cavendish was
supposed to be.

“We are just here for a little chat, Thomas.
You just enjoy the company of two of Bath’s finest.”

A short flight of railed steps led off from
the flagstone pavement to the highly polished front door of the
Goldstein dwelling. A doorbell button sat to the right of the door
and Cavendish pushed it with an exaggerated deliberateness. Beckett
was unable to hear any chime or ring. He looked upward to the
towering heights of the beige coloured stone terraced house. Like
all those in the vicinity, it seemed devoid of life, only the
incongruity of parked cars showed that the buildings were
inhabited.

They waited long enough for an impatient
Beckett to ask, “they are expecting us aren’t they?”

“They most certainly are expecting me,
Thomas.”

“They don’t seem to be in too much of a hurry
to see you.” Cavendish’s response was to give a wry smile and tuck
his hands deeper in the voluminous pockets of his overcoat.

“If they don’t answer the door soon we ought
to bugger off,” said Beckett, “surely they can’t be in?”

“They most certainly are in. They are just
trying to establish superiority,” said Cavendish peering up at the
first floor windows.

“Eh?” questioned Beckett.

“You’ll see in good time.” At least another
minute elapsed. “Alright, Thomas, let’s turn around and make out
that we are about to leave.”

“Whatever you say, Marchel,” replied Beckett,
“it’s your show.”

The duo turned about and reached the bottom
step when the front door opened. Cavendish spun instantly on the
spot and sprang swiftly up to the front door, jamming his foot in
the door before it could be closed upon him. Beckett had barely
finished turning around when he caught Cavendish speaking.

“Good morning, Simeon,” announced the German
before disappearing promptly into the house. Beckett quickly
followed.

“Herr Cavendish, it’s been a while since we
were honoured by the presence of an inquisitor,” said the rotund
Simeon Goldstein. Simeon was in his late sixties and wore what was
left of his hair in a comb over which, Beckett observed, seemed to
start from below his left ear.

“I’m not German, Simeon. So refrain from the
‘Herr’ if you please,” replied Cavendish bluntly. Beckett wondered
if Cavendish was being sarcastic by linking ‘Herr’ with ‘hair’ but
then remembered it was Marchel Cavendish speaking.

“Ah, but you have a German soul,” said Simeon
boldly, “a delightful French mother, who unfortunately got mixed up
with an English military intelligence officer who has spent a life
time in Germany whelping God knows how many German bastards.”

“Simeon, do you really want me to dislike
you?” said Cavendish without rancour.

“Hah, no one likes me, Cavendish. It’s
because I’m a Jew.”

“No Simeon, it is nothing to do with Judaism.
It is because you are unpleasant. The only reason you hate Germany
is for the inconsequential fact that Germany have a better football
team than England.”

Miles, the diminutive younger brother, walked
into the room carrying a tray of tea and cakes and said nervously,
“now, now boys, let’s be friends. Life really is too short.”

“And who is this, your new boyfriend?” Simeon
asked Cavendish. Beckett quickly shot Cavendish an enquiring look
and observed the momentary tremor at the corner of his mouth.

“My apologies, this is Thomas Beckett who is
assisting me whilst I am in England,” replied a seemingly unmoved
Cavendish.

“‘Assisting’, that is the modern euphemism is
it? Better make a note of that one, Miles,” smirked Simeon.

Beckett considered that he had never seen two
brothers so unalike as he observed the opening sparring of the
Goldstein brothers and Cavendish. Miles had a full head of almost
white hair, through which he frequently ran his nervous
fingers.

Beckett felt less than comfortable in the
Goldstein house. The room in which they stood could best be
described as a parlour, extruding the air of an absent mother,
feminine yet slightly grubby. They sat around a circular table
bedecked in a floral cloth, both of which had seen better days. The
chairs were upright and looked uncomfortable, certainly not
designed for endurance.

The parlour door opened and a smartly dressed
man entered, his balding head showing signs of having recently been
shaved. He was in his late forties but could have passed for any
age within ten years either way. He looked fit and tanned; his
frameless glasses gave him an air of assumed intellect.

“Cavendish,” offered Simeon Goldstein, “may I
introduce Hugo Victor.” Cavendish’s normally composed demeanour
vanished in an instant, this time Beckett’s search for reassurance
caught only the sight of hatred on the Untersucher’s face. Victor
smiled warmly as he offered Cavendish his hand.

“Hello, Herr Cavendish, I’m pleased to
finally make your acquaintance. I have heard so much about you that
I feel I already know you.” The German ignored the proffered
hand.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Beckett
could almost taste the vitriol in Cavendish’s words.

“Marchel!” interjected Simeon, “how dare you
speak to our guest like that, Hugo is a very good friend of ours
and has every right to be here!”

“Like he had every right to be in Vienna, I
suppose!” Cavendish spat back, making no attempt to disguise his
fury. Beckett was confused and frightened, having no idea why
Cavendish reacted so aggressively to the newcomer.

“I had every right to be in Vienna, Marchel,
as you well know; I was selected for my unbiased opinion. Dieter
Klauss meant nothing to me, nor admittedly did his alleged
peccadilloes with Frau Klum.” Victor’s calm was as unsettling as
Cavendish’s rage.

“I don’t see how an English arse like you
should have been on the committee, what the hell do you know about
me or what I do!”

“You didn’t really think that you’d be left
alone without any supervision in England, do you? Remember we are
only a provincial backwater of apostates; you could cause untold
trouble here with your ‘sophisticated’ ways. Anyway, I’m not here
to interfere, Marchel, just pretend that I’m not here.”

Victor waited for Cavendish to come back at
him but the German remained ominously silent, visibly trying to
restore his composure. Beckett had no inkling of what had just
taken place but felt oppressed by the tangible tension that
pervaded the room. Both Simeon and Miles looked similarly
perplexed, although Simeon appeared to be enjoying Cavendish’s
discomfort even if he had no idea of its root cause.

As a grandfather clock chimed the hour,
Cavendish seemed to reach a decision. He turned his back on Victor
and extracted a black leather-bound notebook from the inside pocket
of his overcoat.

“Let’s sit down, Gentleman,” Cavendish
suggested. He meticulously unfastened the strap that bound the
notebook and extracted a pen contained within. “I’m here on
official business, Simeon; it concerns the forthcoming auction. You
reported to the firm an infringement of security.”

“That is so, Herr Inquisitor,” said Simeon
defiantly, casting a conspiratorial glance towards Victor who
remained at the back of the room by the door. Victor smiled at him
encouragingly.

Cavendish continued. “You have been contacted
by a certain Doctor Emily Spelman of Oxford University.”

“Correct, she is an academic at one of the
Oxford places, the name of which escapes me.”

“So I ask you, do you know how she became
aware that an auction was taking place?”

“I must correct you, Herr Inquisitor. She
does not seem to be aware that an auction is taking place.” Simeon
offered Cavendish a smile for having corrected his questioner and
again looked to Victor for approval of his actions. He enlarged
upon his response to Cavendish’s question. “She is aware that a
certain Anglo Saxon object has supposedly become available. That is
a totally different issue to being aware of the auction.”

“You wish to confirm,” stated Cavendish, “for
the record, that there is no outside knowledge of the auction’s
existence, hence you and Miles are absolved of any blame, should it
arise that such knowledge does indeed exist?” Cavendish’s pen
hovered above the page of his notebook in anticipation of what
Simeon would say.

“I did not say that that the auction had not
been compromised,” uttered Simeon with uncomfortable haste, “I wish
to reaffirm that Dr Spelman gave no indication that she had such
knowledge.”

“Precisely,” said Cavendish with no trace of
emotion but making it clear that he had made his point.

“If there was any wrong doing on our part do
you think I would have contacted the firm?” said Simeon
defensively.

“Would you care for a cake, Marchel, they
really are very good,” interrupted Miles, visibly ill at ease with
the atmosphere within the room.

“Not for me, thank you,” replied Cavendish.
Beckett hoped he might be offered a cake, but Miles ignored
him.

“When and how did she contact you?” asked
Cavendish.

“At the end of March.” There was a pause
before Simeon added, “she telephoned the shop.” Simeon almost
forgot to mention the ‘how’.

“Has she visited you or have you made contact
with her?” asked Cavendish.

“No on both counts,” answered Simeon holding
the Untersuchers enquiring gaze.

“So what exactly did she say?” asked
Cavendish, his pale blue eyes unblinking as he questioned
Simeon.

“Oh, I can’t remember exactly, Marchel. She
said that she was aware that a certain Saxon item of national
importance had come to light and that it was my duty to make it
available for her to see it, to assess its importance for herself.
I told her she was mistaken, this seemed to excite her even more
and she said that she knew that the information was accurate. I
said that if she persisted with such silly stories I would inform
the police. Well, words to that effect.”

“And how did she react to that?” asked
Cavendish whilst slowly writing notes in his book.

“She laughed and said something like ‘I
hardly think so’ and that she would let me reconsider what she had
said and would ring me later.”

“And did she?” probed Cavendish.

“Yes, the next day, she said that she was
going to the States for a while, I forget for how long, and that
she would contact me on her return and hoped that I would be a
little more cooperative. She last rang me on Friday, the ninth of
this month, and as instructed, I said that she would be
contacted.”

“And who did you say I was?”

“I said you were a Nazi inquisitor!” said
Simeon angrily; Cavendish glared hard at the older man before
allowing Simeon to carry on after a pause of several seconds.
Simeon said in a more resigned tone, “I said you represented the
party who possessed the object and that you would be in touch.”

“It is important to qualify this point
Simeon, but did she give you any inclination of what the object
might be, or did you intimate what the object might be?”

“Of course I didn’t! And no, she did not
refer to anything specifically by name. Anyway you’ll find out for
yourself soon enough.”

“What makes you say that?” asked
Cavendish.

“I may not be a psychopathic inquisitor like
you, but I do recognise desire and greed when I come across it. She
obviously believes the object to be very valuable, either in an
archaeological or monetary sense.”

“I think he meant psychological, Marchel,”
interjected Miles apologetically.

“Could you let me have her contact details,
please?” Cavendish requested of Simeon.

“Miles,” Simeon barked. Miles Goldstein
scurried away with exaggerated haste from the table to go to their
office to retrieve the information.

“Poor Miles is somewhat distracted at the
moment,” said Simeon casually in the direction of Victor, “he seems
to have found a new boyfriend and is somewhat besotted”. It was
obvious to Beckett who the dominant brother was. He felt the
continuing oppressiveness as silence reigned during Miles’ absence
and was relieved when he returned carrying a business card, which
he handed over to Cavendish. Beckett hoped that the interview was
drawing to a close.

"Are you confident that all the items are
secure, Simeon," asked Cavendish. "Now we know the auction has been
compromised we must ensure nothing goes missing."

"Of course they are secure, only Miles and I
have access until the time of auction," replied Simeon
dismissively, insulted by the inquisitors doubt. Cavendish nodded
sagaciously, the last thing he need after the incident in Prague
was to be involved in a case where theft was again a
possibility.

“What do you know of any special items that
may be up for sale?” asked Cavendish of Simeon speculatively. He
was still acutely aware of Christian Searsby’s comment at breakfast
after his first night at Flash Seminary. Simeon thought he kept his
poker face well under control, yet Cavendish detected a slight
twitch at the corner of Simeon’s left eye. Cavendish did not play
poker, for him life was a constant gamble.