Denied to all but Ghosts (24 page)

Cavendish and Christian Searsby both stood
and watched the vignette unfold. Searsby looked bored whilst
Cavendish flaunted his amusement.

“If you two have quite finished, perhaps we
could get on,” said Cavendish addressing both Beckett and Emily,
who both looked at each other as if having been rebuked by their
teacher for their inappropriate behaviour.

“Good evening, Brother,” continued Cavendish
speaking directly to the cowled Searsby. “You have the
package?”

The figure emerged further from the shadows
revealing more of his monk-like garb, his flowing black robes
blurring his outline against the invasive darkness. He offered a
cloth-wrapped bundle to Cavendish who took it and turned to face Dr
Spelman. He pretentiously proffered the bundle to the academic.

“You hold it,” Emily ordered boldly, her
hands clenched behind her back to control the tremors. She walked
across to him, her boot heels clicking against the stone flooring
of the crypt, and began to unwrap the package. Cavendish fixed his
gaze on Emily’s face hoping to gauge her reaction by its subliminal
nuances. He was not disappointed by what he saw.

As she removed the layer of cloth, she
exposed the pseudo-Saxon sword to the diffuse light of the crypt.
Beckett heart pounded against his ribs with the tension of the
moment and dramatised the mood with a slow side step, which allowed
him a better view of the blade. It looked far more stunning in the
setting of the crypt than it did in the laboratory, something that
Cavendish had no doubt legislated for. It had the aura of age and
majesty that was subtle, intangible but irresistible.

Emily poured over the blade for at least five
minutes, which seemed an interminable age to Beckett as he fidgeted
uncomfortably in the subterranean gloom. She held the sword up to
what light was available and examined the blade and hilt; she felt
the balance of the blade and inspected it with aid of an
eyeglass.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” said Cavendish
as he reeled in the historian, “I am an uncultured man when it
comes to such things but even I can see it is a lovely object.”

“Do you have no sense of history?” demanded
Emily angrily, then almost reverentially added, “this is the blade
belonging to the last Anglo Saxon King of England. Perhaps he used
it at the Battle of Hastings where he lost a kingdom to the Norman
invader. The sword is beyond price.”

Beckett was moved by her obvious passion for
the object, he momentarily forgot that it was a fake; such was the
atmosphere within the crypt.

Emily made to take the wrapping from
Cavendish.

“Uh uh,” he said, “I don’t think so. The
blade stays with us; we are taking it to Bath tomorrow.” Cavendish
snatched the sword from Emily and handed it over to Beckett, who
looked suitably astonished to be handed the blade.

“Yours to place in safe keeping, Mr Beckett,”
said Cavendish, “I think it is time for us to go.” Brother
Christian approached Beckett holding what appeared to be an over
sized wooden case for a pool cue. He took the sword from Beckett
and put the wrapped sword in the case, fastened it reverently and
handed it to Beckett.

“Take good care of it, my son,” said the
Brother, only Beckett observed Searsby’s blatant wink, which he
found oddly disturbing and inappropriate.

They retraced their steps back out of the
harrowing crypt. A gentle rain had begun to fall during their
sojourn. Emily said nothing as they returned to the green outside
the church; her mind was a torrent of conflicting emotions, she had
been thoroughly overwhelmed by the sight and touch of the sword.
Unsure of what to do next, she wished that Slingsby was nearby;
waiting in the wings, ready to enter the fray to seize the blade.
Before she could husband her thoughts, Cavendish made a statement;
neither Beckett nor Emily noticed the narrowing of his eyes.

“My employer wishes to thank you, Dr
Spelman.”

“Thank me, for what?” she asked, genuinely
puzzled.

“For pointing out the errors of his ways.”
Emily frowned at Cavendish. “Yes, my employer wishes to thank you
and this private viewing his way of demonstrating his gratitude. He
has decided that the world is not ready for the sword and the
shallow grasping ambitions of people such as you.”

“He can’t do that!” she spontaneously
shouted.

“Oh, he can, he most certainly can.”

“But I’ve seen it, I know it exists!”

“No one would believe you, Dr Spelman. You
have not established my employer’s name and even if you did, he
would deny everything. Just be thankful that you have seen it.”

“You bastard!” she spat.

“I’m sorry you feel so aggrieved. I’m just
doing my job. But as you are being personal, may I say that I find
you the most onerous, abhorrent and despicable person I have ever
had the misfortune to meet and if the sword was available you are
the last person on earth I would hand it over to.”

Beckett looked on agog at the spectacle that
was unfolding before him. The vehemence of Cavendish’s words
startled him with their abruptness. He stood to Cavendish’s left
and faced Emily. Her eyes were full of tears following Cavendish’s
admonishment but there was anger and hatred also welling in her
eyes. Cavendish had not finished.

“Dr Spelman, I know we don’t see eye to eye,
perhaps we never will, we have a very different take on the world.
I can see that you are upset. I would suggest that you do not make
any hasty decisions. My client is a hasty man and is often very
inconsistent with his thoughts and practices. What he says one day
he contradicts the next. I have business to attend to this evening
so I will not be returning to Chesterfield until late tomorrow
morning. I would like to say it has been a pleasure getting to know
you, but I can’t. I’m deliriously happy at the prospect of never
having to see your ugly, supercilious face again. ‘Wiedersehen!”
Cavendish turned on the spot and strode away in the direction of
the hotel.

Beckett had received no stage directions from
Cavendish; he stood rooted to the spot, clutching the sword case.
He looked at the wet paving slabs upon which he stood. He felt
embarrassed and confused and absently studied the white circles of
lichen that grew upon the worn stone at his feet as he collected
his thoughts. He was aware that Emily had not moved. Slowly he
looked up and saw the tears running down her cheeks. Her initial
look of distress had been replaced by a look of grim resolve as she
stared at the tall retreating figure of the German.

“I’m sorry,” was all Beckett could offer.

“And fuck you too!” exploded Emily. Beckett
felt the drizzle permeating through his short hair as he continued
to regard Emily. For some obscure reason he felt responsible for
her distress.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Oh don’t be so pathetic!” replied Emily,
directing her hatred for Cavendish at his partner. Beckett felt a
stab of pain in his gut in response to her acerbic putdown.

“I, I...” he mumbled.

“Oh get lost, go and suck up to your
boyfriend!” spat Emily. Beckett nodded sadly, hung his head and
slowly turned his back on Emily Spelman, to follow submissively in
the footsteps of his perverse employer.

The late afternoon streets of Chesterfield
were seldom as busy as they were this Sunday as the climax of the
weekend fayre approached. Beckett struggled to catch up with his
colleague and it was only when he reached the small market square
that he managed to grab his attention.

“Marchel, stop will you!” beseeched Beckett.
Obligingly Cavendish halted and waited for Beckett to overtake him.
Beckett was breathing hard as he prepared to confront the
Untersucher; he half crouched and issued forth long streams of warm
breath, which condensed in the cool moist air.

“Are you alright, Thomas,” asked Cavendish
softly.

“Well, as you’re asking, no I’m not. What the
hell was all that about?” he demanded.

“What was all what about?”

“Oh, don’t get all clever and slippery,
Cavendish. You know what I mean!”

“I assume you refer to my disparaging words
to Dr Spelman. Well they were no more than she deserved,” smiled
Cavendish disarmingly.

“So that’s it then is it?” asked a distraught
Beckett. “We came all this way for bloody nothing? And where the
hell are you going tonight?”

“I’m going to Flash Seminary.”

“What about me?”

“The restaurant is still booked, have a meal
and a few drinks and enjoy the festival. I’m sure you’ll be glad to
get rid of me for a few hours.”

“Marchel, what the hell is going on, I’ve
lost the bloody plot.”

“Go and order some drinks, Thomas. I’ve a few
calls to make. Everything will become clear.”

Reluctantly and none the wiser, Beckett
retired to the bar of the Holmcourt Hotel leaving Cavendish to
stand by the stone fountain outside the hotel, sheltering under the
canopy of a chemist shop. With his mobile in hand, he quickly
summoned up Steinbeck’s number and waited for the response.

“Well, Marchel?”

“It went well, Horst. Now I have to play the
last piece.”

“Is she onboard?” enquired Steinbeck.

“I reckon so, laid it on a bit thick but I
think it did the trick.”

“Well done, Marchel.”

“Press thumbs, eh, Horst.”

“Don’t you mean ‘fingers crossed’? Don’t rely
on luck, Marchel. You’re a lousy gambler.”

“I won’t, Horst.”

“Good man, keep me posted.” Steinbeck ended
the call.

Cavendish glanced nervously at his watch. He
had laid the bait for the Didier ruse. He had now to ensure the
trap could be closed. A phone call from Beckett to Dr Spelman
should do the trick. Cavendish doubted his colleague would give up
the chance of one last evening with the lovely Emily.

The bedroom door slammed, rousing Paul
Slingsby from the shallow slumber he had drifted into whilst Emily
was meeting the German and his friend.

Emily stomped into the room, tugging
agitatedly at the buttons of her red woollen coat. Once removed,
she dismissively cast the wet coat on top of her suitcase, which
lay upon its wooden stand by the dressing table. Even though he had
been startled awake, Slingsby instantly recognised that all was not
well with the world of Dr Spelman.

“Bastards!” she screamed as she sat at the
foot of the bed and tugged at her left boot. “The bastards!” she
repeated as she removed her right boot and slung it to join its
partner beneath the bedroom window.

“What happened?” enquired Slingsby, keen to
discover the outcome of her meeting.

“The bastards have stitched us up, that’s
what’s bloody happened!” Even if she did have her back to him,
remaining in his supine pose, he could easily read her volatile
state. He smiled; he thrived in highly charged emotional
situations. He detested calm, calm offered people breathing space,
it enabled them to think, to be evasive. Highly stressed, emotional
people seldom possessed the duplicity to lie.

“Tell me, Em. Tell me what happened, from the
top.” The story pertaining to the crypt and the subsequent events
gushed forth from Emily in a passionate deluge of bitterness and
recrimination. Slingsby adroitly annotated her re-telling to
maintain her highly stressed state.

“So what do you want to do?” he asked when
she had completed her story. He had raised himself erect so that he
was leaning against the headboard of the bed.

“What can we do?” she asked viciously.

“We do what we came here for and exact our
revenge.”

“Oh yea, like he’s really going to hand it
over!”

“But you said he is not going to be there.
You said that only the ponce Beckett would be there this
evening.”

“And?”

“Well you said the idiot fancies you. Take
advantage of his feelings!”

“How do you mean?” Slingsby grinned
lasciviously as he slid off the bed and slouched over to his small
travel bag. He took out a small sealed plastic bag, which contained
two small tablets. He dangled the sachet before her.

“What are they?” she asked, screwing up her
eyes in an effort to glean their significance.

“They are knockout pills; send him to the
land of nod.” He knew Emily’s sensitivities would recoil at the
actual existence of date rape pills, despite her previous
insinuations.

“Where did you get them?” she asked
suspiciously.

“Never you mind your pretty ‘supercilious’
face about that,” he answered, quoting Cavendish, hoping to sustain
her rancour. “How much do you hate Cavendish?” he asked.

“With every fibre of my being.” Very poetic,
even when she is incensed, thought Slingsby. He walked slowly up to
Emily, placed his hands on the tops of her arms, and encouraged her
to stand up. He raised her chin with his left hand as he leant
forward to peer into her eyes.

“Imagine his rage tomorrow when he finds the
sword missing,” he said gently.

“He’ll be apoplectic!” she answered, her face
lighting up with a smile. He reciprocated the smile with a childish
smirk.

“Yea, he’ll go mad and kick the ass of his
boyfriend. Emily laughed at Slingsby's picture of a deranged and
broken Cavendish throwing a tantrum when he realised that the
‘onerous’ and ‘abhorrent’ Emily Spelman had outsmarted him.

“What’s your plan?” asked Emily. Slingsby
began to unbutton her blouse.

“Well,” he said, “it’s all very straight
forward; you see all you have to do is...”

Slingsby’s words were stymied by the alarming
shrill of a mobile ring tone. He twisted his head as he located the
source of the sound; he guessed it to be issuing from Emily’s coat.
He collected the mobile and handed it to Emily, who peered at the
caller ID.