Denied to all but Ghosts (3 page)

Steinbeck picked upon Cavendish’s rancour and
smiled.

“Yes, my business has never been so well
attended yet so badly served.” Steinbeck was referring to
Cavendish’s enforced sojourn at his antique shop in Schongau where
he had begrudgingly endured his months of suspension.

Despite his outward bravado, Cavendish was
tense with trepidation. The reason this meeting had been convened
was for Steinbeck to reveal the outcome of the final sitting of the
committee deliberating upon Cavendish’s fate following the shooting
in Prague.

Thus far, Cavendish had not been able to pick
up any inferences from Steinbeck’s demeanour. During the recent
months, Cavendish had played out every conceivable scenario of
possible outcomes. As the months rolled by, the picture became
increasingly pessimistic. In the world of the firm, no news was
certainly not good news.

“Tell me, how is your mother? I haven’t seen
her for a good while,” continued Steinbeck. Cavendish could feel
his shoulders tightening as the tension increased. The last thing
he needed was to talk about his mother.

“She’s keeping busy. She has recently
acquired a new daughter, as I’m sure you are well aware,” answered
Cavendish with forced conviviality.

If Horst Steinbeck was intrigued by the
notion of a woman in her early sixties having ‘acquired a daughter’
then he betrayed nothing to Cavendish. It was the younger man who
continued to speak, his words fuelled by the irrational hope that
Steinbeck’s enquiry regarding his domestic life heralded good
news.

“Yes, she appeared on the scene a few months
ago, she is my father’s handiwork by some woman in Munich.”
Steinbeck frowned at Cavendish’s inappropriate choice of words.

“Your new sister appears to have made an
impression on you, Marchel,” commented Steinbeck dryly.

“Half-sister,” corrected Cavendish stiffly.
“She means nothing to me but she has certainly made a big
impression on Mum, they are virtually inseparable.”

“Very interesting, do you think she should be
investigated? Odd that your father's love child should suddenly
appear on the scene out of the blue? Anyway, Fräulein Kretschmer
can wait until you have finished the job you are about to do for
us.”

Cavendish found his legs convulsing in
response to the adrenalin rush as he interpreted Steinbeck’s last
statement. He found himself standing, looking down on Steinbeck’s
unnaturally thick grey hair, grinning with relief and unbound
joy.

“Sit down, Marchel, your excitement over the
reprieve is understandable but I’m sure no one else wants to share
in your moment, you’re scaring the school kids.” Cavendish sat down
but the grin refused to be vanquished despite his best efforts.

“There is a job for you in England,” said
Steinbeck as he followed the flight of a crow-like Alpine Chough
before it alighted upon the railings to his left. The smile
instantly evaporated from Cavendish’s face.

“England!” cried Cavendish derisively,
“bloody England! Oh, come on Horst, that’s not on, I did a stint
there last year. You know the place is a dead end!”

“It’s better than the Siebenbürgen,” answered
Steinbeck calmly, referring to the region in the Carpathian
Mountains effectively administrated by the firm.

“I don’t know about that,” snapped Cavendish
angrily, “at least they have some respect for us there!”

Steinbeck's blue eyes burnt fiercely and
Cavendish read his superiors annoyance and visibly calmed his
temper.

“It was a close run thing, Marchel. Many of
the committee wanted to hang you out to dry, make an example of
you. Klauss had many friends on the committee and his honour and
reputation carried a lot more weight than the allegations of a
beautiful young widow.”

“Bloody misogynists!” interjected Cavendish
sharply.

“Maybe,” continued Steinbeck serenely, “but
they are the ones who judged your case. Fortunately, I could garner
enough support to prevent your excommunication.”

Cavendish physically baulked at the word that
he had only contemplated during his most depressed period.

“Have I kept my rank?” asked Cavendish
meekly.

“Yes,” Steinbeck seemed reluctant to expand
upon the topic, “the outcome was the best we could have hoped for
in light of what you were up against. Consider yourself on
probation; consider England to be your penance and a chance of
redemption. Just go to England, get the job done and come home. You
keep telling people you’re English, for goodness sake.”

“That’s only for fun,” said Cavendish
defensively.

“Well, your father is English; you’ve got a
bloody English surname!”

“And my mother is French and I’ve got a
French forename. That doesn’t make me French. I’m German,
Horst!”

“Well, the jury is out on that one, Marchel,”
smiled Steinbeck, sensibly trying to make the best of a bad deal.
“Look Marchel, why don’t you take your lovely fiancée with you?
Treat it as a holiday.” Cavendish broke eye contact with
Steinbeck.

“I can’t,” said Cavendish lamely.

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t know what I do,” replied
Cavendish timidly. Steinbeck performed a double take before
laughing.

“What do you mean?” asked Steinbeck
disbelievingly.

“Look, Horst, my parents only announced the
engagement in February, I was hardly going to tell her about my job
whilst I was suspended with the possibility of excommunication, was
I?”

“Well it doesn’t seem to have stopped you
sleeping with Dagmar Klum, the Grieving Widow.”

Cavendish’s blood froze.

“Steady Marchel, if your jaw drops any lower
you’ll be eating off the floor. Don’t worry, your mother doesn’t
know, but you can’t expect to keep such secrets from us. A word
from the wise, cease your carnal activities with the lady, if word
gets out to certain people that you’re sleeping with the bloody
widow then it will be you who is metaphorically shagged. Enjoy the
innocent delights of your fiancée.”

Cavendish felt as if he was in a prizefight,
that he was being physically bludgeoned by the emotional tumult of
each revelation.

“Marchel, look me in the eye and promise me,”
insisted Steinbeck.

“Okay, Horst, okay.”

Steinbeck noted Cavendish’s lack of assurance
but let it go. He realised that his subordinate had been through
hell for the past few months. Cavendish may be odd, but he liked
him, and despite the events in Prague, he knew he was a loyal and
dedicated subordinate.

Steinbeck moved his hand to his grey-waxed
moustache and smoothed it with deliberate precision, an habitual
action when considering his next words carefully.

“I’ll send details of the assignment to your
apartment tomorrow, along with a report of the tribunal findings.
Listen, my boy. I know the assignment isn’t ideal, I know there’s
no kudos to be gained from an assignment in England. Just do
whatever you have to do to make it work. You’re not in a position
to fail; it would ruin us both. Do whatever it takes. I know you’ll
not let me down, that is why you are my favourite Untersucher.”
Steinbeck was relieved to see Cavendish smile as he replied.

“I’m your only Untersucher, Horst. But I’m
not bloody driving over there, their roads are shit and they drive
like idiots!”

“Then find yourself a driver. Like I said,
just do whatever it takes. Use, abuse anyone you like, just don’t
fail!”

Steinbeck slowly raised his bulky frame from
the picnic table and delivered Cavendish a final piece of
advice.

“Be careful, Marchel. You’re lucky this
English case came up. Being in England, it’s an obvious one for
you. Don’t screw this one up.”

With that, Steinbeck turned and walked with
surprising speed towards the cable car station without further
comment, vanishing from view amid the schoolchildren and other
visitors to the mountaintop on a glorious Alpine day, leaving
Marchel Cavendish to speculate upon the nature of the assignment
that he would shortly receive.

The apartment doorbell rang just as Cavendish
was finishing his first mug of coffee of the day. He bounded down
the flight of wooden stairs that led down to his apartment door,
paused to check the spy hole, then unlocked and opened the door to
the waiting courier.

“Good morning, Herr Cavendish,” the helmeted
courier handed over a large manila envelope.

“Thank you, Kurt. Is Herr Steinbeck expecting
any reply?” The courier exaggeratedly turned his head from side to
side before returning to his waiting motorbike.

Cavendish carried the envelope up to his
first floor apartment lounge, whose panoramic window offered a fine
view of Kofel, the spectacular rock formation that dominated the
Bavarian village of Oberammergau. It would be a busy year in the
village and Cavendish had to admit that the prospect of being away
during the Passion Play season did have its merits.

He sat down at his desk, positioned to afford
a view out of the expansive window and superficially inspected the
package. A plain white adhesive label bore the single word
‘CAVENDISH’. The sound of a tourist coach destined for the nearby
theatre car park caught his ear as he slid a pen beneath the
envelope flap. His pulse quickened as he anticipated the contents
of the package.

It took fifteen minutes for Cavendish to read
the contents of the envelope once, pour another cup of coffee, and
read his missive for a second time. He held the expensive A4 sheet
up the light to check the watermark. The unmistakeable ram-like
head was visible beneath the unique typeface. He had no reason to
doubt the validity of the documents and was unaware that he was
following a self-imposed protocol that he adhered to on receipt of
any written communication from the firm.

Cavendish frowned; three deep furrows
appeared on his normally smooth brow as he picked up the document
relating to his tribunal and read it for a third time. He tried to
read it as a stranger might.

Marchel Luc Cavendish. Thirty-one years old.
Current rank of Untersucher medius. Born in Osnabrück, son of David
Cavendish, a British army officer and Juliet Delacroix, daughter of
a French industrialist. Schooled in Germany before attending
Heidelberg University where he studied medicine until changing
modules to study history and sociology. Recruited by the firm at
the age of twenty-two, proposed and sponsored by Matthias Graf von
Manstein.

Indicted for gross negligence.

Cavendish refused to re-read the notes
summarising the hearing, it made him angry and anger made him
incautious and irrational. Yet he could not tear his eyes away from
the last paragraph, which read, ‘cleared by eight votes to five’. A
caveat to the verdict, seemingly required by the narrow margin,
stated that he would have to spend an indefinite period of
probation until the council deemed otherwise. Cavendish felt the
blood rush to his head.

“Bastards!”

He leapt to his feet as he shouted his rage
at the council’s verdict. How could five people have voted against
him? Then he remembered Steinbeck’s words spoken at the top of the
Laber Mountain. ‘Klauss had many friends on the committee and his
honour and reputation carried a lot more weight than the
allegations of a beautiful young widow.’

The ringing of the church bells drew
Cavendish out on to his balcony. He instinctively picked up his
cigarettes on the way, by way of association ‘balcony’ implied
‘cigarette’.

Lighting his cigarette, he looked towards the
source of the sound, where the onion dome top of the Rococo-style
church was clearly visible from his vantage point to his right. He
felt his left temple throb; he hoped the nicotine would assuage his
rage and he transferred his gaze to the crucifix sat atop the
pinnacle of Kofel, gleaming in the April Sunshine.

Today was Karfreitag, Good Friday, an
important day in the predominantly Catholic world of Bavaria.
Although not a devout believer himself, he had none the less been
indoctrinated with strong Catholic traditions and the baggage was
hard to shake off. He would visit his mother for the traditional
Easter meal on Monday.

This year would certainly be different, for
it was to be the first with his fiancée, Magda. His engagement was
a subject that he tried not to dwell upon, for like most things in
his life, his engagement was far from straightforward and not of
his making.

He conceded that Magdalene von Stromberg was
a pretty girl. She was young, only twenty years old, and from a
once wealthy family with an aristocratic past. Few people would
have said that Marchel Cavendish was handsome, maybe interesting,
perhaps even striking if they were feeling generous, but certainly
not handsome. He knew of course that his engagement was the result
of his ineffectual relationship with his mother.

He laughed at the irony of his situation when
he considered that his peers had just tried him in his absence for
‘gross negligence’. By some arcane yet contemporaneous law within
the firm, he could not be accused of manslaughter or murder as he
had killed one of his equals. Yet he could not stand up to his
mother, it was she who had arranged the engagement, believing that
he was too old to be single and that tongues were starting to
wag.

If only his mother knew how he consciously
had to restrain his philandering nature that he had evidently
inherited from his father. A simple truth was that he had never
been able to defy his mother’s wishes and things were unlikely to
change.

He glanced at his Breitling watch and
silently cursed. Magda was due to arrive by train from Munich in
the afternoon. He took one last draw on his cigarette before
returning to read his assignment for a third time. He had to put
the tribunal behind him, Horst was correct; he had to ensure that
the trip to England ended in nothing but success.