“What the hell was that all about? What did you say to them!” demanded Beckett.
“I just put the fear of God into them.”
“You what?” asked an astounded Beckett.
“I just had a quiet word in their ear, literally.”
“What?” repeated Beckett.
“Thomas, I am an inquisitor. I could have them burnt as heretics if I wanted to. Come on; let’s return to the hotel, we have a busy time ahead of us.”
“Christ, Cavendish,” shouted Beckett as Cavendish strode off, “an evening out with you is a real barrel of laughs!” Dutifully, Beckett caught up with the German as they headed back to the hotel.
“I enjoyed that, Thomas,” said Cavendish reflectively. Beckett noted a flushed excitement about Cavendish’s normally pale face.
“What, nearly getting beaten up?” asked Beckett sourly.
“Oh, they couldn’t have beaten me up, even if I’m not a man of violence,” said Cavendish nonchalantly, “It was good to test myself, to see that I still have it.”
“Have what?” demanded a frowning Beckett.
“The power of legislation, the antecedent of enactment.”
“You what?”
“What I just said.”
“Oh, forget it!” said Beckett despairingly, “just forget it, you’re bloody mad!”
Cavendish offered his lop-sided smile in a way so as not emphasise his scar.
“I’m not mad, Thomas. Now let me tell you why I’m here and I promise you that it has nothing to do with dogs...”
CHAPTER 9. PROVENANCE, THE ENGLISHMAN AND THE PYTHON.
Late on Monday morning, Beckett found himself driving Cavendish along the A4 to Bath. The brief respite that the weekend had offered in the way of sunshine had collapsed, and now the sky was again heavy with cloud driven by a cooling easterly breeze.
Cavendish sat imperiously in the passenger seat looking to his left over the river Avon and to the stone mansion that sat upon the hill at Kelston. Beckett cast furtive glances at his companion; even behind the screen of his sunglasses, he appeared sulky and impatient, perhaps due to having spent the weekend on his own in a strange city.
“So remind me who we’re visiting today?” asked Beckett. He thought Cavendish was going to remain uncommunicative, lost in the private world he often seemed to frequent, when suddenly he piped up.
“We are visiting Simeon and Miles Goldstein, old family friends on my mother’s side. They are antique dealers but our interest in them is their connection with the forth-coming auction. It is they who are compiling the catalogue and it is they who alerted the firm that an outside agent had contacted them about a certain object that is due to be sold.”
“What is so bad about that?” was Beckett’s next question. Cavendish glanced over to Beckett, his face expressionless face as revealing as a blank sheet of paper. Beckett’s return glance only revealed his own reflection in Cavendish’s sunglasses.
“Outsiders are not welcome, participation is denied to all but Ghosts,” stated Cavendish respectfully.
“Ghosts?” queried Beckett.
“One of the things that the firm is not is ostentatious. Its members enjoy privacy and seclusion, hence the term ‘Ghosts’. That is not to say they do not enjoy displaying their wares, but they tend to enjoy showing off to each other.”
“So what is the rarest thing that has ever been auctioned?” asked Beckett encouragingly.
“Oh, that is impossible to say, it depends on ones tastes. There are naturally authenticated pieces of the True Cross, the Spear of Destiny and all the old relics that they went for in the early days of the firm.”
“How can you authenticate a piece of the cross that Jesus was crucified on?”
“Because it has been validated by the Library,” replied Cavendish.
“But how can you validate something so old and obscure?” continued Beckett.
“Because all objects have provenance, the Library records the provenance of all such articles. And there are modern methods of testing that lend themselves to validation.”
“Surely not every item?” queried Beckett. Cavendish cast Beckett a despairing parental look. “Come on March, not every item. Surely not a piece of the True Cross?” Beckett paused before continuing, “and what if they actually got it wrong, that the item was a convincing fake?”
“It would not matter. If the Library said it is genuine, it’s genuine. That’s all that matters”.
“But...”
“Consider the story of the tin of sardines. The tin was floated on the stock market and people thought it a wonderful thing to behold. So, its market value increased exponentially until its value bore no relation to its contents. One day someone thought to secretly examine the tin and found that the tin had been sealed empty.”
“So the tin was valueless?” asked Beckett.
“The market said not”.
“So the empty tin of sardines was still highly valued?” said Beckett by way of confirming his understanding. Cavendish nodded approvingly.
“That is not to say that there aren’t fakes out there. However, if there are, and they have been authenticated, then it matters not. Such is the role of the Library and the brothers.”
“So what is the weirdest thing you have ever seen?” Beckett was full of questions this morning.
“Well, I can tell you the thing I would most like to see.” Beckett waited for Cavendish to complete his answer but Cavendish seemed to have his mind elsewhere.
“Well?” prompted Beckett.
“Well, what?” said Cavendish, jolted back to the present.
“What would you most like to see?” implored Beckett.
“Do you know George Mallory and Sandy Irvine?”
“Not personally, but I know of the Mallory who wrote about King Arthur, I think, and the Mallory who died on Everest.”
“Very good, Thomas, I refer to the latter.”
“What about them?”
“Well it was never known if they reached the summit or not. When Mallory’s body was discovered his camera was never found.”
“So?”
“So I would like to see the pictures that were subsequently developed.”
“You mean the camera was found with his body?”
“No, I’m not saying that, but at sometime after his death and before his body was found, the camera was recovered and the film developed.”
“So did he and the other chap reach the summit?”
“I don’t know. That is why I would like to see the pictures.”
“So you are telling me that someone knows the answer to one of the great mysteries in mountaineering but they’re not saying?”
“Welcome to the world of the firm, Thomas.”
They continued in silence as Beckett negotiated the busy streets of the spa town and climbed away from the A4 towards the elegant Georgian town houses of Bath. The Goldsteins lived in an envious three-story Georgian house, with additional basement and attic rooms, not far from the famous Circus. Beckett parked in a nearby side street, the much sought after parking space serendipitously becoming available.
“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 bl
ame, 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.
Denied to all but Ghosts Page 8
