Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  Her eyes filled with tears as she considered her recent traumatic past yet even so, she had never felt the need for suicide. She leaned forward and reached out with her left hand, the desire to touch the scars proving to be irresistible as she lightly brushed her finger over the more prominent of the two scars.

  She cried with alarm as Cavendish sprang upright and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her down on to the bed so that she lay on her back to his right. He pinned her shoulders to the bed with his hands as he straddled her waist and leaned over her, his pale eyes looking hard and soulless. Kate could smell his stale breath and body odour and even in her frightened state wondered when he had last showered.

  “They were a cry for help,” he whispered as he smiled, keeping his mouth firmly clenched. “You know the interesting thing about trying to kill yourself is that afterwards you’re forever curious about dying. It wasn’t frightening at all. You can feel life ebbing away in a detached, delicious way. I still remember the disappointment of waking up in hospital.” He smiled again and she stared wide-eyed back at him with a feeling of morbid fright but also fascination.

  “You know, Ms Watercombe, it is inadvisable for a beautiful woman to sneak up on an Untersucher when he is asleep, we are a dangerous, unpredictable breed.”

  He eased his hand inside the folds of her dressing gown, resting his palm teasingly on her breastbone. He spread his fingers to caress her skin, discovering the swelling contours of her breasts. She followed his eyes as he exaggeratedly moved his head from side to side as if trying to peer inside the folds of her gown.

  His smile expanded to reveal his white teeth and she watched with curiosity, as the scar on his cheek appeared to move by its own volition. Cavendish’s smile morphed into a laugh as he contemplated the day ahead. He was definitely in one of his better, more playful moods after a sound night’s sleep and the violence of the previous day.

  He knew where he would come in future if he ever needed to rest, for Flash possessed an invigorating quality. Cavendish’s libidinous attributes had been stirred but the words of Horst Steinbeck’s warning rang loudly in his ears.

  “I think you’d better leave, Kate, before I forget I’m a gentleman and do unspeakable things to you.”

  He knelt upright and raised his knee allowing Kate to tumble inelegantly off the side of the bed. She quickly raised herself from the worn carpet, feeling flustered and excited in equal measure by her brush with Cavendish. Her face and neck blushed as she glanced across to his kneeling body, for she could hardly fail to notice his own excitement.

  Fighting the compunction to flee the room she doggedly stood firm, refusing to be intimidated. Regaining her composure, she straightened her long blonde hair and slowly adjusted her dishevelled gown.

  “You know the word around the seminary is that you are gay,” she said forcefully but evenly. Cavendish glanced down to beyond his stomach and shrugged dismissively.

  “Kate, you shouldn’t listen to what people say, anyway, I like surprising people. Sometimes, I think life would be far simpler if I was. Just don’t tell Christian, he’ll be very jealous of our morning assignation. Oh, and thanks for the coffee.”

  Kate scoffed at his insinuation, turned towards the bedroom door, and sauntered unhurriedly away, hiding her smile from the Untersucher. The smoking chastisement would have to wait.

  CHAPTER 37. SEX, LIES AND AMBITION IN THE DIGITAL AGE.

  Even Thomas Beckett was aware that the dynamic within the house had changed at some point during the past twenty-four hours. He struggled to define the transformation and was reluctant to ascribe it to the arrival of Emily.

  It was eight o’clock on Thursday morning and Beckett found himself pensively stirring a tea bag in his mug. He had been surprised the previous evening when Houghton had switched on the TV and together they had watched ‘News Night’ and enjoyed berating the various interviewees whose pronouncements did not coincide with their own points of view.

  Beckett was startled by Houghton’s metamorphosis, his relaxed attitude reminded Beckett of the man he had met the previous year, yet it was Houghton’s leftwing comments that most amazed him; he misguidedly believed the police force to be inherently rightwing fascists.

  Emily had somehow managed to win over the confidence of Blanch, which he considered no mean achievement in itself, the two women retiring the previous evening with an air of conspiratorial glee. Blanch had amazingly offered him a glowing smiled. Emily continued to mystify him, and despite their intimate conversation the previous day, he still felt ill at ease with his feelings for her.

  The kitchen was warm, heated by the conservatory that soaked up the weak rays of the watery April sunshine.

  “You can’t expect Emily to meet Cavendish dressed as she is,” announced Blanch from the kitchen table over a bowl of cornflakes. Beckett glanced at Houghton to witness his response to her statement. Houghton, similarly entrenched at the breakfast table, addressed Beckett as he lingered over his brewing tea.

  “Take her to Fakenham when Blanch and I visit the crime scene, use that card the firm gave you,” Houghton instructed Beckett.

  Thomas Beckett had momentarily forgotten about the new plated Ford Focus, which stood on the gravel drive outside Flint House, as organised by Bethan Williams, who he now considered his Fairy Godmother. A credit card in his name, but from an unknown account, had similarly been hand delivered. He had received a curt text message from Cavendish stating the postcode to guide him to Flash Seminary.

  Houghton glanced at his watch. “Time we weren’t here, Blanch,” he said to his sergeant, “where is Dr Spelman, anyway?”

  “I suggested she laid in, Sir,” replied Blanch, “she’s had a difficult few days.”

  Both men looked upon Blanch but hid their curiosity with regard to Blanch’s uncharacteristic concern for Emily’s well being, certainly when compared to the previous day. Houghton raised himself laboriously from the small table.

  “We’ll see you later at Flash, Tom. Don’t take any chances with Emily, I know you trust her but I don’t think Marchel will be very pleased if she goes AWOL. Get my drift?”

  Beckett nodded dutifully at Houghton and noticed Blanch shake her head contemptuously at her chief’s lack of trust in Emily.

  Fakenham was a pleasant market town to the discerning eyes of Beckett. The hostile wind of the previous day had fled to leave a benign if somewhat overcast spring day. Beckett appraised the retail outlets as he and Emily explored the streets of the Norfolk town and was intrigued as to whether it would be able to furnish anything that ran to Emily’s tastes. She suffered no such apprehension as she entered into the fray with gusto, Beckett trailing in her wake, nodding compliantly, if somewhat vaguely, when asked for his ill informed opinion.

  “What do you think?” she asked regarding a black and white striped summer dress.

  “Very nice,” he answered without conviction.

  “I should have brought Blanch along instead of you,” suggested Emily with a condescending smile.

  “You two seem suddenly very pally,” he stated, hoping not to sound jealous. She cast him a furtive look as she explored a rail of dresses in the department store.

  “Well weren’t you the one who said I was good at the ‘girly’ thing? I have to admit; when I turn my mind to it I can be damned good.”

  “So how did you win her over?” he asked with uncharacteristic directness.

  “Come on, Tom. I know we had a heart to heart yesterday but you can’t expect me to reveal all my secrets.” She gave him her most contrite smile that so effectively absolved her of all transgressions.

  Beckett continually glanced at his Rolex during the shopping trip, he was acutely conscious of having to drive to Flash and deliver Emily into the hands of Marchel Cavendish. The idea of meeting the German suddenly filled him with dread.

  Upon returning to Flint House, Beckett changed into the dark grey suit, purchased at Emily’s insistence, along with the pristine white shirt and black
Italian leather shoes. He made a final check around the house and smoked two cigarettes whilst Emily changed upstairs.

  When she reappeared, Emily was a changed person. Beckett considered it bizarre how he had become accustomed to her recent casual appearance, how easy it was to become habituated with her presence. She wore a black suit with a cream blouse and skilfully applied makeup and he recognized the striking woman he had first met in Bristol. She caught the look of doubt in his eyes.

  “Well?” Emily asked. Beckett smiled respectfully. She read his troubled thoughts and smiled. “It’s still the same me, you know. But I’ll be buggered if I’m going to meet Herr Cavendish without wearing my full war gear.”

  “He’s not German, apparently,” said Beckett absently, his mind preoccupied by the turmoil of conflicting emotions aroused by the forth coming encounter of the two people who now seemingly ruled his life and dominated his thoughts and dreams.

  “You don’t have to go,” declared Beckett in a moment of reckless emotional tumult. “I’ll take you to a railway station.”

  “And why would you do that?” asked Emily as she edged stealthily towards him.

  “I won’t let him hurt you,” he mumbled, staring blindly at her new patent leather heels, anywhere but into her enthralling eyes.

  “Of course you are going to take me to him,” she said calmly as she put her hands on his hips.

  “But...” Emily’s hands squeezed his hips and silenced him, allowing her to interject.

  “You’re going to take me to Herr Cavendish, and one way or another, this ridiculous episode will be put to bed. I’m not going to come between you and him. Your relationship is anything but clear to me or anyone else it would appear, but I realise it’s important to you and I’ll not come between you and Cavendish. You know, Tom, I’m not getting any younger; when I look back on what I’ve achieved it amounts to nothing. I’m lonely and unloved. Whatever Cavendish’s intentions, it can’t be any worse than my current situation. Present company excluded.” She dazzled him with a smile and kissed him lightly on his cheek.

  "Come on," she whispered. "Let’s get this over with.”

  The drive to Flash was conducted in silence save for the commands of the satnav as it directed them northwest towards Derbyshire. Emily continually glanced at the navigation device and watched the miles countdown to their destination. Beckett sensed their mutual tension increasing as they headed towards the unknown.

  During the course of the previous few weeks, Beckett had heard Flash Seminary frequently mentioned, but as he drove through the iron gates, he had no idea of what to expect. The overcast sky and the scudding clouds did little to enhance the appearance of the great house and he was not heartened by what he saw. He could not have described the architectural style of Gothic Revival to anyone, but he thought the house was typical of what he believed the firm would admire. Why not just put up a sign saying ‘welcome to the house of horrors’.

  Their journey through the secluded pinewood plantation up to the house was uninterrupted, embellishing his preconceived sense of doom. Beckett parked the car on the forecourt outside the main entrance and killed the engine. The silence, broken only by the ever-present mocking carrion added to the terrible foreboding.

  Beckett instinctively reached over and clutched Emily’s hand. Now he eagerly embraced her beseeching gaze, as they looked deep into each other’s eyes, neither of them wishing to make the first move.

  The driver’s side door suddenly swung open and a startled Thomas Beckett lurched back into his seat.

  “Hello, Thomas. Good afternoon, Dr Spelman. Good of you to join us.” Emily and Beckett glanced to their right, greeted by the grinning face of Marchel Cavendish; his head was twisted to the right, so making his scar the most prominent feature of his lean face.

  Emily offered Beckett's hand two tense squeezes before releasing it; she unclipped her seat belt and precisely placed her heeled shoes onto the gravel and raised herself elegantly from the car. Cavendish approvingly watched Emily swish her hair several times before she exaggeratedly smoothed it into place with her hands.

  “Good to see you, Thomas,” said a still smiling Cavendish enthusiastically as he held out his hand for Beckett to accept. A grim-faced Thomas Beckett unusually accepted Cavendish’s hand, shuffled threateningly forwards and whispered into Cavendish’s left ear.

  “If you harm a hair on her head I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

  Beckett did not wait to hear or observe Cavendish’s reaction. Instead, he walked angrily around the front of the car towards Emily, thus he would perhaps have been as astounded and perplexed as Emily was to observe Cavendish’s hardly subtle wink aimed directly at her.

  “Leave your bags in the car, I’ll take care of them, Kate will show you to your rooms,” suggested Cavendish.

  Beckett slowly led the way, clutching Emily’s hand, towards the house entrance. He was greeted effusively by the immaculately dressed Kate Watercombe who suddenly emerged from the cloister.

  “Welcome to Flash, Mr Beckett. It’s so good to finally meet you, we’ve been hearing so much about you! And Dr Spelman, it is a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure a historian of your standing will find your stay at Flash fascinating and fulfilling. Come, let me show you inside.”

  Kate took Beckett’s arm and led him into the cloister as Cavendish advanced to stand imposingly at Emily’s right shoulder.

  “Shall we?” he suggested as he extended his right arm towards the open door.

  Beckett was swiftly through the cloister and into the grand hallway. Meanwhile, Cavendish guided the compliant Emily through the doorway on the left into the library.

  “Hey, where is Emily,” Beckett shouted, “What the fuck have you done with her!” He shoved Kate fiercely to one side and headed for the door through which he assumed Cavendish had led Emily.

  Beckett was suddenly aware of a pair of strong arms encircling his chest and felt his feet lifted off the ground. He recognised but could not place the scent of a familiar aftershave.

  “Get the fuck off me!” cried Beckett in desperation as he struggled against the bear hug, flaying his feet, attempting to unbalance his assailant.

  “Calm down, Tom. It’s Josh, just calm the fuck down!” Beckett recognised the voice but did not curtail his resistance. “Blanch, for Christ sake, grab his legs, he’s kicking the shit out of my shins!” begged Houghton.

  Blanch Nichols made a timely appearance. Dashing in from the drawing room, she restrained Beckett’s legs with surprising ease.

  “It’s okay, Tom; Marchel is only going to have a word with her,” advised Houghton in his most pacifying tone and was perplexed when Beckett struggled even harder to break free.

  “Good to see you again, Dr Spelman, please take a seat,” offered a convivial Cavendish.

  Emily said nothing as she lowered herself into the armchair by the fireplace; she ran her hands along her thighs to straighten the tight skirt and hid the tremor in her hands by tightly clenching the armrests. She listened with alarm to the shouts and protestations emanating from the mouth of Beckett out in the hallway until the commotion slowly subsided as he was presumably led away. Cavendish sat in the opposite chair, staring at the library door as he too waited for calm to be restored to the seminary.

  “Don’t worry about Thomas, he’ll be fine. You are looking very lovely today, may I say,” smiled Cavendish. A chill seeped insidiously down Emily’s spine.

  “Wish I could say the same,” Emily replied defiantly, proud of her bold response.

  Cavendish wore the light blue jacket that he had worn on the evening of their meal in Bristol. His arms were crossed, his head tilted to the right, as he stared enquiringly at Emily. He appreciated the effort she had made for their reunion and felt a pang of jealousy as he considered what the late Paul Slingsby had enjoyed.

  His notebook remained unopened on the arm of the chair. Emily held his gaze for what seemed an inestimable age with no exchange of words, only the mournful tic
king of the grandfather clock marked the passage of an eternity.

  “Where is my sword, Emily?” asked Cavendish piercingly, the abruptness of the delivery unsettling her.

  “I don’t know,” her voice did not convey the intended self-assurance.

  “Who took my sword, Emily?” continued the inquisitor forcefully, his pale blue eyes slowly closed as he waited for her reply.

  “I guess it was the American, Brad.” Emily’s delivery was whispered inviting Cavendish to lean forward to discern her reply.

  "Blanch tells me you remember nothing of what Brad said to you," stated Cavendish.

  "No, all I remember was the gun. It was the first time I've ever seen one for real."

  “Did Brad kill your lover?” The question was intentionally confrontational.

  “He wasn’t my lover, and yes, I suppose he must have done.” Her reply was instant, emphasising the denial.

  “Suppose?”

  “There wasn’t anyone else there.”

  “Are you sure about that, Dr Spelman?” She bit her bottom lip in consternation as she confronted the events she had so consciously blanked from her waking memory.

  “No, I guess I don’t know that for a fact,” she admitted.

  “So who asked you to steal my sword?”

  “No one, it was our idea, Paul and I.”

  “So who approached who, did you approach him?”

  “No, he approached me.”

  “So how did he come to know about my sword?”

  “He must have discovered its existence during his researches, or...”

  “Or?” he encouraged.

  “Or someone informed him.”

  “Did you ever hear Slingsby make reference to, or speak to anyone else?”

  “No,” replied Emily diffidently.

  Cavendish smiled, unfolded his arms and placed his right hand on his notebook. “Fine, I thank you for your help, Dr Spelman. If you think of anything else in the next day or so you’ll be sure to let me know wont you?”