Denied to all but Ghosts Read Free Page B

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