by Amy Myers
‘So they’re fakes!’ Peter punched the desk in delight. ‘I knew it.’
‘It’s very well to glory in our triumph,’ Georgia replied practically, ‘but where does this take us?’
She’d talked it over endlessly with Luke on the return flight from Budapest until he pleaded for mercy. They had devoted their free day to enjoy what Budapest had to offer, and that’s how he wanted to remember it, he said. It was therefore Monday before Georgia had a chance to talk to Peter fully about the trip.
‘Easy,’ Peter replied. ‘You have to be right. Domenico Kranowski equals Domenico Daks. It’s making sense at last.’
‘I’m glad you feel that way. What are we going to tell Jago? How’s he going to feel?’
‘Interested, but not devastated, I imagine, unless the use of Jennifer as a model connects her too closely with Lance. It’s Gawain’s bones that are his passion, and possibly the goblet that goes with them. He’s not involved with the paintings.’
‘Unless the Gawain story is blown to smithereens along with the paintings.’
‘Why should it be?’ Peter asked mildly. ‘Jago developed his thesis before the paintings and goblet entered into it. Then the goblet rumours came along, and after that the paintings.’
Georgia felt a ridiculous sense of relief on Jago’s behalf. ‘You mean that Michelangelo or Domenico Kranowski painted them in response to the rumours about the cup? Why, though?’
‘For cash, darling. That’s what makes the world go round. Didn’t you know that? The Jagos of this world may rise above it, but most folk can’t afford to.’
‘So one of the Kranowskis hears the rumours from whatever source, realizes a killing can be made from the Arthurian world and paints a series of pictures. Unfortunately Jago would recognize his wife and so might countless other people in their circle,’ Georgia pointed out.
‘If he saw them. Lance never got round to showing them to him, did he? We assumed that was because Jago’s interest didn’t lie in the paintings, only in Gawain’s bones. Suppose Lance was just the Benizis’ foil?’
Instinctively she found herself coming to their defence. ‘Antonio told me that Domenico Kranowski didn’t do the fakes.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he? And perhaps he didn’t.’
She saw where this led. ‘But Michelangelo did.’
Peter nodded sympathetically. ‘And so the claim that the Benizi Brothers walk the fine line now has a distinct wobble.’
‘Don’t mince your words,’ she said bitterly. ‘It makes them fall headlong into the underworld and probably—’
‘Dragging in Lance Venyon and Jennifer Priest with them. I’m bound to say, Georgia, that it does look that way.’
‘But what motive for killing Lance?’
‘When thieves fall out anything can happen.’
She slowly digested this. Antonio a murderer? She couldn’t believe it. ‘It doesn’t fit, Peter. Michelangelo must come into this story some other way. If he is Venetia’s “Michael”, then he visited England in 1961, and Leonardo himself in 1990, probably both at Domenico’s request to ask for family property back.’
‘What property?’ Peter asked sharply.
She had forgotten this was new to him. ‘I assume the paintings. They could even have been in Hoskin’s possession for a while at least, which would account for the reference to Raphael and Pre-Raphaelites. Leonardo didn’t know what the property was.’
‘Or said he didn’t,’ Peter retorted. ‘You’re not thinking straight, Georgia. Domenico died some years ago. If this property was so important he would have told someone in the family what it was before he died.’
She was momentarily silenced. Then: ‘Probably,’ she admitted. ‘Although as we’re dealing with fakes, Leonardo might simply not have wanted to tell us.’
‘True.’ Peter frowned. ‘In that case, this property could equally well be the script about Gawain at Dover and his remains, or even a fake goblet.’
‘No. The Kranowskis are art forgers, not metal-workers.’
‘Are we sure? Anyway, as we agreed, just because the paintings are fake, it doesn’t necessarily mean that Ruskin didn’t discover the real existence of such a goblet.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Georgia shot back at him. ‘Even if you’re right, the bona-fide evidence is hardly likely to have been in the hands of a family of fakers.’ She stopped in sheer weariness. ‘This case is getting to me.’
‘To both of us,’ Peter agreed. ‘We’re stuck in the middle of a hall of trick mirrors wondering which way to turn.’
‘Jago has to be the answer to that,’ Georgia concluded. ‘If anyone can judge whether Lance was victim or villain he can.’
*
‘I assume that your investigation has moved on a stage.’ Jago looked at them enquiringly, as she brought the drinks out into the pub garden. Too warm to sit inside on a day such as this, and much more pleasant for Peter.
‘It has, in fact,’ Peter assured him blithely.
‘You know who pushed him overboard?’ Jago looked surprised.
‘No, but the range as to why someone should want to do so widens, and with that fingers of suspicion grow more confident.’
‘Indeed.’ Jago looked troubled. ‘Poor Lance. He was the most popular man I ever met, but even the best of men can unwittingly get in the way of others’ plans.’
‘You did give us the impression that this popular man was somewhat hard on his women friends,’ Georgia reminded him.
‘Ah yes. That dear little Venetia. Since you reminded me about her, I’ve been thinking about her quite a lot, wondering if she had hidden claws and could have scratched back to the extent of pushing him overboard.’
‘If she did, we’d never prove it,’ Peter said lightly.
‘So how long do you go on digging away at this theory of yours?’ Jago asked.
‘As long as you for King Arthur’s goblet,’ Georgia laughed, seeing Peter at a loss for an answer.
‘Touché,’ Jago said ruefully. ‘Of course that might not be much longer. There’s blog talk of a communal dig to take place shortly.’
‘Where? When?’ Peter asked.
‘No details yet. I put it down to some movement on your part. Has there been one?’
‘There has, though I can’t see how it would tie up with digging for the goblet. We’ve proved to our satisfaction that the Arthurian paintings that Lance was in pursuit of, probably including the one with the goblet, were fakes.’
To Georgia’s relief, Jago did not enquire further and looked only mildly disappointed. ‘I can’t say you surprise me. There are always those that try to cash in on a current event. No doubt they were a crude attempt to persuade the unbelieving that there was such a goblet.’
‘Not that crude,’ Peter said. ‘It came from the Kranowksi stable.’
‘Now there,’ Jago said, ‘you do surprise me. Did Lance know that?’
‘That’s the question. He was so friendly with Antonio Benizi that it’s hard to tell at this late stage.’
‘Quite. Lance is not necessarily on the side of the devils,’ Jago pointed out, ‘even if he knew them for what they were. It was his job to track down such frauds, and to remain friendly with the fakers.’
‘A thin line.’
‘One which he trod with delicacy. Are you implying the provenance of the paintings led to his death?’
‘It’s possible.’
Jago nodded gravely. ‘Not that that affects the goblet. That still exists, just as the bones of Sir Gawain do.’
Along with Prester John and Shangri-La, thought Georgia irreverently. She felt instantly ashamed as she saw Jago’s blue eyes on her, as if he could tell what she was thinking. Zac’s trick.
‘Knowing Lance,’ Jago said, ‘if he had discovered the paintings were fake, he would have redoubled his efforts to help me find Gawain’s remains and any evidence connected with that. He might even have found it.’
‘Then it’s strange that nothing further has been
heard of it. No one would want to stop their discovery, only to steal them.’
‘We don’t know that that hasn’t happened,’ Jago pointed out. ‘Such is the secretive world of collectors that they make sure that rivals can’t trace them. Today, with email addresses, that’s much easier. With care, bloggers can make themselves untraceable.’
‘Even the site’s source?’
‘Certainly,’ Jago agreed. ‘One could give false information using an external blog host and a valid email address.’
‘Why such extreme secrecy?’ Georgia asked.
‘My dear Georgia, consider the hunt for Prester John. Man’s quest for something beyond this mundane existence is a lonely one, a solitary pursuit: the search for religion, for the Grail – whatever. Each man has his own. Mine is Sir Gawain and there could be others on the same track. Amongst the bloggers there have been many theories as to the site, ranging from here to the Darenth Valley, though there seems a consensus for Barham Downs now. I shall not be joining any communal dig, of course.’
‘So what is your next step? To dig on your own site?’
Jago laughed. ‘Have you ever been poised on the brink of something you know will bring you complete happiness and yet be afraid to go forward?’
Oh yes, Georgia thought. That touched a nerve. She had. She was in such a situation now every time she was with Luke. Every time they made love, every time they argued over spaghetti, with every addition they made to the Medlars garden.
‘The vision has become almost as precious to me as the object itself,’ Jago continued. ‘I fear to step forward, and yet I know I shall.’
‘Travelling hopefully is better than arriving,’ Peter said.
‘Ah yes. How I agree with Stevenson. He was right, although I would put it differently myself. I believe perfection belongs to God. The medieval mason would build a flaw into his work, not wishing to step on the Almighty’s prerogative. I feel somewhat the same, that the grail of perfect happiness should be left as just that.’
‘Suppose,’ Georgia said practically, ‘that someone finds it first in exactly the place you now believe it is.’
Jago laughed delightedly. ‘You are bringing me down to earth, Georgia. I cannot continue to live in cloud cuckoo land for ever. I might rush out with my shovel tomorrow evening to take one last brave step towards that grail. A step that might kill me, of course.’
Georgia looked at him curiously. ‘How?’ she asked quietly.
‘You believe someone killed Lance,’ Jago pointed out. ‘It is not so inconceivable. So keep my possible plan under your hats.’
‘Like Lance’s hat?’ Georgia asked idly, as he prepared to leave.
She was taken by surprise at Jago’s reaction. He looked shaken, and, she thought, alarmed.
*
‘So there could be something to Hoskin’s idle words after all. What, I wonder, is so odd about Lance’s hat?’ Peter speculated as they drove home.
‘What he kept under it?’ Georgia asked.
Peter didn’t dignify this with a reply. ‘If I fed that into Google, I’d get—’
‘Eighty million responses, no doubt.’
‘Something,’ Peter said optimistically, ‘might crop up. You don’t think it could be a blog, do you?’
‘I don’t. Lance wasn’t privileged to know what they were.’
Peter sighed. ‘Let’s fall back on the tried and true. A reconstruction. We can start with his last day alive.’
‘About which we know very little.’
‘Last two days, then,’ Peter amended. ‘The day he left home and the day he left Hythe harbour, never to be seen again.’
‘Not much better.’
‘Correction. We know he gave a lift to an unknown woman.’
‘Agreed. Could mean nothing.’
‘He’d met Michelangelo recently.’
‘Agreed. But we don’t know whether it was about paintings or Ruskin letters.’
‘We know he had a row with Venetia, who then went storming off to see Mary.’
‘Agreed, with the proviso that we only have her word for it.’
‘We think Lance was murdered.’
‘Yes.’
A long pause. ‘Can we take any of these givens further forward?’ Peter asked.
‘Only Venetia and Mary. We don’t know one of them didn’t go haring off after Lance.’
‘It seems unlikely Venetia did. She said they were discreet.’
‘Everyone can lose their rag every so often. She told us quite frankly that she did.’
‘Could the visitor he was meeting that afternoon have been Jennifer? That would raise the temperatures to boiling point if Venetia found out.’
‘It would give equal reason for Mary to boil over. Not to mention Jago. Suppose Venetia put Mary right on Lance’s feelings for Jennifer?’
‘Now that’s a thought,’ Peter said approvingly. ‘Jennifer and Jago were in Paris, so no great problem about either of them coming to Dover. Mary never specified the meeting was in Hythe, did she?’
‘Not so far as I recall. But Jennifer wouldn’t want to kill Lance,’ Georgia pointed out.
‘Crime of passion? Jennifer comes over for an unexpected dirty weekend with Lance, who cancels Venetia’s trip. Jennifer sails back to France with Lance, finds out about the other two women and pushes him overboard.’
‘Then jumps off the boat herself and swims to Boulogne. Not likely.’
‘She takes the dinghy.’
‘It was still on the boat,’ Georgia said doubtfully. ‘Strong swimmer?’
‘And then emerges from the water with wet clothes, travel documents, money . . .? Drawbacks to a crime of passion.’
‘Bother,’ Georgia said crossly. Then: ‘Suppose she planned it. Took a second dinghy on board.’
‘You don’t think Lance might have noticed it and thought it a trifle odd?’ Peter said caustically.
‘I give up.’
‘Don’t,’ he advised kindly. ‘There’s an answer somewhere.’
*
Venetia’s voice came over strongly on the telephone, more strongly than Georgia would have guessed from remembering her tiny frame. Peter had slept on the problem and by the time Georgia had appeared in his office the following morning had chosen to ring her, putting on the speaker phone so that Georgia could hear as well.
‘How is it going?’ Venetia asked.
‘Step by step,’ Peter answered blithely. ‘How’s Falstaff?’ Always ask after the pets, he constantly advised Georgia.
‘Guarding me like Cerberus.’
‘From what?’
Venetia didn’t answer that. Instead: ‘What is it you’d like to know?’
‘Whether you and Mary went together to Hythe to talk to Lance or you alone?’
A laugh, fortunately. ‘I like the direct approach. Will you believe me if I tell you?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘I think you might this time. I went alone. Mary informed me that she knew all about Jennifer and could do without my help, thank you very much. She also knew all about me, and wasn’t at all surprised that Lance had dumped me. She’d already had a word with my husband. A sweet lady, Mary. Like one of those scratch cards. Take off the glitzy surface and underneath is the plain truth. Usually that you’ve lost. Mary’s unvarnished truth was that she was going to hang on to Lance at all costs.’
‘She didn’t succeed.’
A pause. ‘And you think my being in the picture had anything to do with that? No, Mr Marsh. I did go down to Hythe, and guess what, Lance wasn’t there. He’d told me he was meeting someone at the club, but there was no sign of him. I went to his boat, still steaming with fury, convinced he was skulking there. Everyone knew me, so I just marched straight on board without anyone thinking twice about it. He wasn’t there either.’
‘Are you implying he might never have left Hythe? That someone else might have taken the boat out?’
‘No, I’m not. When I found out he was missin
g, I was on the phone like a flash. I even went down there. There was no doubt that Lance took the Lady Mary out himself early on the 14th. He was well known and was seen by several people. And, unfortunately for your thesis, all of them said he was alone.’
‘No one could have been hiding below decks?’
‘That’s just about conceivable but hardly likely. Lance would have been most surprised at such odd behaviour and undoubtedly would have turfed them off if he’d thought there was trouble brewing. There was nothing he hated more than having a row at sea. He was a great dodger of rows anywhere.’
‘So why did you think he was murdered, and how?’ Peter demanded.
‘The answer to the latter is no idea. As for why he could have been murdered, I suppose that because I could cheerfully have killed Lance myself at times I could envisage his arousing the sentiments in others too. Nor could I face the fact that he merely had an accident. Though that, Mr Marsh, seems to be the conclusion you must be coming to.’
*
‘I still don’t believe it,’ Peter exploded. He had come up to Medlars for dinner so that Luke could be in on the crisis meeting. Was this case going forward or sinking in a storm?
‘Believe the accident or murder?’ Luke asked.
‘Either,’ Peter growled.
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Georgia said.
‘All right, I don’t believe it. I do believe her.’
‘I would have put it the other way around, Peter,’ Luke said calmly. ‘But I’m only a publisher.’
‘You’re not even that in this case,’ Georgia pointed out sourly. ‘There’s still no contract.’
‘Would you like one? I’ll do one tomorrow.’
She looked at him in amazement. ‘Are you being kind to us, Luke? There’s no case yet.’
‘There is,’ Luke said. ‘I’ve always been a sucker for buried treasure, and at least there must be a story to be told about that.’
Peter went home happily, but her evening was not yet over. Twenty minutes after his departure, he was on the phone to her. ‘There’s a message from Mike,’ he said.
‘Can’t it wait?’ Georgia asked plaintively. Bed was looking awfully attractive.
‘I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Know what?’