by Amy Myers
‘Glorious Sussex. The most wonderful county in the world at present. No wonder the Benizis tried to charm you out of any suspicion of them, Georgia. Thank your lucky stars. If you hadn’t been so gullible, he’d probably have shot you.’
‘How very kind,’ she said savagely, uneasily aware that he could well be right.
*
Georgia was looking forward to seeing Peter’s reaction to Camelot, even though Barry Hoskin had been reluctant for them to come. His father was far from well, he told them, was already agitated over the King Arthur blogs, and he didn’t want him upset any more. Then he had relented and called them back. His father, he admitted, was extremely anxious to see them after he had explained what it was about.
‘I hope he doesn’t think he’s going to this gathering at Barham Downs,’ Barry said gloomily, as he led them to the living room. ‘When there was a hue and cry like this a few years ago, he was in better health and not only wanted to go, but to take half his museum with him. When I refused, he wanted to invite everyone for tea. Luckily it proved a damp squib, and no one was in the mood for a drive to Sussex. If,’ he added hopefully, ‘you could lay his worries to rest today, I’d be awfully grateful.’
‘If we find out what they are, we will,’ Georgia assured him. ‘The problem is that we’re looking for guidance from him.’
‘Then we’re all doomed.’ Barry helped Peter manoeuvre his wheelchair round the furniture, placing him strategically close to his father.
Peter immediately hit off with Professor Hoskin, through nods and pictures of Anglo-Saxon objects which he had brought with him. The professor studied each one closely and handed it back without comment. Until, that is, Georgia saw Peter pass him a picture of an ornamented wooden goblet of the early Anglo-Saxon period.
The professor shouted out something that Georgia did not catch, but Barry supplied the word: ‘Zoomorphic’. It meant nothing to her, but Peter was nodding enthusiastically. ‘Animal ornamentation,’ he said. Immediately Georgia was back before the painting of Gawain. That goblet had been decorated with some kind of animal shape.
The next was a picture of a buckle from the same period, also ornamented. ‘Filigree,’ the professor supplied with great satisfaction. When he struggled to his feet, beckoning to Peter, Georgia grew more optimistic still. Richard Hoskin seemed oblivious to the presence of Georgia and his son, who had nevertheless taken firm control of him, and he chattered meaninglessly to Peter. Peter manoeuvred his chair outside with Georgia’s help, where he then wheeled himself rapidly to the professor’s free side. No prizes for guessing they were off to Camelot.
‘Here comes the conjuring trick,’ Barry declared, once they were all in the barn. Camelot flooded into life, and having been forewarned, Peter was clearly in no doubt as to how to react.
‘Oh, I say!’ he exclaimed in delight. Nevertheless Georgia could see he was genuinely impressed. He had more of a gift than she did for transporting himself into the pleasures of others, however alien to his own.
‘Sir Gareth,’ Peter cried, of a blond-haired knight sitting at the round table, and Richard Hoskin nodded in delight.
‘Sir Perceval,’ Peter tried, then corrected himself. ‘Geraint of course,’ and he received a nod. He passed muster with Sir Bors, Lancelot was a no-brainer, then came Lamorak, of whom Georgia had never heard, Tristram, and another stranger to Georgia, Sir Segramour.
By this time Peter was obviously in high favour and Hoskin might have sat there all day, but Barry turned the lights out on Camelot and on in the museum itself, where Georgia took over. The problem was that she wasn’t sure what she was looking for.
‘King Arthur’s goblet?’ she tried on Hoskin hopefully, but there was no response. Even Peter’s ace, ‘Raphael Kranowksi’, brought nothing. She was beginning to lose hope, until Peter mentioned Bruno Hat. Now it was a different story.
She listened amazed as the professor burst out laughing, his hands slapping his frail legs. ‘Lance, Lance . . .’ and a flow of words followed though nothing that she could understand.
‘Benizi,’ she tried, but it was only Lance that he stuck with.
‘Lance – die,’ he managed and a thrill of optimism ran through her.
‘He drowned in an accident,’ Peter tried.
Unbelievably, there was a vigorous shake of the head in reply. It might not mean anything, Georgia warned herself, but it was a sign that he was on track at some level. He could point if not answer, and he was doing so at what looked like pieces of a broken sword.
‘Lance? Painting? Rossetti? Pre-Raphaelites?’ she tried again, but this time he just shook his head, putting a hand out lovingly to the artefacts.
Barry was indicating that his father was tired and that it was time for them to go. As they left, he pushed a diary into their hands. ‘Let me have it back when you’ve finished with it. It’s not much, but it does have Lance Venyon’s name in it several times.’
Georgia could see that it was for 1958, and as soon as they were away from the house she stopped the car so that they could look at it. There were indeed several mentions of Lance Venyon, first as Mr Venyon, then Lance Venyon, then LV or Lance, six meetings in all over the summer of 1958.
‘I think that the professor was trying to tell us that Lance had something to do with these artefacts. That they were part of a scam. Lance’s Hat. Suppose,’ Peter said slowly, ‘they were waiting here for Lance to pick them up on the Benizis’ behalf, and then when he died they just stayed here. Those items wouldn’t have a lot of value in themselves.’
‘The dates don’t work. Any cache of bones and artefacts would have to age in the ground. They wouldn’t still be in this collection.’
‘Bother. You’re right. Suppose what we saw were the rejected ones? Suppose Lance took what he wanted and left the rest?’
‘Possible, but too many supposes. Are you implying the professor forged all that stuff?’ Georgia asked.
‘No. These could be the real thing. The professor would have access to all sorts of collections hidden in museum basements, which might never be missed. Think of the value to the Benizis’ scam. Pop some of these authentic bones and artefacts in and it would make the goblet appear genuine in a collection. Gold is difficult to date.’
‘Theoretically the goblet still might be genuine.’
‘Less and less likely, darling. I think it’s time for a word with your Antonio.’
‘On the phone?’
‘Of course. No one gets shot that way.’
Georgia forbore to point out that the Benizis could easily find out where she lived if they were intent on getting rid of her, but acquiesced.
‘Shall I do it?’ Peter asked sympathetically.
‘No, I will.’ It was her job. She’d been too gullible with them, but no more.
She rang from Peter’s office as soon as they were home, and Antonio answered – somewhat guardedly. No surprise there. If he was waiting for her to mention the Budapest paintings, he’d be pleasantly surprised. It was the past she’d keep to, not the present – if only for her own safety.
‘We know about your arrangement with Lance, Antonio,’ she began after the opening skirmishes.
‘Georgia, what arrangement is this?’ he asked plaintively.
‘Lance provided you with enough genuine old artefacts for you to stock Gawain’s grave so that the Kranowski goblet should appear genuine and the paintings’ value soar through the roof. Did you tell Raphael he and Michelangelo could have a share of the booty, or did you pay them cash?’
Silence.
‘You told me Raphael, alias Domenico, was an art faker,’ she reminded him.
He spoke then. ‘No, Mrs Georgia, you assumed he was, because we had just been to the Louvre. We talked about paintings. I do not believe in giving unnecessary information. Raphael liked to be thought of as art faker, so he can keep real work secret. Big joke. He called himself Domenico when he painted. But he was not as good as his son Michelangelo.’
‘A big joke like
the one you and Lance were involved in for the King Arthur market. Is that why you killed Lance?’
‘Kill him?’ he exploded. ‘No, no, no. You have it wrong. It was not my funny joke. You think I would do something as foolish as that? We did not know about Lance’s game, Madeleine and I. We guess something naughty going on, but not what. We only find out later. We very cross.’
‘When did you discover? Before or after he died?’
There was a muffled voice, then the receiver was snatched from Antonio, after a scuffle, which Madeleine obviously won. Her calm voice said: ‘A week or so before he died, Georgia, when Michelangelo telephoned us. We were living in Rome, and at that stage Lance had only talked to us about the painting of Sir Gawain and its provenance, convincing us that it was genuine.’
Some hopes, Georgia thought.
‘We knew nothing about any goblet until Michelangelo told us, nor did we know about the other paintings, which he sent to us a few days after Lance’s death. He was furious because he had gone to tell Lance that the Kranowksis were about to be exposed as fakers, and his father was intent on getting the goblet back. After all, his exposure would ruin Lance’s plans, he might have thought. Lance refused to let him have it, however, and Michelangelo suspected he had sold it.
‘I could not work out what was going on,’ Madeleine continued, ‘so I decided to go to see Lance. I was due to visit London anyway, so I saw Lance on my way back to Dover. He was not pleased, and told me I was too late. He had been working on this scam for a long time; everything had been in the ground for over two years to allow time for the earth to settle around it, and the joke was about to spring. He wasn’t going to ruin it now by digging up the goblet, the prize of the collection. No one would think the goblet was a fake because the other artefacts weren’t. Besides, he had taken his inspiration for the scam from the painting of Sir Gawain, and he was positive the provenance of that was secure. Like a fool, I believed him, since I hadn’t seen the other paintings at that point. I would have had no doubt about their being fake. Lance told me to take my ferry home, and he would drop me off at Dover. I needed to talk it over with Antonio, so I agreed, but the next thing I received was Jennifer’s letter. The Kranowskis’ exposure as fakers took place hard on the heels of our receipt of the paintings and we heard no more. The scam seemed safely buried, which was good.’
‘Even though it would have made you rich?’
An exclamation of annoyance. ‘You don’t understand, Georgia,’ Madeleine said. ‘The whole point of the scam was that it was a joke – of sorts. Lance was going to pay Kranowski out of his own pocket, and had already paid Hoskin. Lance confessed to me that day that his aim had never been money, but revenge.’
Of course, Georgia thought, kicking herself for not realizing it sooner. Not money, but the game!
‘Lance was hell bent on making Jago Priest the laughing stock of the Arthurian world,’ Madeleine continued, ‘by building up the hoax to the point where Jago was so obsessed that he could never admit anything was a fake. The world’s press would be present, Jago would luxuriate in his glory to the full; he would officially authenticate the find – and then, he, Lance Venyon, would tip the press and experts off that it was all a fake. It was Lance’s revenge for Jago marrying Jennifer.’
‘And Jennifer knew about it?’ Never forget Jennifer.
There was a long silence, then at last Madeleine answered her. ‘I don’t know. That’s the torment.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘How can we tell him?’ Georgia asked. Jago already had Mark’s arrest to battle with, even though the charge was still for the art thefts, not murder. So far, Mike had said, they were still lacking forensic – or indeed any – evidence to connect him with the murder of Sandro Daks.
‘How can we not?’ Peter asked reasonably.
For good reasons, Georgia thought. However robust Jago might seem, he was in his mid to late eighties, and the shock of his life’s dream being shattered, just at the point where they suspected he might be about to dig once again for Gawain’s bones, might well be too much for him. Added to that, he still considered Lance to have been his best friend. Two central props to his life would be knocked away.
‘In hindsight, it was a good plan,’ Peter observed.
‘Was it?’ It seemed to Georgia fraught with risk.
‘Our Lance must have had patience. He worked on the scheme for several years. Jago married Jennifer in 1956; Lance at some point conceived the idea, set the rumours going himself without benefit of the Internet, then pretended to pick up on them, fitting them in to what Jago already believed, then organizing and ageing the collection in the ground.’
‘The question is: did he put it there?’
Peter ruminated. ‘My money would be on the assumption that he had already buried it when he died. Otherwise what happened to the goblet? It wasn’t presumably found amongst his belongings after his death, and the Benizis would have known if it had come on the market.’
‘They wouldn’t have told us, though,’ Georgia said. ‘And if you’re right, and the collection was buried, you must see where that takes us.’
‘Of course I do. It’s still there where Lance buried it; he was about to spring the joke.’
Georgia grappled with this. There was a flaw somewhere. ‘Buried it where?’
Peter whirled his chair round irritably. ‘Georgia, I don’t know. There are a thousand don’t knows. What, for instance, about the chaplains’ script and the Ruskin letter? Do they exist? Are they buried with the hoard? Can’t be. So where are they?’
‘Perhaps Lance had a further flourish planned with the paintings, script and letter to turn up. But he died.’
‘I notice we’ve stopped using the words killed or murdered.’
‘We have to,’ she said gloomily.
‘If Jago found out about the hoax,’ Peter said wistfully, ‘that would have given him a first-class motive.’
‘We’ve been down that cul-de-sac,’ she replied. ‘He had the time, but no opportunity. Even if he had learned or guessed about the hoax and dashed over from France to be the mysterious visitor Lance arranged to meet that day – who must surely have been Madeleine – how could he have overcome his loathing of water sufficiently to choose that method and plan his escape by water?’
‘Risky, I agree. Lance might have been a trifle wary at Jago’s sudden enthusiasm for sailing? No, if we’re talking murder, it’s back to the Benizis, Venetia or Mary, or persons unknown.’
‘Or Hoskin,’ Georgia added.
‘I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right, but where does that get us?’ Peter looked at her. ‘Shall we wipe our hands of the murder angle? Luke still thinks the story of the scam alone might make a book, depending on what happens over the dig.’
‘Back to square one. That means Jago finding out about the hoax.’
‘He will anyway.’
‘Not through us.’
‘We’ve committed the unthinkable. We’ve become personally involved in this case, particularly you, Georgia.’
She could say nothing in her defence, because it was true. Even now she was taking the Benizis’ story at face value. ‘Yes, let’s press on with dear old King Arthur,’ she agreed. ‘One odd thing is that when Lance died, Jago didn’t find the hoard in the place indicated and that’s where Lance must surely have buried his collection. So why didn’t Jago find it?’
‘Sometimes you excel yourself, Georgia.’ Peter didn’t seem to be joking.
‘Thank you,’ she replied modestly. ‘Either Jago must have changed his mind, or he missed it. Or he lied about where it was to us. Or,’ it occurred to her, ‘he did find it and is gloating over his hoard in secret.’
‘In which case he’s still in for a big shock when he discovers it’s all a scam – and, if you’re right, why should he be making a song and dance about it now?’
She made a stab in the dark. ‘Because he’s going to re-find it, to get his hour of glory?’
&nbs
p; ‘Why take over forty years to do so?’ Peter cut neatly through her argument.
‘The time is ripe now. He’s bored with just looking at it once in a while, and the recurring rumours have given him the perfect opportunity for public glory, especially with the bloggers meeting on Barham Downs. Jago doesn’t know, remember, that the goblet is Raphael Kranowski’s, not King Arthur’s.’
Peter finally delivered his verdict. ‘You could be right, but I don’t think you are. It seems to me we could be missing a trick here.’
‘A trick about what?’ Her voice came out as a squeak. Not another U-turn, surely?
‘It could be Jago is the guiding blogger behind the Barham Downs gathering. He’s busy keeping the opposition employed elsewhere while he digs away. I’ll ring Jago. We should be there, just in case.’
‘He’s in his late eighties. He won’t be doing it by himself, and he’d arrange for press to be there. Anyway, I repeat, we know it’s all a fake.’
‘As you said, he doesn’t know it’s fake.’
Georgia closed her eyes in despair. ‘I can’t bear it. It gets worse all the time. I can picture him at Wymdown digging away in his field in the confident hope that his life’s dream is about to be fulfilled. He’ll have enduring fame as the greatest Arthurian of them all. And after that it will all be exposed as a hoax.’
‘That’s life,’ Peter agreed.
‘You’re very callous.’
‘I do believe you’re beginning to have Arthurian stars in your eyes, Georgia. Secretly you want King Arthur to come galloping down from the hills to scoop up his goblet just as much as I do.’
‘The world could do with him,’ Georgia replied with dignity.
*
Only another day to wait. Several times Georgia had wanted to warn Jago, and she suspected Peter still did too.
‘No,’ he had decreed. ‘We can’t take the responsibility. But he’s agreed we can join him, and says he’ll let me know the location tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Should we warn Cindy or Sam?’
‘They have their heads screwed on sufficiently to know the risks.’