The Marsh & Daughter Casebook

by Amy Myers

  ‘Because of Michelangelo.’ She was following it now.

  ‘Yes. Jago discovers the scam and Jennifer’s plans rapidly change. She accompanies Jago, and somehow Jago meets his death, no doubt at Lance’s hands but at Jennifer’s planning. Her power must have been remarkable.’

  ‘But there’s no proof that it was premeditated.’

  ‘Oh, but there is. For us, at any rate. A jury might be hard to convince after all this time.’

  ‘What’s the proof?’

  ‘Two paintings, Georgia,’ Peter said simply. ‘Sir Gawain’s painting in 1959 to fit in with the scam was no problem, nor was a painting of the Lady of Farthingloe. What is interesting is the other two sent to the Benizis by Michelangelo after the supposed death of Lance Venyon. If the scam was successful, sooner or later Jago would have seen those paintings.’

  ‘And seen Jennifer as the adulterous Guinevere.’

  ‘Yes. He would have known Jennifer was involved with the scam, realized her relationship with Lance – and sued for divorce. Divorce wasn’t highly rated in those days, and would not have suited Jennifer or Lance one little bit. No, how could Jennifer have risked being the model unless she knew Jago would no longer be alive to see the paintings?’

  *

  Georgia remembered the last time she had sat on this terrace, drinking wine and eating. Only then the gathering had included Zac. Now it was Luke – thank goodness.

  ‘I’m sorry we had to be so suspicious of you,’ she said.

  Antonio beamed. ‘It is our fault. We did not want to be part of tricking Jago, so we ask Lance very few questions and he tell us nothing. We only know when Michelangelo tell us.’

  ‘It was delicate,’ Madeleine said.

  ‘Si,’ Antonio agreed. ‘Delicate. Paintings, you see. Lance bring first one to us. If we ask too many questions we might guess it a fake. Then we see the other three when Michelangelo bring them to us after Lance’s death. We took them because of Jennifer and hide them. One day perhaps we can sell them—’ He looked angelically innocent. ‘So now you know we tread careful line. Not deal in fakes.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Georgia agreed solemnly.

  ‘Good, good. So have more wine.’

  Luke accepted with alacrity, but she held back. No more mazes of confusion for her.

  ‘You are a good man for Mrs Georgia,’ Antonio said. ‘Better than Zac.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that,’ Luke murmured.

  ‘So now you have the goblet . . .’ Antonio said thoughtfully.

  ‘To hand back to its rightful owner,’ Georgia said sweetly. She wasn’t going to stand for any belated claim that it was his.

  ‘Madeleine and I wonder where real goblet is,’ Antonio finished.

  Georgia almost choked. ‘What real goblet? There is no real goblet.’

  ‘Oh yes. That is very funny, now we know that Lance killed Jago.’

  ‘Nothing funny about that,’ Luke pointed out.

  ‘No, but Lance killed the man who actually knew where the real goblet was. Jago did not trust Lance, so he said nothing to him. He realized it was not in that field. Lance was wrong, he told us.’

  ‘Where, then?’ Georgia cried.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Georgia, he did not tell us. What a pity.’ Antonio chuckled. ‘Ciao, goblet. We could all have been very rich, yes?’

  Epilogue

  ‘Blow this wheelchair.’ Peter had been determined to come, heat or no heat, to Budapest with her. Once the formalities of the Treasure Act and coroner were over, made much easier since the goblet’s ownership was now beyond doubt, Mark had agreed that Peter and Georgia could return it in person to the Kranowski family. They had wasted no time, and no sooner had they checked into their hotel in Pest than Peter was eager to call a taxi to the Rákóczi út.

  ‘I won’t be able to get up the stairs you told me about, but perhaps Leonardo will come down,’ he said hopefully. ‘I just want to see the damned thing handed over.’

  ‘It’s no palace,’ she warned him. ‘You might be disappointed in the goblet’s new home.’

  Fortunately Leonardo himself came to the door to greet them. He was smiling with pleasure. ‘You have it, our goblet?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Ours?’ Georgia wondered. Was he speaking on behalf of all Kranowskis, past as well as present?

  ‘Yes.’ Once inside, Peter opened the bag they had brought it in.

  She was surprised when Leonardo stopped him from going further. ‘Wait, please.’

  He led them straight to the wall at the far end of the entrance hall, painted with the dull murals that Georgia had seen before. He motioned to them to wait, went to the end of the wall and pressed what looked like a light switch. Some light switch. This one rolled the apparently solid wall back like a sliding door, neatly enclosing itself behind the stair well and revealing a corridor in front of them. It was immediately clear to Georgia that this was the main part of the house (and, no doubt, business). ‘Please to come with me.’

  Georgia needed no second bidding and escorted Peter as Leonardo led them into a little room with a table and several chairs, reminding her of the Benizi store she had visited. But this was no empty room. The walls were covered with exquisite tiny miniature paintings and cabinets displayed small golden ornaments and objects that wouldn’t have disgraced Fabergé, and icons. Bemused, Georgia sat in one of the ornate chairs, by Peter, to wait until Leonardo reappeared. When he did, however, he was not alone. He was pushing another wheelchair.

  Its occupant was a bearded old gentleman with carpet slippers and a red velvet jacket with cap to match. He looked older than Jago, older even than Richard Hoskin, in his mid-nineties at least. It took only a moment for Georgia to realize who this was, however, and for Peter too.

  ‘You must be Raphael Kranowski,’ he crowed in delight.

  The old man inclined his head. ‘Of course,’ he almost whispered in good English. ‘We goldsmiths live long. We are a family firm. We must see the family continue.’

  ‘We were sad about Sandro,’ Georgia said.

  He acknowledged her sympathy graciously. ‘We have a fine baby coming, Sandro’s baby. I will teach him much before I die. I will give him my goblet. It is for him.’

  ‘I have it here,’ Peter said, handing him the velvet bag.

  ‘Ah.’ His frail hands fumbled with the drawstring, and Georgia wondered whether to help. She decided not to. This was Raphael’s goblet. She could see tears in his eyes as he unwrapped it, and saw the goblet as it must have left his hands. No shiny glitter, but the true soul of the gold.

  He held it up for Leonardo to admire. ‘I told Leonardo that Lance had stolen the goblet, but he said Lance was dead. If so, the goblet would come on the market, so I knew something was wrong. But now I have it.’ He stroked its curves lovingly.

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ Georgia said sincerely.

  She was fixed with a steely glance.

  ‘Yes, it is magnificent,’ Raphael agreed. ‘But one day they find my Holy Grail. Much, much better.’

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