by Amy Myers
‘There was no private motive for anyone to want him dead, enmities with friends, for instance?’ Georgia asked as delicately as she could. She could hardly ask if one of Lance’s mistresses might have had reason to kill him.
‘No,’ Elaine said firmly. ‘Nor is there a question of suicide. My father and mother were very happy together, so my mother told me. They had different lifestyles, but they dovetailed. My mother was content pottering in the garden, my father loved Wymdown, but also needed the buzz of dashing all over Europe.’
‘In search of stolen art works,’ Georgia said.
‘You know about that?’ Elaine looked surprised. ‘Did the police tell you?’
‘No, Jago Priest.’
‘My godfather. Of course. A great chap. I love him to bits. A great support after my mother died in 1995. He told me a great deal about my father’s war days.’
‘Anything to suggest any reason for murder there?’ If Elaine loved Jago to bits she was hardly likely to see him in the role of murderer, Georgia reasoned.
‘None that I can think of. Jago might have some ideas. My mother is less likely to have known. We went to live in Dorset shortly after my father’s death, where my grandparents lived.’
‘What brought you back to Kent? You must have been too young to remember much about it.’
‘I was. Pure coincidence brought me here. Pete – that’s my ex – took a job in Canterbury and saw a house out on the Barfrestone Road that we liked. Now I live at the top end of the village.’
‘Nice and close,’ Maureen commented warmly.
It was also a coincidence, Georgia thought, seeing the obvious friendship between the two (which made her think more kindly of Maureen). There was after all a tenuous connection between their two families: Maureen’s mother Venetia Wain and Elaine’s father had allegedly been lovers.
‘Why do you think your mother believed that Lance was murdered? I’m still not clear,’ Georgia said.
‘I don’t blame you. It’s pretty hazy,’ Elaine replied. ‘My mother first told me when I was about twelve, and as a child you embed your first impressions so firmly that any misconceptions are less likely to be chucked away. So far as I recall, the basis of the argument was that he was off to meet someone that afternoon, and it must have been important because Mum said he was very het up about it.’
‘Excited or afraid, did you gather?’
‘From the way Mother talked about him, I didn’t get the impression my father was ever afraid. Derring-do and tally-ho were his approach – or at least,’ she added frankly, ‘how my mother chose to remember him.’
‘The inquest report didn’t mention any visitors coming forward. Did they later?’
‘Apparently not. Ma was still on about it to the day of her death. Not an obsession, but a niggle, if you know what I mean. She had an idea it was someone from his working life since he’d said he was on an exciting case. But then if it was a rival in his affections she would say that.’
‘Any mention of which case?’ Georgia asked, hoping for a mention of the Pre-Raphaelites.
‘Not that I recall.’
New tack needed. ‘There were quite a few people at the funeral – would you know who they were if we sent you a copy of the report?’
‘I might. You could try me. My father had a lot of friends, so my mother said. Everyone liked him. Except – before you say it – his murderer, if any.’
‘Jago Priest was his closest friend?’
‘No idea. He was the best man at their wedding, and I can’t remember my mother talking about anyone else by name. I don’t think my mother cared for Jago, but that was natural if my father was close to him. She didn’t care for any of my boyfriends either – mind you, she was right over Pete. Anyway, send me the list, and I’ll do my best.’
‘I know you gave the police family details, but would you have any objection if we advertised for former friends and work contacts of your father? In the press obviously and on our website.’
Their website, as well as Suspects Anonymous, was hosted by her cousin Charlie and the ‘Can you help’ information page was an idea so obvious that they had kicked themselves for overlooking it. It had been going for about six months now, and had produced one or two good results to add to their files. Although an excellent tool, it had nevertheless taken much discussion as to whether such prior heralding of their areas of interest might cause as much harm as good by alerting interested parties before they’d decided on taking a case. She’d agreed with Peter to risk it, but with sufficient variety of names and subjects that the main subject of current interest would be partly masked. So far as Lance Venyon was concerned, it could surely do no harm at all.
Elaine didn’t take long to consider the matter. ‘Go ahead. I’m far enough away from it not to be upset at raking up the past and my children won’t care. There’s no other close family to consider. He was an only child and his parents died when I was a child. Contact petered out with the rest of the family soon after his death. I can give you some old addresses, but I doubt if they would help you or the police. My mother implied he more or less wiped the soil of his native Hampshire off his feet when he went off to war, and after it he began a new life.’
‘Just one more thing,’ Georgia asked. ‘How do you feel about the fact that if there is a crime uncovered there could be a book about it?’ She was aware of Maureen stiffening.
‘It depends on what you find,’ Elaine replied briskly. ‘If he was murdered, I’d want my children to know the truth, and I’d like to myself after all this. So dig away, by all means.’
‘Although it strikes me, Georgia,’ Maureen put in sweetly, ‘that you may be digging without success.’
Was that a hope or a threat? Georgia wondered.
*
The crime scene in the churchyard had been wound up by now, and Georgia found herself once more alone there. This time it was broad daylight, however, not evening; the sun was out and birdsong very audible. There was a world of difference from her last visit. So had her impression then been entirely subjective? She retraced her steps of that night, stopping where she had first seen that glimpse of white. She walked towards the dark corner again, just as tense as before. All traces of where the body had lain and the crime scene were gone, although the trampled-down grass and mud around betrayed how busy this place had recently been. There was nothing save the quiet and peace of country churchyards, as she began her search for Lance Venyon’s grave.
Almost immediately she knew she had been mistaken. It was still here, that sense of darkness and horror. The mere fact that she was in a hurry to leave suggested that. She felt her heart racing again. The sun now seemed to have a false brilliance, as though doing its best to bring light into an area that had chosen to remain dark. Hurriedly, she began to check the gravestones: Edward Robinson, died 1959. Beloved father and husband. Josephine, wife of Robert Jones, died 1960. Alan Peters, 1958. This was the gravestone across which Sandro’s body had lain, but it was clear of blood now. All the gravestones around showed signs of erosion by weather, save for one or two that were clearly regularly tended. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, she could see no sign of one for Lance Venyon.
‘Can I help you?’
She jumped as a voice came from behind her and whisked round quickly. It was the vicar or curate, she presumed, as a dog-collared young man strolled up to her. It hadn’t been he who officiated at the wedding, and she didn’t recognize him. She smiled, relieved to have company.
‘I’m looking for Lance Venyon’s grave.’
‘Wrong place, I’m afraid. I believe it’s over here.’ He led the way to the far side of the churchyard, pointed it out and tactfully retreated. This grave was well tended, and every word on the stone was readable. Lance Venyon’s dates: 1922 to 1961. ‘Beloved husband of Mary, father of Elaine. With the Eternal Father.’ Next to it was Mary’s grave.
Whatever this corner of the churchyard reeked of, it wasn’t Lance crying out for just
ice. It was both a relief and disturbing. If not Lance who set up these vibes, who or what was it? She played with the notion that it was Sir Gawain, but dismissed the fantastical thought impatiently. It was just the weirdness of this place that gave her crazy ideas.
*
‘Are we downhearted?’ Peter asked after she had reported to him the following day.
‘Frustrated,’ she conceded.
‘No reason for that. We have a sporting chance.’
‘Maybe, but what’s the game?’
‘A Sudoku puzzle, perhaps. Some facts known, others to be sought with their help.’
‘One graded diabolical, if so,’ she grumbled.
‘We have a link in Sandro.’
‘A weak one, with just a girl’s fleeting memory of a fleeting remark.’
‘Nil desperandum, daughter. Mike told me Sandro’s father Leonardo has been over here, breathing down their necks. He couldn’t offer anything in the way of explanation over Lance Venyon.’
‘How do you interpret that as helpful?’
‘Don’t snarl, darling. Sandro is a descendant of the grandpop who knew Lance, and so Leonardo is too.’
‘So what? He knows nothing.’
‘According to Leonardo, Sandro was a tearaway, a law unto himself. All Leonardo claimed to know was that Lance Venyon was an old acquaintance of his father. His father had died in 1988, expressing a wish that Leonardo would look Lance up if travelling to the West ever became possible; he had duly come to England as soon as the Iron Curtain lifted, and they had moved to Budapest from Estonia. He found out that Lance was dead, but doesn’t recall ever mentioning this to Sandro, although he could have been mistaken. That would fit with the fact that when Sandro found out Lance was dead he didn’t make any effort to track down Venyon’s living family. Anyway, Mike isn’t pursuing the Venyon line any longer.’
‘And this is good news?’ At least Elaine’s mother’s mysterious visitor was probably explained. It had been Leonardo.
‘Yes. It could clear Sandro out of the picture so that we can concentrate on Lance. It does seem unlikely that Leonardo is anything to do with a family involved in art theft in the 1950s. Mike has checked him out; he’s as respectable as they come. A university lecturer in Hungary since he moved there, son of a retired teacher and dressmaker.’
Georgia thought about this. ‘All we know is that Sandro didn’t talk to Elaine. We don’t know he didn’t make other enquiries, such as meeting Jago. After all, how did Leonardo find out in 1990 that Lance was dead?’
‘From the village and Mary Venyon herself, perhaps.’
‘In which case he might well have spoken to Jago Priest and so might Sandro, if his mission was other than mere courtesy.’
‘Jago would still have been in France in 1990, but it’s possible Sandro spoke to him.’
‘About what?’
‘Suppose he came about those paintings? Maybe his grandfather was an Arthurian fan.’
‘A tenable theory, but sheer speculation,’ Peter whipped back smartly. ‘Which is why Mike’s concentrating his attention not on Lance but on Sandro’s working and love lives.’
‘Are they both focused on this Dover art gallery?’
‘Quite possibly. Kelly Cook was apparently distraught to hear about Sandro’s death, and even more so to hear that he had another lady friend in Canterbury. Her husband was equally upset, presumably because of his working partnership with Sandro.’
‘So they’re in the frame—’ That was something at any rate. She had quizzed Gwen and Terry over their acquaintanceship with Kelly. It turned out that Kelly used to work with Terry before her marriage to Roy. Gwen thought she was a laugh, but Georgia wasn’t so sure. Vampires were a laugh only until they sank their fangs in.
‘Georgia,’ Peter interrupted, ‘Lance Venyon is our target, and we need him in our sights, not Daks.’
‘Even though Lance hasn’t left one single fingerprint on time that we can be sure of?’
‘He’s leaving mental tenprints at least. They won’t go away.’
‘I agree.’ She gave in. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. We still have two people who actually knew Lance, apart from the vicar, who we can provisionally assume is a disinterested party. That’s two figures to fill in on our Sudoku puzzle. One is Venetia Wain, an unknown quantity as yet. The other is Jago Priest, who looms large in my thoughts. Both have passable motives that might reward investigation. Now that Daks is tiptoeing out of the picture, it’s time to offer Jago a pub lunch on Saturday.’
*
It was a larger group than expected. Jago would be delighted, he had told Peter on the telephone, although his daughter Cindy and Sam were visiting him this weekend.
‘I told him the more the merrier,’ Peter had said.
‘On the grounds that tongues run away in informal chat more readily than in formal interview?’ Georgia asked.
‘How well you know me.’
‘Then we’ll invite Luke too. Three of us, three of them.’
‘Excellent. He can take care of the drinks and food while we talk.’
This was a role that fell rather often to Luke in such circumstances, and Georgia had felt a rare tug of loyalties. By luck, it was warm enough to sit in the pub garden and the Priest family was already present when they arrived. Cindy, with a mop of dark hair and lively face, was a surprise, having nothing of Mark’s caution – at least superficially. She was obviously younger by several years, but seemed to spring from a different generation. There was no Mr Cindy, it seemed, but there was Sam – who proved to be her daughter, not son.
‘So confusing,’ Peter muttered as he manoeuvred his chair into place.
‘Don’t be a fuddy-duddy,’ Georgia hissed at him. She took Sam for a student from her orange spiky hair and general fashion mode of jeans, bare midriff, bangles and scarves, but it turned out that she was twenty-two and that she and her mother ran a craft shop in Canterbury. Both ladies seemed to have plenty of the get up and go quality but in different ways. Cindy would be the businesswoman, Georgia suspected, while Sam did the pushing.
‘So what’s this about Pops’ old chum being bumped off?’ Cindy asked, once food had been chosen and Luke had obediently disappeared to order it. He rather liked the silent partner role in such circumstances, he had reassured Georgia, because he could take a back seat and sum up situations objectively rather than concentrating on his own contribution.
‘The jury’s still out as to whether he was,’ Georgia replied. ‘So we’ve come back for further direction from the judge.’
‘I’m honoured,’ Jago chuckled. ‘But I still don’t buy the idea that Lance was murdered.’
‘What was so interesting about this Lance apart from the fact that he knew Prester?’ Sam gave her grandfather an affectionate squeeze of the hand.
‘Prester?’ Peter looked enquiringly at Jago.
‘Sam’s pet name for me. After Prester John, I fear,’ Jago replied ruefully. ‘Sam is a tease, as well as my firmest supporter where my theories on the historical Arthur are concerned. Prester John as you no doubt know was a twelfth-century fantasy about an eastern emperor who kept the then known world engaged in a quest to find him for four hundred years or so.’
‘Like King Arthur and the Grail,’ Sam said straight-faced, ‘only Prester John was more fun. Just fancy, it was probably one monk who set up a scam that had the West thinking it had this all-singing all-powerful all-dancing mighty potentate in the East to defend Christianity for the righteous against the naughty old Saracens. He was richer than Croesus, more powerful than Charlemagne, seventy-two kings worshipped at his feet, all the jewels of Ind—’
‘I think we’ve got the picture, Sam,’ Jago said gently. ‘Sam, you see, has this notion that it was the excitement over the quest to find Prester John that in the twelfth century obscured the historical King Arthur by reviving the king through a quest for the Holy Grail.’
‘Reviving?’ Cindy snorted. ‘Cre
ating him, more like.’
‘Nonsense, Mum,’ Sam flashed back. ‘Arthur was real. Prester was a joke, but Arthur’s something different.’
‘Bosh,’ her mother retorted.
‘Why can’t you see Grandpops has to be right?’
Georgia felt like waving a flag to call a truce over King Arthur, but decided it would be more diplomatic to retreat and help Luke with the drinks. By the time she came back with her tray, she was relieved to find that the discussion had moved on. Peter was talking about Sandro Daks.
‘What’s he got to do with this?’ Cindy asked sharply.
‘Did you know him?’ Georgia asked in surprise.
‘Yeah.’ Sam answered for her. ‘We both did. He did work for us in Canterbury. He was murdered, but what’s it got to do with you?’ She was the suspicious one of the two, Georgia could see, and also protective of her mother, for all her combative stance. A point in her favour.
‘A double interest. I found his body—’
‘My dear Georgia. I’m sorry to hear that,’ Jago said. ‘An appalling shock for you.’
‘It was. And another shock to find out later that he had some slight connection with Lance Venyon.’
‘What was that?’ Jago asked, frowning.
Georgia explained, conscious that all three Priests had their eyes firmly fixed on her. ‘We wondered if he came to see you, Jago, since he didn’t get in touch with Elaine. Someone might have told him you were his best friend. His father Leonardo might also have contacted you in 1990, although I think you were still in France then.’
‘I don’t recall a Leonardo Daks at all.’ Jago thought for a moment. ‘I was working in Toulouse by then, so I would have been difficult to track down. I believe Sandro might have telephoned me some months ago, however. I didn’t recognize the name because I don’t think he gave it to me. He asked if I knew Lance’s whereabouts, I explained he was dead. I didn’t want to refer him to Elaine for obvious reasons. He seemed quite satisfied and that was that.’
‘He didn’t explain why he was interested?’
‘Yes, he did. He said he was anxious to trace a painting with which Lance had been connected. That was why I saw danger signals. Knowing Lance’s line of work, I could have been speaking to the Mafia or some descendant of the Benizi Brothers, or worse an unscrupulous Arthurian collector in search of the goblet. I assured him that Lance was dead, referred him to Wymdown churchyard for confirmation, and told him that his family had moved away and I’d lost contact. I heard no more. International art thieves are not my speciality, I fear.’