by Amy Myers
‘Fifth or early sixth century. King Arthur’s goblet,’ Georgia finished for him resignedly. Trust Zac still to be sailing in the good ship Fantasy.
Zac looked disappointed. ‘You know.’
‘A little.’ She decided it might be wise to backtrack. How odd, though, that she could even be talking to Zac on a normal basis.
‘Of course the Arthurian buffs have been getting excited.’
That was Zac. Trust him to convey the impression that he moved in the midst of powerful groups with his ears flapping. ‘What do they collect?’ she asked. ‘Bits of the Round Table?’
‘Scripts, old books, archaeological finds, some specialize in the medieval resurgence of interest, some in the Anglo-Saxon historical side. The Arthurian world is vast, ranging from the ultra-respectable Arthurian Society to those who live in a Camelot of their own.’
Georgia was momentarily silenced. Did Zac really know his stuff over this? It would be the first time ever, if so.
‘Zac’s right,’ Madeleine said. ‘There are whispers, and what’s more I do remember Lance burbling on about it in the 1950s.’
If Madeleine was in on this, then grudgingly Georgia was prepared to admit she might be wrong about Zac on this occasion. Had he got this from Jago, Georgia wondered, or did he have independent sources? It had to be the latter, because Jago would see through Zac in a minute. In any case, she reminded herself, Jago’s researches had led him to the wrong place.
The wrong place? She caught her mistake. So she thought there was a right place, did she? This was ludicrous. Any minute now and Zac would vanish into thin air like the nightmare he was, and take King Arthur with him.
‘Hang on, Zac,’ she said. ‘Rumours start somewhere. Any idea where the current ones did?’
He shrugged. ‘Not a clue. How could I? There’s a blog devoted to it, though.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that.’
‘Not meant for every Tom, Dick and Harry,’ Zac continued, ‘or all the treasure hunters in the world would be out there with their metal detectors. Only the cognoscenti. You have to know their blog codes. The golden cup – or goblet as you call it – is referred to as Prester John, King Arthur is the Crusader, and Gawain is Indiana.’
‘You are joking, Zac.’
‘I am not.’ Great dignity here.
‘Prester John was a hoax.’
‘Precisely,’ Zac was triumphant. ‘To fool the uninitiated.’
‘More than you can do.’
She was instantly ashamed of herself for this childish retort, but nothing could have brought back her early disastrous marriage more clearly. A union of ill-matched kids, Peter had grumpily called it when they married, and, sure enough, he’d been right. It had ended up with his having to arrest his own son-in-law for fraud.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘And thanks. How do I get on to the blog?’
‘Dunno.’
She closed her eyes in disbelief. ‘Do you think—’ Talk about entering the maze one more time. Nothing, but nothing, with Zac was ever concrete. Anyway, Sam’s pet name for Jago was Prester John too, which suggested he contributed to the blog, and Google would no doubt oblige anyway, now she had the code words.
She made a determined effort to try again. ‘Do you think Lance seriously thought he was going to find this goblet, Madeleine? Or was it Arthurian paintings he was after, as Jago said?’ She stopped abruptly. It was all too easy to chat in front of Zac. It was when he was silent that he could be at his most dangerous.
‘I have a vague recollection, but too vague to rely on. Why not ask Jago? He was the King Arthur fan par excellence.’
‘Perhaps he did Lance in,’ Zac suggested helpfully. ‘Would he have had a motive?’
‘Who knows with that man,’ Madeleine said.
‘Why should he?’ Georgia asked. ‘He’d be interested in keeping Lance alive if he was on the trail of the King Arthur goblet. After Lance’s death his own efforts came to nothing.’
‘Poor Jago.’ Madeleine laughed for the first time. ‘I almost feel sorry for him.’
‘Depends where he looked,’ Zac said casually. ‘There’s sacks of Anglo-Saxon stuff dug up in Kent. Woodnesborough near where the Ringlemere Cup was found has always had a legend that a golden statue of the Norse god Woden was hidden nearby. Suppose the Ringlemere cup really was Arthur’s. Even if it was Bronze Age, it could have been a family treasure.’
Georgia laughed. ‘According to Jago, Arthur’s goblet and Gawain’s remains were in Dover Castle church until the sixteenth century, and only then rehoused. Rather too late to start a legend about Woden. In any case a gold statue is a far cry from a cup.’
‘Gold has a mysterious power over men,’ Zac pointed out.
And especially over him, Georgia thought, wondering why he was trying to impress with this solemn pronouncement. Change of subject, she decided. ‘Did Lance talk about his private life?’ she asked Madeleine. ‘His wife died some years ago, and his daughter knows nothing of her father save what her mother had told her – which wasn’t much help to us.’
Madeleine shook her head. ‘I suppose he must have done so from time to time. Lance was – well, rather like Zac. He came and he went. I remember him as a . . .’
A con man? Georgia nearly asked, but bit it back – which was just as well as Madeleine continued: ‘In that we never actually knew what he was up to. A fresh idea every minute.’
‘Nevertheless you’re sure that his job was to pursue real objects whether stolen or faked. In other words, not hunting objects as a collector. He wouldn’t chase fantasies because of an inner dream?’ Georgia asked.
‘How do you know the goblet’s a fantasy, Georgia?’ Zac enquired.
She rounded on him. ‘You mean you know there is a real goblet, Zac?’
‘Maybe.’
‘If you know, why not tell us?’
‘I like to keep you guessing. You owe me that.’
The phrase ‘takes your breath away’ came to mind. Georgia could hardly speak with irritation. Owe him? Owe him what? Five years before, subconscious doubts and fears rose to the surface with the certainty that he was lying and all the beautiful objects that passed through their small terraced house were the result of cons. She’d defended him fiercely when Peter had first broken the news to her. She’d spent four years of alternate bliss and bedlam. Four years of blind adoration blasted into shock and disillusion. Four years of sexual bliss blinding her to the truth – even the memory stirred her as she thought of it. So she wouldn’t. She’d think of Luke. Whose image for the first time ever failed to come to her rescue. She was on her own.
‘Of course,’ she replied mildly, which she was delighted to see disconcerted Zac. With luck he’d try to please her now, by offering a little titbit. Sure enough.
‘I met a chap whose father had known Lance in the 1950s. I think he’d seen the goblet,’ Zac offered.
‘Pull the other one, Zac.’ So even Madeleine found this hard to take, to Georgia’s relief.
‘All right, then,’ Zac backtracked, ‘maybe he hadn’t. But the story going round the cafes is that Lance Venyon knew where it was.’
‘Jago Priest also thought he knew where it was. Only it wasn’t,’ Georgia pointed out.
‘Is that right?’ Zac looked interested. ‘Where did he dig?’
‘Near Woodnesborough as it happens,’ Georgia lied through her teeth. That was the trouble with Zac. He reduced you to his level.
Zac laughed. ‘Is this Jago Priest any relation to Mark?’
‘His father, probably,’ Georgia said cautiously. ‘Do you know Mark?’
‘Yeah. A bit. He moves in the same world.’
‘The underworld?’
Zac gave her a pained look, just as another male entrant arrived, and no prizes for guessing who this was.
‘Signora Marsh, ciao, Zac, Magdalena . . .’
‘My husband,’ Madeleine said, as the short plump bustling elderly man with twinkling eyes came over to kiss her. ‘You’re bac
k early, caro.’
‘I could not miss our English visitor.’ He looked more like Danny DeVito than a Hollywood Italian count and Georgia warmed to him at once. ‘Zac, you are keeping our guest entertained?’ he asked.
‘Very,’ Zac said lazily, shooting Georgia a glance.
‘Unfortunately,’ Madeleine said tranquilly, ‘I discovered after you left this morning, darling, that our poor guest was once married to Zac.’
The count laughed delightedly. ‘So, we are one big happy family. As for me, I am too lazy for divorce, even if Papa allowed it. And Magdalena—’
‘Is too old for change,’ his wife supplied.
This was a madhouse, Georgia decided. A stalwart English lady in her mid seventies, a mad Italian count roughly the same age, and her own former husband all rattling around in a palace of antiques. And incidentally whose antiques were they?
‘We were talking about Lance Venyon and King Arthur, darling,’ Madeleine said. ‘And, guess what, Jago Priest is still alive and well,’ she added brightly. ‘And Zac has been contributing.’
A glance between husband and wife as though they had Zac’s measure, which was a good sign. ‘Do you remember Lance?’ she asked the count.
‘Of course. Who could not? The crazy Englishman who terrorized Europe to track down beautiful artworks.’
‘We’re looking for any hints that might explain his death in 1961,’ Georgia explained. ‘His wife thought he might have been murdered, and his working life might have provided reason for that.’
‘Si, signora.’
‘Do you,’ she asked in desperation, since he didn’t seem disposed to continue, ‘know of any cases he was working on in the late 1950s? He got very close to one gang, the Benizi Brothers.’
He beamed. ‘I know. I was an antiques and art dealer. Lance came in one day to ask if I have stolen goods. What, me? I said. No. Lance then tells me what he is looking for. I ask people about them, and give him what help I can.’
No mention of King Arthur yet, Georgia noticed. She would have to prompt him. ‘Jago said Lance was excited about some hitherto unknown Pre-Raphaelite paintings.’
‘There I can help,’ the count said grandly. ‘Then we all have luncheon.’
‘That’s very kind,’ she began, appalled at the idea of extending her exposure to Zac yet longer, ‘but—’
‘Wait till you see the garden, Georgia,’ Zac said enthusiastically. ‘We’ll be eating out there.’
She glanced at Madeleine, who nodded. It seemed Georgia had no choice, and as she had to eat lunch somewhere, she agreed. ‘I’d like that very much.’ Well, part of it, she amended to herself.
‘Now I have something to show you,’ the count said. ‘Come with me, Mrs Georgia.’
‘Darling,’ Madeleine began. ‘Surely not—’
‘Cara,’ he interrupted firmly. Another glance and Madeleine rose quickly to join Georgia and her husband.
As Georgia wondered what on earth this was about, she followed obediently in her host’s bustling wake. Madeleine took her arm, and Zac brought up the rear like an enthusiastic puppy. Naturally. He never liked losing touch with things, including wives.
Where was she going to find ‘the something’, she wondered, as the count led the way upstairs, with his entourage behind. The first storey of the house, and so far as she could see the second too, seemed to be understudying the Quai d’Orsay art museum, if the stairwell was anything to judge by. Paintings hung on pale lemon-painted walls, antique furniture on the landing gleamed with years of polish. The count flung open an ornately white-and-gilt-ornamented door and ushered her in.
‘Our bedroom,’ he announced. ‘Magdalena and I make children here.’
‘Not so many nowadays,’ Madeleine commented gravely.
The joke stopped Georgia from fully taking in her surroundings, but when she did she found herself in an austerely elegant ivory-painted room, with pale green shutters and bed linen, and minimal light furniture. There was only one painting in the room, on the wall facing the bed, and her attention was straightaway riveted on it. It was Pre-Raphaelite, and depicted an obviously dying knight on what looked like the deck of a ship. In the distant background were cliffs and a familiar-looking castle, other knights clustered round, and kneeling at the dying knight’s side was —
‘King Arthur,’ she blurted out in shock. ‘It must be Gawain and Arthur.’
‘And the golden goblet,’ Zac added smugly.
She looked at it first in disbelief, and then in admiration. She knew some of Rossetti’s work, though not specifically the Arthur drawings, and could see that this was a fine painting. It was not as heavily romanticized as some of his work, but full of passion and yet at the same time peace. As with his Arthur’s Tomb the figures were sharply defined, almost angular, but here the eyes were not focused on the other knights or even on Gawain, but on a golden goblet. King Arthur was holding it at Gawain’s lips, and it was so positioned that it became the focal point. Small, gold, ornamented but not heavily, it shone out, demanding the viewer’s attention.
‘Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Italian artist,’ the count joked. ‘This is what you seek, Mrs Georgia.’
‘The painting Lance Venyon discovered?’
‘Si,’ agreed the count.
‘The painting that the Benizi Gang was after?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed again.
‘But how—?’
‘I should formally introduce my husband,’ Madeleine said softly behind her in a sudden inexplicable chill.
‘I do it myself, cara. How do you do, Mrs Georgia. I am,’ the count said proudly, ‘Antonio Benizi.’
Chapter Six
The rear garden of the house had far less formality than the front. Here bushes, grass, winding paths and arbours lived together with no apparent design. A terrace under an awning ran the width of the house and on it was a table laid for four. It looked instantly attractive. Georgia was still getting over the shock of learning who the Count of Orvona was, made easier by the fact that Antonio had waved aside an apology. She suppressed an image of Luke at his desk, sandwich at his side. Nevertheless she wondered how she was going to explain today away to him. Omit all mention of Zac? Confess? But what to? Being the victim of circumstance or to the lurch of excitement that she was trying to ignore? She’d think about that later, she decided. At present she had enough to cope with in seeing Zac’s grinning face across the table. With Antonio and Madeleine at the two ends, it made an intimate setting that was all too familiar. At least Zac wouldn’t be crass enough to say, ‘How like old times,’ but she had her retort ready in case he did. Instead, she asked him politely:
‘Have you known Madeleine and Antonio long?’
‘Five or six years. I met Roberto, their son, much earlier, probably while we were still married, Georgia.’
Trust him to slip that in, she thought crossly, with its implication of an ongoing link between them.
‘I turn up now and again to ask Antonio’s advice,’ Zac continued.
Antonio (Georgia already thought of him that way) looked pleased, as though it were the greatest honour in the world to be giving advice to a con man. As a gang leader himself – if he was – she supposed that was natural. It was hard to believe that this was all happening. Even her sense of chill in the bedroom had vanished. One thought of villains creeping along dark alleyways, plotting in secret hideaways, not having lunch on a terrace in the sunshine. Madeleine had an old cotton sunhat on, Antonio’s shining bald head was equally well shielded, and Zac didn’t care. Nor did she, aware that she was beginning to relax.
What did Zac ask Antonio’s advice on, she wondered. Whatever it was, it was unlikely to be legal.
‘Zac asks me about art,’ Antonio explained, ‘and the wicked things that men do for it. I am an old man, so it is most flattering.’
‘Information is all Lance came for?’
‘Of course,’ Antonio replied. ‘What else? This gang story, Georgia,’ he added seriously, ‘
Jago has it wrong. Very wrong, but then he would. He did not like us, and we did not like him. Perhaps he killed Lance.’
Georgia was taken back, and obviously seeing this, Madeleine leapt into the breach.
‘Darling, just because we don’t like Jago that doesn’t make him a murderer.’
Antonio shrugged. ‘He loved King Arthur. He was very interested in gold goblets. If Lance was in his way, Jago could kill.’
‘He was very affable to us,’ Georgia said defensively, ‘but of course he’s much older now. In his younger days he might have been very different.’
Antonio, having made his point, became the happy host again. ‘We not like him because of Jennifer.’
‘His wife?’ Georgia’s interest quickened. Was she the forgotten factor in the story?
‘Jennifer was my friend when I first came to Paris,’ Madeleine explained. ‘We shared the flat in the boulevard de Courcelles and I stayed on when she married Jago in 1956. She’d known him a long while, and he badgered her into marrying him. I didn’t think she would be happy. Jennifer was a lovely woman, both to look at and in her nature.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s foolish. How can one describe a friend when they are, or were, part of you? Is she still alive?’
‘Jago told me she died two years ago.’
‘I’m sad to hear that.’ Madeleine was clearly upset. ‘Antonio and I married three years later, and Lance took over my flat until we moved to Rome in late 1960. I lost touch with Jennifer after Lance’s death.’
‘The marriage seems to have worked out, at least from what Jago says.’
‘He would say that,’ Madeleine said wryly. ‘Lance had been passionately in love with her, of course, and she with him, so I never understood why she married Jago. Lance married Mary a year later, so I suppose all was well.’
Lance had been Madeleine’s part-time lodger for four years then, between 1956 and 1960. She wondered again how close Madeleine had been to him. It was relevant, regardless of what Madeleine had said earlier. Nevertheless Georgia reproved herself for her prurient mind. The two had been close, whether as friends or lovers. Did it matter? Yes, because a possible theory then arose of whether Jennifer had been preferred over her.