by Amy Myers
‘Are you asking me,’ she replied hesitantly, ‘whether I think this is a fake, perhaps a Kranowski painting? Is this what this is all about?’
‘No,’ snapped Antonio indignantly. ‘I tell you Kranowski did not paint this. You tell me what you think. With all my experience I still do not know. Does that goblet exist or not? Is this painting fake? Is the goblet fake? If the painting is genuine, did Rossetti believe the goblet existed? Tell me, please.’
Georgia drew a deep breath. ‘It does have soul,’ she said. ‘And that makes it genuine, but not necessarily a genuine Rossetti.’ She took a step into unknown territory. ‘What about the other paintings? When I came last time, you referred to paintings in the plural, and so has Jago.’
Instantly she was aware that the atmosphere had changed. Antonio was very still. ‘You make mistake, Mrs Georgia,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You mishear me. Only one painting.’
‘Lance might have known about others,’ Georgia persisted, interested to see where this might be going. ‘Which is why Jago referred to more than one. Perhaps Lance deliberately misled you?’
‘No.’ Another charming smile. ‘You understand? No.’
She did. It was a message that cooperation was over and it was time to leave – and to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Silly of me.’ She shook her head as if at her own stupidity. ‘If Rossetti was only in Paris for ten days he couldn’t possibly have painted more than one.’
The tension relaxed, as she had hoped, but as she got into the car to be chauffeur-driven to the Gare du Nord they insisted on coming with her. Not, she suspected, through politeness but because they wanted to be sure she left without questions to Mr Formula One. What, however, would those have been? About the paintings? About Roberto? About Lance? Or about Zac?
Chapter Nine
Questions span round Georgia’s head until it felt like a washing machine, and she longed to hurl them at Peter immediately she returned. Not a good idea, though. They needed to be thoroughly rinsed before she could present them coherently. Moreover Luke would be waiting too, and this time her account of Paris could, thank goodness, be less edited than her previous one. One purpose this had served was to relegate Zac to a compartment of his own in her mind, rather than have him obstinately keep popping up in the Benizi story. Although over that, she was uncomfortably aware, there was still a question mark over his role.
It was therefore not until the following morning that she went to find Peter. Conversation with Luke had been confined to a straight account of the day. He had had supper waiting for her, and once back home Zac had tiptoed out of her thoughts with only the faintest acknowledgement from her.
When she arrived at nine o’clock Peter was not in his office, and there was no sign of Margaret. For a moment she feared that he had had one of his ‘turns’. These were becoming less frequent now that the years were passing since Rick’s disappearance but nevertheless when they did occur they were violent and terrifying, leaving him shivering at horrors she could not share, but could well imagine. She hurried into the bedroom and was relieved to find it empty. Instead she tracked him down to the garden where she saw him already installed at his working table under the fig tree, Margaret doing her best to persuade him that breakfast was a good idea. It lay on a tray on a trolley at his side.
She shrugged when she saw Georgia. ‘You have a go.’
‘Ah,’ Peter glanced over his shoulder, ‘perfect happiness, Georgia. That’s what they say.’
‘And that’s breakfast?’ she enquired amicably.
‘Sitting under one’s own fig tree.’
She agreed there was something in the shape of the fig-tree leaves that seemed to make it a peaceful tree, as well as – in a good summer here – a fruitful one. The pile of books already before Peter, however, suggested that he had a mission in mind rather than a browse.
‘No Internet today?’ she asked, dropping a kiss on his head.
He waved a hand at the pile. ‘Books. What news from afar?’
She scented an opportunity. ‘Have your breakfast, and I’ll tell you.’
Margaret disappeared inside the house, and Peter actually took Georgia at her word, listening avidly throughout a bowl of muesli and a croissant.
He continued munching for a few minutes after she had finished, and then sighed. ‘So let’s sum up. The painting has almost certainly got to be a fake. This so-called evidence is far too tenuous.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Or, of course, the Benizis could be kidding you; they know the painting to be genuine and want to make a killing now that the King Arthur story is getting big again. His cup coming back to meet the saucer, so to speak.’
‘Very cute,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘And though you might be right in theory, I don’t see anyone having a plan that would involve waiting forty-odd years to come to fruition.’
‘What about cases of wine? Antonio Benizi works in a family business, there’s the next generation to think of.’
‘I still don’t buy it. They are traders. If they knew the painting was genuine, as soon as the Pre-Raphaelites became popular again they’d have flogged it. What’s interesting is what happened to the other paintings, if any. Antonio certainly didn’t like my asking about them.’
Peter frowned. ‘One lost Rossetti is possibly genuine, two or three make it look rather contrived, don’t you think? And aren’t we getting off the point, which is Lance Venyon’s death?’
‘I don’t know where the point is any longer,’ she said crossly. ‘It’s like a maze, every dead-end avenue adds to the fog of misdirection.’
‘As no doubt Antonio Benizi intends,’ Peter observed.
‘Possibly,’ she conceded, then saw his expression. ‘All right, probably.’
‘How about certainly?’
‘If so, so what?’
‘That suggests the painting or paintings are fake, probably the goblet too, and led to Lance’s death.’
‘No,’ she argued. She wasn’t going to accept that she’d been completely hoodwinked by Antonio. ‘Even if the painting is fake, the goblet isn’t necessarily so. Aargh,’ she broke off in despair, seeing she was on quicksand now. ‘Where now? All roads barred.’
‘Nonsense,’ Peter said briskly. ‘What about gangs for starters?’
‘Gangs in the plural? Gents with hats pulled over their eyes?’
‘Gangs aren’t always villains. We have two of them. The Benizi Brothers, because whichever side of the legal line they tread, they most certainly constitute a gang.’
‘And the other?’
‘The gang behind the current art thefts, to which we tentatively put the Roy Cook name. There’s a remote chance the link between them could still be Lance Venyon.’
‘Via Sandro Daks. But is it a gang?’
‘Ask Mike. He’s due here in half an hour. He’s had a word with the Metropolitan Police. I hate to point this out, Georgia, but Zac too is a link between the two gangs.’
‘Mike must have been thrilled at that idea,’ she said hollowly, wrestling with this depressing notion. Mike had known and been wary of Zac almost as much as Peter, and been involved in his arrest.
She was right, although when he arrived, Mike grudgingly admitted, ‘For once, Georgia, your ex is telling the truth, though the Met is using him at a low level only. It’s only just beginning to unravel the scam. It’s been well thought out. Straightforward burglary with one or two nice but hardly earth-shattering pictures pinched. Sigh of relief from the owners, who then don’t bother to check their valuable paintings carefully enough. They’re the ones for which copies have been substituted. It could take months, even years, for them to come to light. Even if chemical analysis proves them to be forgeries, it would take a devil of a lot of proving that it was due to the burglary, since the path is well and truly grown over.’
‘And Zac’s role in this?’
‘Spying out the possible forgeries. So far they’ve tracked down a so-called Turner in Elham Castle, a William
Etty in a Sussex museum, a Lawrence portrait of a former lord of the manor at Egerton Grange, and a Pre-Raphaelite somewhere. They’d all suffered minor burglaries in the last three years. The Art and Antiques Unit doesn’t yet know if all of the forgeries are connected, or whether any of the paintings were copies when they were acquired. It’s inclined to the former, though. As with anything else in this field, the style, even in forgeries of others’ works, becomes familiar, as do the materials and ageing methods.’
‘Which Pre-Raphaelite?’ Peter enquired.
‘Burne-Jones, I think.’
‘King Arthurs?’ he asked hopefully.
Mike laughed. ‘Getting hung up on the gent, are you, Peter? The answer is no, as far as I recall. Anyway, I’ve cleared it for you to drop in to Roy Cook’s gallery so far as the Met is concerned. Only on the Lance Venyon front, of course. As for me, I’m not too keen, but I suppose I trust you.’
‘Is Cook a suspect for Sandro’s murder?’
‘Close,’ he replied. ‘And could get closer if he’s tied in to the Art and Antiques case. They’re pretty sure that Cook is involved in that, either as a runner for the scam or the top brain. No gun’s turned up yet for the murder. It was a semi-automatic, fired from about three feet away.’
‘Have you questioned Zac?’ she asked.
‘No. Thankfully, I’m the middleman,’ Mike said. ‘Anyway, the Met has vetoed your marching in there with Zac at your side. They wanted to veto you too, but agreed that if by chance there was a link to this Lance Venyon it might be better coming from you than us policeman plods.’
Relief. Without Zac, she would have all her antennae pointing towards Roy Cook, rather than wondering what her ex-husband might say next. Zac varied in performance; he could have an intuitive grasp of a situation, or he could plonk the largest foot in the world into it.
‘Is it OK for me to go?’ Peter asked.
‘That’s up to you to decide between you,’ Mike replied. ‘One can look casual, two – particularly with the wheelchair – might look like a deputation.’
After Mike left – rather reluctantly since the garden was cool and pleasant on a hot day – Peter decided Mike was right. He would pass on the Roy Cook front, but he maintained his right to visit the castle, which she willingly conceded. She even agreed to accompany him.
‘Any other open paths to Lance Venyon?’ she asked.
‘Professor Richard Hoskin for one. I was in touch with the son yesterday. His father was a professor of history from 1954 to 1976 at the University of Hampshire. Wrote several books, naturally; they were about the Anglo-Saxons.’
‘Not King Arthur, and how he routed them at the Battle of Badon?’
‘No mention of Arthur.’
‘Then I can’t wait.’
‘You’ll have to. The appointment’s not until Friday. Meanwhile it’s back to His Majesty.’
‘By time machine?’
‘No, by courtesy of Jago Priest. I can’t help feeling you’re right and that that churchyard is involved in this problem, even though Lance’s grave isn’t in the corner where you felt that strong atmosphere. Give it another go, will you?’
‘Just to stand in that corner?’ She was puzzled as well as reluctant.
‘No, check out that field as well. Check where they thought that treasure was buried. I’ve spoken to Jago, and he’s deputed daughter Cindy to show you the spot marked X.’
‘I can’t see that this will achieve anything. Have you been blogging again?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No, Georgia, I’ve been thinking,’ he replied with dignity.
‘About what?’
‘Golden goblets.’
*
Cindy looked around the Badon House kitchen appreciatively. Georgia had picked her up at the Canterbury Park and Ride and driven her to Wymdown. Cindy proved knowledgeable about art history and it had been interesting to talk to her on her own. At their previous meeting she had been overshadowed by her ebullient father and her daughter, who was coming to pick her up in their car later after the shop had closed. Today Cindy looked far more the businesswoman, with her long smart skirt and blouse, dangly earrings and expertly applied cosmetics. Here was one very cool and confident woman, Georgia thought, who was happy to leave the role of extrovert to Sam and Jago. No business of Cindy’s would dare to fail. Nevertheless she seemed pleasant enough and certainly very fond of her father. Gwen and Terry had obviously taken to her, from the way they were chatting over tea and eclairs.
‘Dad told me he owned this place once,’ Cindy said.
‘That’s right. Do you share Jago’s theories about King Arthur?’ Georgia asked.
‘Hardly. My interests are strictly factual. What one digs up provides the basis for deduction, not the other way round. Sam is the fanciful one.’
‘Just about King Arthur?’
‘That among other myths and legends. It’s the folklore aspect that attracts her. She does rather good drawings if she sets her mind to it. Horror, chiefly.’
‘Of folklore?’ Gwen asked curiously. ‘What’s so horrid about that?’
‘Plenty. There’s a strain of fear running through it. Like life. The Hooden Horse is pretty scary to a child. The Bogey Man, the Sandman, the Green Man, all nasty things that go bump in the night and come out to grab the unwary.’
Georgia laughed. ‘Do you paint too?’
‘I take a sketchbook when I travel, but chiefly I buy it and sell it. I’ve more of an eye for that, so I’m told. Now what exactly are you hoping to find in Dad’s beloved field?’
‘A golden goblet would be nice, but short of that just the site that your father has ruled out as the location. I’m sure he must have other sites to investigate by now, as I gather he still hopes to find Gawain’s bones.’ She wouldn’t mention the churchyard – that was her own nightmare.
‘Ever see a blue moon?’ Cindy said caustically. ‘I know Arthur’s goblet is flavour of the month again at present amongst the bloggers and nutters, but you’re right: the site wouldn’t be in this field and Pops knows that. He says general attention is firmly focused on Barham Downs at present and that every Arthurian bloodhound is out there in disguise sniffing over every inch.’
‘Does your father still do his own sniffing?’
Cindy considered this. ‘I suppose he’d like one more bash. Every time I visit him I find him blogging away on the Prester John sites, or crawling over maps, past and present. Now that his first site is ruled out, he’s paying more attention to the other early churches, Coldred for instance, since that was linked to Dover Priory. And of course he’s interested in the Barham Downs area too.’
‘Because of his Battle of Badon theory?’ Georgia asked.
‘So you’ve picked that up, have you?’ Cindy looked surprised.
‘Peter did, from a blog.’
‘You are thorough. Or are you getting gold fever yourself?’ Cindy wasn’t smiling anymore.
‘It’s safe from me,’ Georgia replied lightly. ‘Our interest is only in Lance Venyon.’
‘I doubt if you’ll find him buried in the field,’ Cindy retorted drily. ‘But let’s go and look.’
Georgia was glad she hadn’t persuaded Peter to come with her. It was no place for a wheelchair. Quite apart from the narrow gateway, the field shelved more steeply than it had appeared from the churchyard end, and although it was grazed it was otherwise untended. Clumps of nettles and brambles dotted the grass, and the ground was uneven.
‘It’s down here.’ Cindy led the way to the churchyard wall on the far side of the field. ‘Pops’ theory was that the chaplains needed both a protected spot and one they could easily find again when, as they hoped, the old religion was restored. After all, even in the sixteenth century fields were ploughed and they wouldn’t have wanted to risk damage or discovery by third parties.’
Even though the ground was more even here, there seemed to Georgia nothing remarkable about it.
‘Pops was convinced that the earlier c
hurch preceding the current St Alban’s was nearer here, and that its ruins or foundations could well still have been in existence in the sixteenth century when the chaplains lugged the remains of Sir Gawain here. In his dreams, that is. He argued that they would want to avoid the new St Alban’s for security reasons and might have picked on the old foundations as giving extra protection. That could have meant roughly here, Pops thought, where we’re standing. After he’d found nothing, he had the geophysical survey done. He pounced on every shadow it showed. Zilch. And he was so sure. St Alban’s has a lot of Roman tiles and stuff in its construction and that would tally, Pops says, with there having been a lot of rubble around from the earlier church when they built the current one.’
Once again Georgia had an image of a solemn funeral procession of chaplains marching down from their lodgings in Badon House for a formal reburial. Gawain’s would be semi-sacred relics, and so there must have been some sort of ceremony, however brief. Even on a sunny summer’s day it was possible to believe it happening in this remote spot under its shading trees. Yews lived a long time, and the ones she was looking at could well have seen exactly what happened when the chaplains came. Or, she had to remind herself, not seen anything. Jago’s thesis had proved wrong. If the bones were anywhere, it wasn’t here.
‘Pops thought the site would have been here because of the cross. Do you see?’ Cindy pointed behind Georgia to the field they had just walked down.
At first she couldn’t, but gradually she made out what Cindy meant. There were long hummocks of land on the incline low enough almost to blend into the general unevenness of the ground. Shaped like prehistoric barrows, they crossed each other. ‘Pops felt that the remains would have been buried at its foot just here,’ Cindy explained.
Georgia could see why Jago had been so taken with the idea, but that was a long way from convincing her. ‘Three hundred and fifty years have passed,’ she objected. ‘The field wouldn’t have been the same shape then.’
‘Why not?’ Cindy asked reasonably. ‘In past ages they didn’t have a habit of building on every green site available. This would have been grazing ground for years. It’s no use for cultivation, and anyway it would have been glebe land belonging to the church. No, if there was any truth in the story at all, it must have seemed a reasonable bet for Pops that it was here.’