by Amy Myers
‘And still your father keeps the field for sentimental reasons.’ Now that she was here, Georgia could appreciate all the more Jago’s agony when his years of hope culminated in nothing.
Cindy shrugged. ‘Why not? It earns grazing rent; not much it’s true, but enough to pay for maintenance. I reckon he’ll only sell it if the goblet is actually found on Barham Downs or wherever.’
‘Do you think that’s possible?’
Cindy laughed. ‘I told you, I deal in facts. Sam’s view is that as there’s a consensus, the dratted goblet must exist, and so it’s just a question of where. The Ringlemere Cup was found more or less by chance, so maybe this one will be too. We’ve even had enthusiasts turning up at St Alban’s even though Pops has been careful not to draw attention to Wymdown and his exploded theory. Each one blogs away hoping to steal a march on someone else’s theory while jealously guarding his or her own.’
‘Her own? Not gender-orientated, then?’
‘No way. One blogger believes the village of Womenswold holds the goblet, simply because of feminist principles – regardless of the fact that the village’s name originally meant forest of the warriors; another that the goblet must be in Wales because Guinevere is a Welsh name, and so on.’
‘What about the Kent Archaeological Society? Are they involved?’
‘Not to my knowledge. They require solid evidence, as I do. There’s masses of Roman, pre-Roman and early Anglo-Saxon stuff dug up in Kent, especially round here, and even if such a goblet were found it’s a big step to its being connected with Arthur. Pops reckons that if it was Arthur’s personal goblet then it might be ornamented with his personal bear symbol, so that might help.’
Georgia’s mind flashed back to the painting, and the possible animal relief on the goblet, then firmly brought herself back to reality. ‘But you’re inclined to believe it’s all a South Sea Bubble of fantasy?’ Even if there had been such ornamentation in the painting, it could provide no evidence without Antonio agreeing to its undergoing modern tests.
‘Of course it’s probably fantasy,’ Cindy agreed. ‘But I admit to a tiny doubt. Just suppose it’s not. Something has sparked this story off again, and suppose it was hard evidence that did so, not just gold fever.’
Georgia tried to keep the lid on speculation. ‘Does the name Richard Hoskin mean anything to you?’
‘Not a thing. Should it?’
‘He’s someone who claims to have known Lance Venyon, and therefore might also have been a friend of your father’s. And Lance,’ Georgia said firmly, ‘is the reason I’m here, though it’s hard to remember at times.’
‘You still think he was murdered, don’t you?’ She looked at Georgia curiously.
‘There are grounds for it. Did your father have any further thoughts about it?’
‘You shook him,’ Cindy admitted. ‘He doesn’t see how the murder could be connected with Sir Gawain and Arthur, though. He’d be more inclined to think one of Lance’s ladies pushed him overboard.’
The sudden arrival of Sam prevented Georgia from taking this further.
‘Hi, Mum.’ Sam was coming through the churchyard gate, her bright auburn hair making a vivid splash of colour among the dark green of the trees and bushes.
‘The tour’s over,’ Cindy called out to her. ‘Sir Gawain has ridden off, taking his goblet with him.’
‘You shouldn’t mock it,’ Sam said fiercely. ‘It’s our roots.’
‘Sorry,’ Cindy answered peaceably. ‘We’re just checking the roots of Sir Gawain, if that’s OK by you.’
‘One look from you, Mum, and any self-respecting legend would wither in its historical bed. She’s a cynic, Georgia.’ Sam turned to her. ‘She doesn’t see the point of investigating anything you can’t touch. Grandpops is much more sensible.’
‘Sensible?’ Cindy threw at her. ‘Who buys a home the size of Badon House just for a whim?’
‘Someone with soul, Mum.’
Soul again. Soul of King Arthur, soul of the Mona Lisa, soul of the goblet. And it all boiled down to a patch of barren ground, here where Georgia was standing. Why had Peter been so keen that she should check it out?
Georgia could hear Sam and Cindy’s argument continuing after they had said their farewells and were returning to the car. She was about to return to the comfort of Gwen’s tea and cakes herself, when she remembered with sinking heart Peter’s request about the churchyard. The creepiness might have gone by now, she comforted herself as the gate creaked eerily in the stillness, but she changed her mind as she reached the corner where Sandro’s body had lain. The atmosphere was just as stultifying as she had found it earlier. Here she had stood that evening, here by this gravestone where she had first seen the hand. And still that coldness persisted, a shiver stemming not from the sun or from the tragedy of Sandro Daks, but from something else. Did this, could this, connect to Lance Venyon? She still couldn’t see how. She was chasing a will-o’-the-wisp, and it seemed trapped in this corner.
‘Peaceful place, isn’t it?’
She turned round, half expecting to find the young curate she had met before. Instead it was an old man, whom for the moment she didn’t recognize. Then she realized it was the former vicar whom she’d met at the wedding.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he said politely. ‘I visit my old church from time to time. St Alban’s was my favourite. The nearest to God, perhaps. Are you still hunting for Lance Venyon?’ he enquired. ‘You asked me about him when we last met.’
‘Yes. Sandro Daks, the young man who was murdered, had mentioned that Lance was a friend of his grandfather’s. It rang no bells with Elaine Holt, though.’
‘Nor with me. I have nevertheless been thinking about Lance quite a lot since you mentioned him. Odd the way some small thing can trigger one’s mind into motion, and then it refuses to stop. It has an obliging way of producing items from the back of one’s mind.’
‘And did it over Lance?’ This sounded hopeful.
‘It did indeed. Lance and the goblet.’
‘King Arthur’s?’ Did everyone in the world know about it?
‘I can see you’ve heard of it. Lance told me some story about it. So far as I recall, he was helping a friend to track down the cave Arthur’s supposed to be buried in, and fully expected to find the goblet too. He was optimistic of a result soon. I was far less optimistic but nevertheless intrigued. After all, it might have meant a relic for St Alban’s.’
‘You don’t remember where he thought the cave was?’ Was this a new line or Lance spinning a variation on the real story? The latter, she guessed.
‘Alas, no. Dreams always break off at the vital moment, I’m afraid, and my memory often does the same. I do recall the day Lance left here, however, and this is not by summoning up some false memory. He was in his car, and told me he was off to Hythe – or was it Dover? – to go sailing. I wished them a happy journey, not realizing of course that I’d never see him again.’
‘Them?’ she picked up, with a quickening sense of excitement. ‘He wasn’t alone?’
He looked startled. ‘Did I say that?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Of course. That’s why I remembered. He had a woman with him.’
‘His wife? Venetia Wain?’
‘No. I’d have remembered if so. She was a stranger to me.’
*
‘Just how much reliance can we place on the vicar’s memory?’ Peter asked, when she returned to Haden Shaw.
‘Not a lot,’ Georgia replied regretfully. ‘How can he be so sure of the day?’
Peter looked at her in frustration. ‘For the first time I feel at a loss. Venyon keeps slipping away from us. How do we catch hold of him? He’s as slippery as an eel. If it wasn’t for King Arthur, I’d chuck this one in. And even he’s going nowhere. I’d hoped your seeing the actual site might have sparked something off.’
Unexpectedly his pessimistic mood made Georgia more positive. ‘Don’t give up yet,’ she said. ‘Question one: do we think there
’s something odd about Venyon’s death?’
‘Yes, but I haven’t a clue what it is.’
‘Question two: do you think there’s a link between Antonio Benizi, his painting, Lance, Jago, perhaps Jennifer and the fabled golden goblet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question three: and a link with Sandro Daks?’
Peter hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Question four: just because it’s difficult do we want to give it up?’
He looked at her gratefully. ‘Phrase it more positively.’
‘Question four: are we going forward even though it’s foggy?’
‘Yes.’
Antonio Benizi might, she acknowledged, have led them into a deliberate maze, but even mazes had centres as well as exits. It was finding them that was the problem.
*
Richard Hoskin lived in the far hinterland of the village of Burwash, nestling in a narrow lane. It was the sort, Georgia thought, that might lead either to a dead end or to a major highway at a moment’s notice. This one, she discovered, did not conform. It wound on and on, up hill and down dale until she wondered whether she’d mistaken the way. Just as she began to think this was the case, Hillsview miraculously appeared, at least the plaque by the gateway told her so. Of the house itself there was no sign. It must be shrouded in trees, which made its name inappropriate.
Its driveway led to a large Victorian mock-gothic home, ugly but comfortable-looking. It was clearly Barry, the son, who opened the door. He must be in his mid-sixties, she estimated, and seemed an unlikely carer for an ageing relative; he was a vigorous, outdoor man, with a bronzed face and athletic build. He exuded welcome, however, for which today she was more than usually grateful.
As soon as they went into the pleasant living room it was clear just why his father needed a carer. Professor Richard Hoskin was sitting in an upright armchair, with vacant eyes, and a pleased expression with which she imagined he greeted all visitors.
‘How did you pick up our request for information?’ she asked after introductions had been made.
Richard Hoskin continued smiling, and it was Barry who answered cheerily: ‘My father uses the Internet, don’t you, Dad?’
A vigorous nod from his father, so Alzheimer’s had not completely claimed him. ‘Lance,’ he agreed brightly, which was a hopeful sign.
‘You feed the name into Google every so often, don’t you, Dad?’ Barry prompted. ‘Yours was the first site it returned so it excited him,’ he explained to Georgia.
Another vigorous nod.
‘Was Lance a friend of yours?’ Georgia asked him, but nothing came in response.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help,’ Barry said, dashing her hopes. ‘I’d never heard the name until I saw Dad typing it one day and asked him about it.’
‘What did he reply?’
‘He said Arthur.’
Of course. This was squaring the circle yet again. ‘Do you know why?’ she asked without much hope, but Barry shook his head. ‘Do you know Jago Priest?’ she persevered with the professor.
His eyes shifted and he looked puzzled. First he shook his head, but then nodded.
‘A friend of yours?’
A shake of the head as Richard Hoskin lost interest in Jago.
‘How do you know Lance Venyon?’ she prompted, hoping Jago’s name might have helped shift a block.
‘Yes.’
This was encouraging at least. ‘In the art world?’
‘Raphael.’
‘Your favourite painter is Raphael?’ Another blank. ‘Lance specialized in Raphael’s paintings?’ Nothing. Was Raphael all he could manage of Pre-Raphaelites? She had a sudden hope. ‘Lance and Rossetti’s paintings of King Arthur?’ Nothing. Try another tack. ‘You’re a professor of history, specializing in the Anglo-Saxon period, so does that include the Arthurian age? King Arthur fought the Saxons.’
Jackpot. This produced an excited gabble of words, between him and Barry, which she couldn’t follow. Barry looked at her doubtfully. ‘She wouldn’t be interested, Dad.’
What was this about, Georgia wondered in frustration. At the moment she’d be interested in anything.
‘Lance,’ the professor said again, making moves to struggle up from the chair. Something was obviously afoot, as Barry went over to help him.
‘He wants me to take you to see his special room,’ he told her. ‘Be warned.’
There was no point in her asking which room and why she should be wary. She’d go with the flow.
‘This way.’ Barry indicated the French windows, leading into the garden, and she went outside. It was a large garden, and it must have been part of an old farm at one time, because at one side was an old barn, much older than the house, tiled and restored. A garage? she wondered, as she waited for Barry to help his father outside. She’d once gone to see someone she had set down as a dull old stick only to find he had a 1903 Dion Bouton in perfect condition in a similar barn and more classics in the garden, or rather automobilia junkyard. That was Peter’s sphere of interest, and so he had been highly annoyed at having missed it.
This garden, however, was spectacularly neat and well kept. Each flower knew its place, and no weeds had been allowed to block their nourishment. Barry was leading his father straight to the barn, which implied this was the special room, and she followed at their side. Coming in from the sunshine as he opened the door, she could see nothing in the gloom, until Barry switched on the lights.
Not just any lights. Not just any special room. She was transported to Camelot, as a thousand candlelights lit the raised platform at the far end. There was a round table, similar to the ones she had seen in tourist towns, but at this one twelve knights in full armour were sitting. At least it had baulked at the thirty or more knights suggested by Malory. The Siege Perilous had been left empty. An intense light shone on it, creating the impression that Sir Galahad would come racing in with the Grail at any moment. For all their democratic seating arrangements at the Round Table, however, Arthur was clearly marked out as head of the court, and behind him was a simpering Guinevere. Morgana la Fay peeped in on the scene from the rear and Merlin stood as a maître d’ to the proceedings at one side of the platform.
Richard Hoskin cooed contentedly to himself as he gazed on his creation, which she enthusiastically admired.
‘Lance Venyon?’ she then asked him tentatively, wondering how he came into this story. Hoskin nodded, waving a hand towards the sides of the barn, almost invisible in the dim light. Some more juggling by Barry with the light switches, and the stage was darkened, taking Camelot back into fairyland, and the rest of the barn illuminated. Now she was no longer in Hollywood but in a museum. Every wall was covered with ancient swords and helmets, while display cases were filled with pottery, rings, bowls and bronzes. She wandered up and down, half puzzled, half admiring. What had this to do with Venyon? Nothing that she could see, so why was she here?
Another case displayed fragments of parchment in a language she didn’t recognize. The original script of Beowulf, perhaps? Certainly fragments showing miniature exquisite pictures were of battle scenes, and Viking ships – or, she thought suddenly, of the Battle of Dover? Could they possibly have come from the chaplains’ supposedly lost record of the Arthurian story? Another was in a different script, looking somewhat more modern, and with a picture of three monks praying. Or were they the three chaplains of St Mary-in-the-Castle?
‘Do you know where all this came from?’ she asked Barry, having made the appropriate noises of appreciation to his father.
‘I’ve no idea, I’m afraid.’ He looked genuinely apologetic. ‘This lot wasn’t here when I left for university in 1958; then there was a spell in the army and some years abroad, so I was only really aware of it when I came back after Mum’s death. He said it was part of his work, and Camelot was just his way of having fun. Not being interested in the subject I never questioned it. After all, even after he retired, he still wrote research papers and articles, as wel
l as a book or two.’
‘The collection must have some value, from its sheer quantity.’
‘Especially to the bloggers.’
Georgia looked at Barry in astonishment. ‘He knows about blogging?’
‘He’s glued to blogs for a considerable part of each day under the code-name Camelot. It beats television hollow.’
Hoskin must be too ill to take much active part now, but the past might still be vivid to him, if only she could reach it.
‘Lance Venyon,’ she tried again, then with a pause between each name: ‘Jago Priest. King Arthur’s goblet, Sir Gawain. Rossetti, St Mary-in-the-Castle, Wymdown.’ Nothing, so as a last resort she tried ‘Raphael’ again.
She listened hopefully as another excited babble flowed but all she could make out were the words ‘Michelangelo’ and ‘Lance’s hat’. Hat? She tried Raphael again, but only received the same reply.
‘I’m afraid that looks like it,’ Barry said apologetically. ‘I’d better close up here.’ Georgia took the hint, giving a frustrated look at this wonderland. Whatever secrets it held, if any, were further away than Camelot itself.
Chapter Ten
‘You’ll be delighted to hear that Professor Hoskin is a fan,’ Georgia announced. Peter had asked her to call in before returning to Medlars, and she had been happy to do so. She was looking forward to describing the glories of Camelot.
‘Good,’ Peter replied with relish. ‘Tell me more.’
‘The bad news is that there’s precious little to take us forward. His memory is all but gone, save for odd snatches from the past.’
‘Such as? There’s many a pearl in a closed oyster.’
Georgia doubted that, but obediently related what little the visit had produced before embarking on Camelot. His reaction to this, plus her description of the museum, was all she could have hoped for, which compensated for her meagre offering in the way of hard information.